Confessions of a Shopaholic

Sixteen

WHEN I TURN UP at my parents’ house that afternoon without warning, saying I want to stay for a few days, I can’t say they seem shocked.

In fact, so unsurprised do they seem that I begin to wonder if they’ve been expecting this eventuality all along, ever since I moved to London. Have they been waiting every week for me to arrive on the doorsteps with no luggage and red eyes? They’re certainly behaving as calmly as a hospital casualty team operating an emergency procedure.

Except that surely the casualty team wouldn’t keep arguing about the best way to resuscitate the patient? After a few minutes, I feel like going outside, letting them decide on their plan of action, and ringing the bell again.

“You go upstairs and have a nice hot bath,” says Mum, as soon as I’ve put down my handbag. “I expect you’re exhausted!”

“She doesn’t have to have a bath if she doesn’t want to!” retorts Dad. “She might want a drink! D’you want a drink, darling?”

“Is that wise?” says Mum, shooting him a meaningful what-if-she’s-an-alkie? look, which presumably I’m not supposed to notice.

“I don’t want a drink, thanks,” I say. “But I’d love a cup of tea.”

“Of course you would!” says Mum. “Graham, go and put the kettle on.” And she gives him another meaningful look. As soon as he’s disappeared into the kitchen, she comes close to me and says, in a lowered voice, “Are you feeling all right, darling? Is anything. . wrong?”

Oh God, there’s nothing like your mother’s sympathetic voice to make you want to burst into tears.

“Well,” I say, in a slightly uncertain voice. “Things have been better. I’m just. . in a bit of a difficult situation at the moment. But it’ll be all right in the end.” I give a small shrug and look away.

“Because. .” She lowers her voice even more. “Your father isn’t as old-fashioned as he seems. And I know that if it were a case of us looking after a. . a little one, while you pursued your career. .”

What?

“Mum, don’t worry!” I exclaim sharply. “I’m not pregnant!”

“I never said you were,” she says, and flushes a little. “I just wanted to offer you our support.”

My parents watch too many soap operas, that’s their trouble. In fact, they were probably hoping I was pregnant. By my wicked married lover whom they could then murder and bury under the patio.

And what’s this “offer you our support” business, anyway? My mum would never have said that before she started watching Ricki Lake.

“Well, come on,” she says. “Let’s sit you down with a nice cup of tea.”

And so I follow her into the kitchen, and we all sit down with a cup of tea. And I have to say, it is very nice. Hot strong tea and a chocolate bourbon biscuit. Perfect. I close my eyes and take a few sips, and then open them again, to see both my parents gazing at me with naked curiosity all over their faces. Immediately my mother changes her expression to a smile, and my father gives a little cough — but I can tell, they are gagging to know what’s wrong.

“So,” I say cautiously, and both their heads jerk up. “You’re both well, are you?”

“Oh yes,” says my mother. “Yes, we’re fine.”

There’s another silence.

“Becky?” says my father gravely, and both Mum and I swivel to face him. “Are you in some kind of trouble we should know about? Only tell us if you want to,” he adds hastily. “And I want you to know — we’re there for you.”

That’s another bloody Ricki Lake — ism, too. My parents should really get out more.

“Are you all right, darling?” says Mum gently — and she sounds so kind and understanding that, in spite of myself, I find myself putting down my cup with a bit of a clatter and saying “To tell you the truth, I am in a spot of bother. I didn’t want to worry you, so I haven’t said anything before now. .” I can feel tears gathering in my eyes.

“What is it?” says Mum in a panicky voice. “You’re on drugs, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not on drugs!” I exclaim. “I’m just. . It’s just that I. . I’m. .” I take a deep gulp of tea. This is even harder than I thought it would be. Come on, Rebecca, just say it.

I close my eyes and clench my hand tightly around my mug.

“The truth is. .” I say slowly.

“Yes?” says Mum.

“The truth is. .” I open my eyes. “I’m being stalked. By a man called. . called Derek Smeath.”

There’s silence apart from a long hiss as my father sucks in breath.

“I knew it!” says my mother in a sharp, brittle voice. “I knew it! I knew there was something wrong!”

“We all knew there was something wrong!” says my father, and rests his elbows heavily on the table. “How long has this been going on, Becky?”

“Oh, ahm. . months now,” I say, staring into my tea. “It’s just. . pestering, really. It’s not serious or anything. But I just couldn’t deal with it anymore.”

“And who is this Derek Smeath?” says Dad. “Do we know him?”

“I don’t think so. I came across him. . I came across him through work.”

“Of course you did!” says Mum. “A young, pretty girl like you, with a high-profile career. . I knew this was going to happen!”

“Is he another journalist?” says Dad, and I shake my head.

“He works for Endwich Bank. He does things like. . like phone up and pretend he’s in charge of my bank account. He’s really convincing.”

