Confessions of a Shopaholic
Page 17
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“Thought you might cast your eye over this,” he says. “We’ve had this with-profits fund with Flagstaff Life for fifteen years. Now we’re thinking of transferring to their new unit-linked growth fund. What do you think?”
I don’t know. What’s he talking about, anyway? Some kind of savings plan? Please don’t ask me, I want to say. Please ask someone who knows what they’re talking about. But there’s no way they’ll believe that I’m not a financial genius — so I’ll just have to do the best I can.
I run my eye over the piece of paper in what I hope looks like a knowledgeable fashion and nod several times. It’s a letter making some kind of special offer if investors switch to this new fund. Sounds reasonable enough.
“The company wrote to us, saying we might want a higher return in our retirement years,” says Martin. “There’s a guaranteed sum, too.”
“And they’ll send us a carriage clock,” chimes in Janice. “Swiss-made.”
“Mmm,” I say, studying the letterhead intently. “Well, I should think that’s quite a good idea.”
Flagstaff Life, I’m thinking. I’m sure I’ve heard something about them recently. Which ones are Flagstaff Life? Oh yes! They’re the ones who threw a champagne party at Soho Soho. That’s right. And Elly got incredibly pissed and told David Salisbury from The Times that she loved him. It was a bloody good party, come to think of it. One of the best.
Hmm. But wasn’t there something else? Something I’ve heard recently? I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember. . but it’s gone. I’ve probably got it wrong, anyway.
“D’you rate them as a company?” says Martin.
“Oh yes,” I say, looking up. “They’re very well regarded among the profession.”
“Well then,” says Martin, looking pleased. “If Becky thinks it’s a good idea. .”
“Yes, but, I really wouldn’t just listen to me!” I say quickly. “I mean, a financial adviser or someone would know far more. .”
“Listen to her!” says Martin with a little chuckle. “The financial expert herself.”
“You know, Tom sometimes buys your magazine,” puts in Janice. “Not that he’s got much money now, what with the mortgage and everything. . But he says your articles are very good! Tom says—”
“How nice!” I cut in. “Well, look, I really must go. Lovely to see you. And love to Tom!”
And I turn into the house so quickly, I bump my knee on the door frame. Then I feel a bit bad, and wish I’d said good-bye nicely. But honestly! If I hear one more word about bloody Tom and his bloody kitchen, I’ll go mad.
By the time I sit down in front of the National Lottery, however, I’ve forgotten all about them. We’ve had a nice supper — chicken Provençale from Marks and Spencer, and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio, which I brought. I know the chicken Provençale comes from Marks and Spencer because I’ve bought it myself, quite a few times. I recognized the sun-dried tomatoes and the olives, and everything. Mum, of course, still acted like she’d made it from scratch, from her own recipe.
I don’t know why she bothers. It isn’t like anyone would care — especially when it’s just me and Dad. And I mean, it’s pretty obvious that there are never any raw ingredients in our kitchen. There are lots of empty cardboard boxes and lots of fully prepared meals — and nothing in between. But still Mum never ever admits she’s bought a ready-made meal, not even when it’s a pie in a foil container. My dad will eat one of those pies, full of plastic mushrooms and gloopy sauce, and then say, with a perfectly straight face, “Delicious, my love.” And my mum will smile back, looking all pleased with herself.
But tonight it’s not foil pie, it’s chicken Provençale. (To be fair, I suppose it almost does look homemade — except no one would ever cut a red pepper up that small for themselves, would they? People have more important things to do.) So anyway, we’ve eaten it and we’ve drunk a fair amount of the Pinot Grigio, and there’s an apple crumble in the oven — and I’ve suggested, casually, that we all go and watch telly. Because I know from looking at the clock that the National Lottery program has already started. In a matter of minutes, it’s all going to happen. I cannot wait.
Luckily, my parents aren’t the sort who want to make conversation about politics or talk about books. We’ve already caught up with all the family news, and I’ve told them how my work’s going, and they’ve told me about their holiday in Corsica — so by now, we’re grinding to a bit of a halt. We need the telly on, if only as a conversational sounding board.
