Confessions of a Shopaholic

I shoot an innocent glance at Lucy. But she and Tom are exchanging looks again.

“They probably didn’t want to—” begins Tom, and stops abruptly.

“What?” I say.

There’s a long, awkward silence. Then Lucy says, “Tom, I’ll just look in this shop window for a second,” and walks off, leaving the two of us alone.

God, what drama! I’m obviously the third person in their relationship.

“Tom, what’s going on?” I say, and give a little laugh.

But it’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s still hankering after me. And Lucy knows it.

“Oh God,” says Tom, and rubs his face. “Look, Rebecca, this isn’t easy for me. But the thing is, Mum and Dad are aware of your. . feelings for me. They didn’t want to mention Lucy to you, because they thought you’d be. .” He exhales sharply. “Disappointed.”

What? Is this some kind of joke? I have never been more dumbfounded in all my life. For a few seconds I can’t even move for astonishment.

“My feelings for you?” I stutter at last. “Are you joking?”

“Look, it’s pretty obvious,” he says, shrugging. “Mum and Dad told me how the other day, you kept on asking how I was, and all about my new house. .” There’s a slightly pitying look in his eye. Oh my God, I can’t stand this. How can he think. . “I really like you, Becky,” he adds. “I just don’t. .”

“I was being polite!” I roar. “I don’t fancy you!”

“Look,” he says. “Let’s just leave it, shall we?”

“But I don’t!” I cry furiously. “I never did fancy you! That’s why I didn’t go out with you when you asked me! When we were both sixteen, remember?”

I break off and look at him triumphantly — to see that his face hasn’t moved a bit. He isn’t listening. Or if he is, he’s thinking that the fact I’ve dragged in our teenage past means I’m obsessed by him. And the more I try to argue the point, the more obsessed he’ll think I am. Oh God, this is horrendous.

“OK,” I say, trying to gather together the remaining shreds of my dignity. “OK, we’re obviously not communicating here, so I’ll just leave you to it.” I glance over at Lucy, who’s looking in a shop window and obviously pretending not to be listening. “Honestly, I’m not after your boyfriend,” I call. “And I never was. Bye.”

And I stride off down the street, a nonchalant smile plastered stiffly across my face.

As I round the corner, however, the smile gradually slips, and I sit heavily down on a bench. I feel humiliated. Of course, the whole thing’s laughable. That Tom Webster should think I’m in love with him. Just serves me right for being too polite to his parents and feigning interest in his bloody limed oak units. Next time I’ll yawn loudly, or walk away. Or produce a boyfriend of my own.

I know all this. I know I shouldn’t care two hoots what Tom Webster or his girlfriend think. But even so. . I have to admit, I feel a bit low. Why haven’t I got a boyfriend? There isn’t even anyone I fancy at the moment. The last serious boyfriend I had was Robert Hayman, who sells advertising for Portfolio News, and we split up three months ago. And I didn’t even much like him. He used to call me “Love” and jokingly put his hands over my eyes during the rude bits in films. Even when I told him not to, he still kept doing it. It used to drive me mad. Just remembering it now makes me feel all tense and scratchy.

But still, he was a boyfriend, wasn’t he? He was someone to phone up during work, and go to parties with and use as ammunition against creeps. Maybe I shouldn’t have chucked him. Maybe he was all right.

I give a gusty sigh, stand up, and start walking along the street again. All in all, it hasn’t been a great day. I’ve lost a job and been patronized by Tom Webster. And now I haven’t got anything to do tonight. I thought I’d be too knackered after working all day, so I didn’t bother to organize anything.

Still, at least I’ve got twenty quid.

Twenty quid. I’ll buy myself a nice cappuccino and a chocolate brownie. And a couple of magazines.

And maybe something from Accessorize. Or some boots. In fact I really need some new boots — and I’ve seen some really nice ones in Hobbs with square toes and quite a low heel. I’ll go there after my coffee, and look at the dresses, too. God, I deserve a treat, after today. And I need some new tights for work, and a nail file. And maybe a book to read on the tube. .

By the time I join the queue at Starbucks, I feel happier already. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">