There’s silence while my parents digest this and I eat another chocolate bourbon.

“Well,” says Mum at last. “I think we’ll have to phone the police.”

“No!” I exclaim, spluttering crumbs all over the table. “I don’t want the police! He’s never threatened me or anything. In fact, he’s not really a stalker at all. He’s just a pain. I thought if I disappeared for a while. .”

“I see,” says Dad, and glances at Mum. “Well, that makes sense.”

“So what I suggest,” I say, meshing my hands tightly in my lap, “is that if he rings, you say I’ve gone abroad and you don’t have a number for me. And. . if anyone else rings, say the same thing. Even Suze. I’ve left her a message saying I’m OK — but I don’t want anyone to know where I am.”

“Are you sure?” says Mum, wrinkling her brow. “Wouldn’t it be better to go to the police?”

“No!” I say quickly. “That would only make him feel important. I just want to vanish for a bit.”

“Fine,” says Dad. “As far as we’re concerned, you’re not here.”

He reaches across the table and clasps my hand. And as I see the worry on his face, I hate myself for what I’m doing.

But I simply can’t tell my kind, loving parents that their so-called successful daughter with her so-called top job is in fact a disorganized, deceitful mess, up to her eyeballs in debt.

And so we have supper (Waitrose Cumberland Pie) and watch an Agatha Christie adaption together, and then I go upstairs to my old bedroom, put on an old nightie, and go to bed. And when I wake up the next morning, I feel more happy and rested than I have for weeks.

Above all, staring at my old bedroom ceiling, I feel safe. Cocooned from the world; wrapped up in cotton wool. No one can get me here. No one even knows I’m here. I won’t get any nasty letters and I won’t get any nasty phone calls and I won’t get any nasty visitors. It’s like a sanctuary. I feel as if I’m fifteen again, with nothing to worry about but my homework. (And I haven’t even got any of that.)

It’s at least nine o’clock before I rouse myself and get out of bed, and as I do so, it occurs to me that miles away in London, Derek Smeath is expecting me to arrive for a meeting in half an hour. A slight twinge passes through my stomach and for a moment I consider phoning up the bank and giving some excuse. But even as I’m considering it, I know I’m not going to do it. I don’t even want to acknowledge the bank’s existence. I want to forget all about it.

None of it exists anymore. Not the bank, not VISA, not Octagon. All eliminated from my life, just like that.

The only call I make is to the office, because I don’t want them sacking me in my absence. I phone at nine-twenty — before Philip gets in — and get Mavis on reception.

“Hello, Mavis?” I croak. “It’s Rebecca Bloomwood here. Can you tell Philip I’m ill?”

“You poor thing!” says Mavis. “Is it bronchitis?”

“I’m not sure,” I croak. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment later. I must go. Bye.”

And that’s it. One phone call, and I’m free. No one suspects anything — why should they? I feel light with relief. It’s so easy to escape. I should have done this long ago.

At the back of my mind, like a nasty little gremlin, is the knowledge that I won’t be able to stay here forever. That sooner or later things will start to catch up with me. But the point is — not yet. And in the meantime, I’m not even going to think about it. I’m just going to have a nice cup of tea and watch Morning Coffee and blank my mind out completely.

As I go into the kitchen, Dad’s sitting at the table, reading the paper. There’s the smell of toast in the air, and Radio Four in the background. Just like when I was younger and lived at home. Life was simple then. No bills, no demands, no threatening letters. An enormous wave of nostalgia overcomes me, and I turn away to fill the kettle, blinking slightly.

“Interesting news,” says Dad, jabbing at The Daily Telegraph.

“Oh yes?” I say, putting a tea bag in a mug. “What’s that?”

“Scottish Prime has taken over Flagstaff Life.”

“Oh right,” I say vaguely. “Right. Yes, I think I’d heard that was going to happen.”

“All the Flagstaff Life investors are going to receive huge windfall payments. The biggest ever, apparently.”

“Gosh,” I say, trying to sound interested. I reach for a copy of Good Housekeeping, flick it open, and begin to read my horoscope.

But something’s niggling at my mind. Flagstaff Life. Why does that sound familiar? Who was I talking to about. .

“Martin and Janice next door!” I exclaim suddenly. “They’re with Flagstaff Life! Have been for fifteen years.”

“Then they’ll do very well,” says Dad. “The longer you’ve been with them, the more you get, apparently.”

He turns the page with a rustle, and I sit down at the table with my cup of tea and a Good Housekeeping article on making Easter cakes. It’s not fair, I find myself thinking resentfully. Why can’t I get a windfall payment? Why doesn’t Endwich Bank get taken over? Then they could pay me a windfall big enough to wipe out my overdraft.

“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.”