I don’t know. What’s he talking about, anyway? Some kind of savings plan? Please don’t ask me, I want to say. Please ask someone who knows what they’re talking about. But there’s no way they’ll believe that I’m not a financial genius — so I’ll just have to do the best I can.
I run my eye over the piece of paper in what I hope looks like a knowledgeable fashion and nod several times. It’s a letter making some kind of special offer if investors switch to this new fund. Sounds reasonable enough.
“The company wrote to us, saying we might want a higher return in our retirement years,” says Martin. “There’s a guaranteed sum, too.”
“And they’ll send us a carriage clock,” chimes in Janice. “Swiss-made.”
“Mmm,” I say, studying the letterhead intently. “Well, I should think that’s quite a good idea.”
Flagstaff Life, I’m thinking. I’m sure I’ve heard something about them recently. Which ones are Flagstaff Life? Oh yes! They’re the ones who threw a champagne party at Soho Soho. That’s right. And Elly got incredibly pissed and told David Salisbury from The Times that she loved him. It was a bloody good party, come to think of it. One of the best.
Hmm. But wasn’t there something else? Something I’ve heard recently? I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember. . but it’s gone. I’ve probably got it wrong, anyway.
“D’you rate them as a company?” says Martin.
“Oh yes,” I say, looking up. “They’re very well regarded among the profession.”
“Well then,” says Martin, looking pleased. “If Becky thinks it’s a good idea. .”
“Yes, but, I really wouldn’t just listen to me!” I say quickly. “I mean, a financial adviser or someone would know far more. .”
“Listen to her!” says Martin with a little chuckle. “The financial expert herself.”
“You know, Tom sometimes buys your magazine,” puts in Janice. “Not that he’s got much money now, what with the mortgage and everything. . But he says your articles are very good! Tom says—”
“How nice!” I cut in. “Well, look, I really must go. Lovely to see you. And love to Tom!”
And I turn into the house so quickly, I bump my knee on the door frame. Then I feel a bit bad, and wish I’d said good-bye nicely. But honestly! If I hear one more word about bloody Tom and his bloody kitchen, I’ll go mad.
By the time I sit down in front of the National Lottery, however, I’ve forgotten all about them. We’ve had a nice supper — chicken Provençale from Marks and Spencer, and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio, which I brought. I know the chicken Provençale comes from Marks and Spencer because I’ve bought it myself, quite a few times. I recognized the sun-dried tomatoes and the olives, and everything. Mum, of course, still acted like she’d made it from scratch, from her own recipe.
I don’t know why she bothers. It isn’t like anyone would care — especially when it’s just me and Dad. And I mean, it’s pretty obvious that there are never any raw ingredients in our kitchen. There are lots of empty cardboard boxes and lots of fully prepared meals — and nothing in between. But still Mum never ever admits she’s bought a ready-made meal, not even when it’s a pie in a foil container. My dad will eat one of those pies, full of plastic mushrooms and gloopy sauce, and then say, with a perfectly straight face, “Delicious, my love.” And my mum will smile back, looking all pleased with herself.
But tonight it’s not foil pie, it’s chicken Provençale. (To be fair, I suppose it almost does look homemade — except no one would ever cut a red pepper up that small for themselves, would they? People have more important things to do.) So anyway, we’ve eaten it and we’ve drunk a fair amount of the Pinot Grigio, and there’s an apple crumble in the oven — and I’ve suggested, casually, that we all go and watch telly. Because I know from looking at the clock that the National Lottery program has already started. In a matter of minutes, it’s all going to happen. I cannot wait.
Luckily, my parents aren’t the sort who want to make conversation about politics or talk about books. We’ve already caught up with all the family news, and I’ve told them how my work’s going, and they’ve told me about their holiday in Corsica — so by now, we’re grinding to a bit of a halt. We need the telly on, if only as a conversational sounding board.
