Confessions of a Shopaholic
Page 47
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As I get changed out of my gray trousers and T-shirt, there’s a heavy feeling in my heart. My retail career is over before it’s even begun. I was only given twenty quid for the hours I’ve done today — and Danielle said that was being generous. And when I asked if I could quickly buy some clothes using my staff discount, she looked at me as if she wanted to hit me.
It’s all gone wrong. No job, no money, no discount, just twenty bloody quid. Miserably I start to walk along the street, shoving my hands in my pockets. Twenty bloody quid. What am I supposed to do with—
“Rebecca!” My head jerks up and I find myself looking dazedly at a face which I know I recognize. But who is it? It’s. . it’s. . it’s. .
“Tom!” I exclaim in the nick of time. “Hi there! What a surprise!”
Well, blow me down. Tom Webster, up in London. He’s just as tall and gangly as ever — but somehow looking slightly cooler with it than usual. He’s wearing a thin blue sweater over a T-shirt and. . are those really Armani jeans? This doesn’t make sense. What’s he doing here anyway? Shouldn’t he be in Reigate, grouting his Mediterranean tiles or something?
“This is Lucy,” he says proudly, and pulls forward a slim girl with big blue eyes, holding about sixty-five carrier bags. And I don’t believe it. It’s the girl who was buying all that stuff in Ally Smith. The girl whose boyfriend was paying. Surely she didn’t mean. .
“You’re going out together?” I say stupidly. “You and her?”
“Yes,” says Tom, and grins at me. “Have been for some time now.”
But this doesn’t make any sense. Why haven’t Janice and Martin mentioned Tom’s girlfriend? They’ve mentioned every other bloody thing in his life.
And fancy Tom having a girlfriend!
“Hi,” says Lucy.
“Hi there,” I say. “I’m Rebecca. Next-door neighbor. Childhood friend. All that.”
“Oh, you’re Rebecca,” she says, and gives a swift glance at Tom.
What does that mean? Have they been talking about me? God, does Tom still fancy me? How embarrassing.
“That’s me!” I say brightly, and give a little laugh.
“You know, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,” says Lucy thoughtfully — and then her eyes crinkle in recognition. “You work at Ally Smith, don’t you?”
“No!” I say, a little too sharply.
“Oh,” she says. “I thought I saw you—”
God, I can’t have it going back to my parents that I work in a shop. They’ll think I’ve been lying about my entire life in London and that secretly I’m broke and living in squalor.
“Research,” I say quickly. “I’m a journalist, actually.”
“Rebecca’s a financial journalist,” says Tom. “Really knows her stuff.”
“Oh, right,” says Lucy, and I give her a supercilious smile.
“Mum and Dad always listen to Rebecca,” says Tom. “Dad was talking about it just the other day. Said you’d been very helpful on some financial matter. Switching funds or something.”
I nod vaguely, and give him a special, old-friends smile. Not that I’m jealous, or anything — but I do feel a little twinge seeing Tom smiling down at this Lucy character who, frankly, has very boring hair, even if her clothes are quite nice. Come to think of it, Tom’s wearing quite nice clothes himself. Oh, what’s going on? This is all wrong. Tom belongs in his starter home in Reigate, not prancing around expensive shops looking halfway decent.
“Anyway,” he says. “We must get going.”
“Train to catch?” I say patronizingly. “It must be hard, living so far out.”
“It’s not so bad,” says Lucy. “I commute to Wetherby’s every morning and it only takes forty minutes.”
“You work for Wetherby’s?” I say, aghast. Why am I surrounded by City high-flyers?
“Yes,” she says. “I’m one of their political advisers.”
What? What does that mean? Is she really brainy, or something? Oh God, this gets worse and worse.
“And we’re not catching our train just yet,” says Tom, smiling down at Lucy. “We’re off to Tiffany first. Choose a little something for Lucy’s birthday next week.” He lifts a hand and starts twisting a lock of her hair round his finger.
I can’t cope with this anymore. It’s not fair. Why haven’t I got a boyfriend to buy me stuff in Tiffany’s?