Oh God. This is all my fault. It’s all my fault. If I’d just used my brain and thought for once. .

“Oh, Becky, don’t look so upset!” says Janice. “This isn’t your fault! You didn’t know! Nobody knew! None of us could have—”

“I knew,” I hear myself saying miserably.

There’s a flabbergasted silence.

“What?” says Janice faintly.

“I didn’t know, exactly,” I say, staring at the ground. “But I heard a sort of rumor about it a while ago. I should have said something when you asked me. I should have warned you to wait. But I just. . didn’t think. I didn’t remember.” I force myself to look up and meet Martin’s astonished gaze. “I. . I’m really sorry. It’s all my fault.”

There’s silence, during which Janice and Martin glance at each other and I hunch my shoulders, loathing myself. Inside, I can hear the phone ringing, and footsteps as someone goes to answer it.

“I see,” says Martin eventually. “Well. . not to worry. These things happen.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Becky,” says Janice kindly. “It was our decision to switch funds, not yours.”

“And remember, you’ve been under a lot of pressure yourself recently,” adds Martin, putting a sympathetic hand on my arm. “What with this dreadful stalking business.”

Now I really feel like dirt. I don’t deserve these people’s kindness. I’ve just lost them £20,000, through being too bloody lazy to keep up with events I’m supposed to know about. I’m a financial journalist, for God’s sake.

And suddenly, standing there in my parents’ garden on a Monday afternoon, I’m plunged to the lowest ebb of my life. What have I got going for me? Nothing. Not one thing. I can’t control my money, I can’t do my job, and I haven’t got a boyfriend. I’ve hurt my best friend, I’ve lied to my parents — and now I’ve ruined my neighbors.

“Becky?”

My father’s voice interrupts us all, and I look up in surprise. He’s striding across the lawn toward us, a perturbed look on his face.

“Becky, don’t be alarmed,” he says, “but I’ve just had that Derek Smeath chap on the phone.”

“What?” I say, feeling my face drain in horror.

“The stalker?” exclaims Janice, and Dad gives a sober nod.

“Quite an unpleasant fellow, I would say. He was really quite aggressive toward me.”

“But how does he know Becky’s here?” says Janice.

“Obviously just taking potluck,” says Dad. “I was very civil, simply told him you weren’t here and that I had no idea where you were.”

“And. . and what did he say?” I say in a strangled voice.

“Came out with some nonsense about a meeting you’d set up with him.” Dad shakes his head. “The chap’s obviously deluded.”

“You should change your number,” advises Martin. “Go ex-directory.”

“But where was he phoning from?” says Janice, her voice rising in alarm. “He could be anywhere!” She starts looking agitatedly around the garden as though expecting him to jump out from behind a bush.

“Exactly,” says Dad. “So, Becky, I think maybe you should come inside now. You never know with these characters.”

“OK,” I say numbly. I can’t quite believe this is happening. I look at Dad’s kind, concerned face and suddenly I can barely meet his eye. Oh, why didn’t I tell him and Mum the truth? Why did I let myself get into this situation?

“You look quite shaken up, dear,” says Janice, and pats me on the shoulder. “You go and have a nice sit down.”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I think I will.”

And Dad leads me off gently toward the house, as though I were some kind of invalid.

This is all getting out of hand. Now not only do I feel like an utter failure, I don’t feel safe anymore, either. I feel exposed and edgy. I sit on the sofa next to Mum, drinking tea and watching Countdown, and every time there’s a sound outside, I jump.

What if Derek Smeath’s on his way here? How long would it take him to drive here from London? An hour and a half? Two, if the traffic’s bad?

He wouldn’t do that. He’s a busy man.

But he might.

Or send the bailiffs round. Oh God. Threatening men in leather jackets. My stomach is squeezed tight with fear. In fact, I’m beginning to feel as though I genuinely am being stalked.

As the commercial break begins, Mum reaches for a catalogue full of gardening things. “Look at this lovely birdbath,” she says. “I’m going to get one for the garden.”

“Great,” I mutter, unable to concentrate.

“They’ve got some super window boxes, too,” she says. “You could do with some nice window boxes in your flat.”

“Yes,” I say. “Maybe.”

“Shall I put you down for a couple? They’re not expensive.”

“No, it’s OK.”

“You can pay by check, or VISA. .” she says, flipping over the page.

“No, really, Mum,” I say, my voice sharpening slightly.

“You could just phone up with your VISA card, and have them delivered—”

“Mum, stop it!” I cry. “I don’t want them, OK?”

Mum gives me a surprised, slightly reproving look and turns to the next page of her catalogue. And I gaze back at her, full of a choking panic. My VISA card doesn’t work. My debit card doesn’t work. Nothing works. And she has no idea.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. I grab for an ancient copy of the Radio Times on the coffee table and begin to leaf through it blindly.

