Confessions of a Shopaholic

“Any plans for the day?” says Dad, looking up.

“Not really,” I say, and take a sip of tea.

Any plans for the rest of my life? Not really.

In the end, I spend a pleasant, unchallenging morning helping Mum sort out a pile of clothes for a jumble sale, and at twelve-thirty we go into the kitchen to make a sandwich. As I look at the clock, the fact that I was supposed to be at Endwich Bank three hours ago flickers through my mind — but very far off, like a distant clock chiming. My whole London life seems remote and unreal now. This is where I belong. Away from the madding crowd; at home with Mum and Dad, having a nice relaxed uncomplicated time.

After lunch I wander out into the garden with one of Mum’s mail-order catalogues, and go and sit on the bench by the apple tree. A moment later, I hear a voice from over the garden fence, and look up. It’s Martin from next door. Hmm. I’m not feeling very well disposed toward Martin at the moment.

“Hello, Becky,” he says softly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say shortly. And I don’t fancy your son, I feel like adding.

“Becky,” says Janice, appearing beside Martin, holding a garden trowel. She gives me an awestricken look. “We heard about your. . stalker,” she whispers.

“It’s criminal,” says Martin fiercely. “These people should be locked up.”

“If there’s anything we can do,” says Janice. “Anything at all. You just let us know.”

“I’m fine, really,” I say, softening. “I just want to stay here for a while. Get away from it all.”

“Of course you do,” says Martin. “Wise girl.”

“I was saying to Martin this morning,” says Janice, “you should hire a bodyguard.”

“Can’t be too careful,” says Martin. “Not these days.”

“The price of fame,” says Janice, sorrowfully shaking her head. “The price of fame.”

“Well, anyway,” I say, trying to get off the subject of my stalker. “How are you?”

“Oh, we’re both well,” says Martin. “I suppose.” To my surprise there’s a forced cheerfulness to his voice. He glances at Janice, who frowns and shakes her head slightly.

“Anyway, you must be pleased with the news,” I say brightly. “About Flagstaff Life.”

There’s silence.

“Well,” says Martin. “We would have been.”

“No one could have known,” says Janice, giving a little shrug. “It’s just one of those things. Just the luck of the draw.”

“What is?” I say, puzzled. “I thought you were getting some huge great windfall.”

“It appears. .” Martin rubs his face. “It appears not in our case.”

“But. . but why?”

“Martin phoned them up this morning,” says Janice. “To see how much we would be getting. They were saying in the papers that long-term investors would be getting thousands. But—” She glances at Martin.

“But what?” I say, feeling a twinge of alarm.

“Apparently we’re no longer eligible,” says Martin awkwardly. “Since we switched our investment. Our old fund would have qualified, but. .” He coughs. “I mean, we will get something — but it’ll only be about £100.”

I stare at him blankly.

“But you only switched—”

“Two weeks ago,” he says. “That’s the irony. If we’d just held on a little bit longer. . Still, what’s done is done. No point whining about it.” He gives a resigned shrug and smiles at Janice, who smiles back.

And I look away and bite my lip.

A nasty cold feeling is creeping over me. They took the decision to switch their money based on my advice, didn’t they? They asked me if they should switch funds, and I said go ahead. But now I come to think of it. . hadn’t I already heard a rumor about this takeover? Oh God. Could I have stopped this?

“We could never have known these windfalls would happen,” says Janice, and puts her hand comfortingly on his arm. “They keep these things secret right up until the last minute, don’t they, Becky?”

My throat’s too tight to answer. I can remember exactly now. It was Alicia who first mentioned the takeover. The day before I came down here. And then Philip said something about it in the office. Something about with-profits holders doing well. Except. . I wasn’t really listening. I think I was doing my nails at the time.

“Twenty thousand pounds, they reckon we would have got if we’d stayed,” says Martin gloomily. “Makes you sick to think about it. Still, Janice is right. We couldn’t have known. Nobody knew.” 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">