“Well, lovely to see you,” I gabble. “Give my love to your mum and dad. Funny they didn’t mention Lucy,” I can’t resist adding. “I saw them the other day, and they didn’t mention her once.”
It’s all gone wrong. No job, no money, no discount, just twenty bloody quid. Miserably I start to walk along the street, shoving my hands in my pockets. Twenty bloody quid. What am I supposed to do with—
“Rebecca!” My head jerks up and I find myself looking dazedly at a face which I know I recognize. But who is it? It’s. . it’s. . it’s. .
“Tom!” I exclaim in the nick of time. “Hi there! What a surprise!”
Well, blow me down. Tom Webster, up in London. He’s just as tall and gangly as ever — but somehow looking slightly cooler with it than usual. He’s wearing a thin blue sweater over a T-shirt and. . are those really Armani jeans? This doesn’t make sense. What’s he doing here anyway? Shouldn’t he be in Reigate, grouting his Mediterranean tiles or something?
“This is Lucy,” he says proudly, and pulls forward a slim girl with big blue eyes, holding about sixty-five carrier bags. And I don’t believe it. It’s the girl who was buying all that stuff in Ally Smith. The girl whose boyfriend was paying. Surely she didn’t mean. .
“You’re going out together?” I say stupidly. “You and her?”
“Yes,” says Tom, and grins at me. “Have been for some time now.”
But this doesn’t make any sense. Why haven’t Janice and Martin mentioned Tom’s girlfriend? They’ve mentioned every other bloody thing in his life.
And fancy Tom having a girlfriend!
“Hi,” says Lucy.
“Hi there,” I say. “I’m Rebecca. Next-door neighbor. Childhood friend. All that.”
“Oh, you’re Rebecca,” she says, and gives a swift glance at Tom.
What does that mean? Have they been talking about me? God, does Tom still fancy me? How embarrassing.
“That’s me!” I say brightly, and give a little laugh.
“You know, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,” says Lucy thoughtfully — and then her eyes crinkle in recognition. “You work at Ally Smith, don’t you?”
“No!” I say, a little too sharply.
“Oh,” she says. “I thought I saw you—”
God, I can’t have it going back to my parents that I work in a shop. They’ll think I’ve been lying about my entire life in London and that secretly I’m broke and living in squalor.
“Research,” I say quickly. “I’m a journalist, actually.”
“Rebecca’s a financial journalist,” says Tom. “Really knows her stuff.”
“Oh, right,” says Lucy, and I give her a supercilious smile.
“Mum and Dad always listen to Rebecca,” says Tom. “Dad was talking about it just the other day. Said you’d been very helpful on some financial matter. Switching funds or something.”
I nod vaguely, and give him a special, old-friends smile. Not that I’m jealous, or anything — but I do feel a little twinge seeing Tom smiling down at this Lucy character who, frankly, has very boring hair, even if her clothes are quite nice. Come to think of it, Tom’s wearing quite nice clothes himself. Oh, what’s going on? This is all wrong. Tom belongs in his starter home in Reigate, not prancing around expensive shops looking halfway decent.
“Anyway,” he says. “We must get going.”
“Train to catch?” I say patronizingly. “It must be hard, living so far out.”
“It’s not so bad,” says Lucy. “I commute to Wetherby’s every morning and it only takes forty minutes.”
“You work for Wetherby’s?” I say, aghast. Why am I surrounded by City high-flyers?
“Yes,” she says. “I’m one of their political advisers.”
What? What does that mean? Is she really brainy, or something? Oh God, this gets worse and worse.
“And we’re not catching our train just yet,” says Tom, smiling down at Lucy. “We’re off to Tiffany first. Choose a little something for Lucy’s birthday next week.” He lifts a hand and starts twisting a lock of her hair round his finger.
I can’t cope with this anymore. It’s not fair. Why haven’t I got a boyfriend to buy me stuff in Tiffany’s?
“Well, lovely to see you,” I gabble. “Give my love to your mum and dad. Funny they didn’t mention Lucy,” I can’t resist adding. “I saw them the other day, and they didn’t mention her once.”