“It’s a shame about poor Martin and Janice, isn’t it?” says Mum, looking up. “Fancy switching funds two weeks before the takeover! Such bad luck!”

“I know,” I mumble, staring down at a page of listings. I don’t want to be reminded about Martin and Janice.

“It seems a terrible coincidence,” says Mum, shaking her head. “That the company should launch this new fund just before the takeover. You know, there must be a lot of people who did exactly what Martin and Janice did, who have lost out. Dreadful, really.” She looks at the television. “Oh look, it’s starting again.”

The cheery Countdown music begins to play, and a round of applause rattles noisily from the television. But I’m not listening to it, or even paying any attention to the vowels and consonants. I’m thinking about what Mum has just said. A terrible coincidence — but it wasn’t exactly a coincidence, was it? The bank actually wrote to Janice and Martin, suggesting that they switch funds. They even offered an incentive, didn’t they? A carriage clock.

Suddenly I feel alert. I want to see the letter from Flagstaff Life — and find out exactly how long before the takeover they sent it.

“ ‘ending,’ ” says Mum, staring at the screen. “That’s six. Ooh, there’s an S. Can you have ‘endings’?”

“I’m just. . popping next door,” I say, getting to my feet. “I won’t be a minute.”

As Martin opens the front door, I see that he and Janice have also been sitting in front of the telly, watching Countdown.

“Hi,” I say sheepishly. “I was just wondering — could I have a quick chat?”

“Of course!” says Martin. “Come on in! Would you like a sherry?”

“Oh,” I say, a little taken aback. I mean, not that I’m against drinking, obviously — but it isn’t even five o’clock yet. “Well — OK then.”

“Never too early for a sherry!” says Martin.

“I’ll have another one, thanks, Martin,” comes Janice’s voice from the sitting room.

Blow me down. They’re a pair of alcoholics!

Oh God, perhaps this is my fault too. Perhaps their financial mishap has driven them to seek solace in alcohol and daytime television.

“I was just wondering,” I say nervously as Martin pours dark brown sherry into a schooner. “Just out of interest, could I have a look at that letter you got from Flagstaff Life, asking you to switch funds? I was wondering when they sent it.”

“It arrived the very day we saw you,” says Martin. “Why do you want to see it?” He raises his glass. “Your good health.”

“Cheers,” I say, and take a sip. “I’m just wondering—”

“Come into the living room,” he interrupts, and ushers me through from the hall. “Here you are, my love,” he adds, and gives Janice her sherry. “Bottoms up!”

“Sssh,” she replies. “It’s the numbers game! I need to concentrate.”

“I thought I might do a little investigation into this,” I whisper to Martin as the Countdown clock ticks round. “I feel so bad about it.”

“Fifty times 4 is 200,” says Janice suddenly. “Six minus 3 is 3, times 7 is 21 and add it on.”

“Well done, love!” says Martin, and roots about in a carved oak sideboard. “Here’s the letter,” he says. “So — do you want to write an article or something?”

“Possibly,” I say. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“Mind?” He gives a little shrug. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”

“Sssh!” says Janice. “It’s the Countdown Conundrum.”

“Right,” I whisper. “Well, I’ll just. . I’ll just take this, shall I?”

“Explicate!” yells Janice. “No, exploited!”

“And. . thanks for the sherry.” I take a huge gulp, shuddering slightly at its sticky sweetness, then put my glass down and tiptoe out of the room.

Half an hour later, sitting in my bedroom, I’ve read the letter from Flagstaff Life six times and I’m sure there’s something fishy about it. How many investors must have switched funds after receiving this crappy carriage clock offer — and missed out on their windfall? More to the point, how much money must Flagstaff Life have saved? Suddenly I really want to know. There’s a growing indignation in me; a growing determination to find out exactly what’s been going on and, if it’s what I suspect, to expose it. To print the truth and warn others. For the first time in my life, I’m actually interested in a financial story.

And I don’t just want to write it up for Successful Saving, either. This deserves the widest audience possible. Eric Foreman’s card is still in my purse, with his direct telephone number printed at the top, and I take it out. I go to the phone and quickly punch in the number before I can change my mind.

“Eric Foreman, Daily World,” comes his voice, booming down the line.

Am I really doing this?

“Hi,” I say nervously. “I don’t know if you remember me. Rebecca Bloomwood from Successful Saving. We met at the Sacrum Asset Management press conference.”

“That’s right, so we did,” he says cheerfully. “How are you, my love?”

“I’m fine,” I say, and clench my hand tightly around the receiver. “Absolutely fine. Ahm. . I was just wondering, are you still running your series on ‘Can We Trust the Money Men?’ ”

“We are, as it goes,” says Eric Foreman. “Why?”

“It’s just. .” I swallow. “I think I’ve got a story that might interest you.”