Confessions of a Shopaholic
Page 5
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As I enter the room, there’s already a buzz of people milling around, and waitresses circulating with canapés. The journalists are knocking back the champagne as if they’ve never seen it before; the PR girls are looking supercilious and sipping water. A waiter offers me a glass of champagne and I take two. One for now, one to put under my chair for the boring bits.
In the far corner of the room I can see Elly Granger from Investor’s Weekly News. She’s been pinned into a corner by two earnest men in suits and is nodding at them, with a glassy look in her eye. Elly’s great. She’s only been on Investor’s Weekly News for six months, and already she’s applied for forty-three other jobs. What she really wants to be is a beauty editor on a magazine, and I think she’d be really good at it. Every time I see her, she’s got a new lipstick on — and she always wears really interesting clothes. Like today, she’s wearing an orange chiffony shirt over a pair of white cotton trousers, espadrilles, and a big wooden necklace, the kind I could never wear in a million years.
What I really want to be is Fiona Phillips on GMTV. I could really see myself, sitting on that sofa, joshing with Eamonn every morning and interviewing lots of soap stars. Sometimes, when we’re very drunk, we make pacts that if we’re not somewhere more exciting in three months, we’ll both leave our jobs. But then the thought of no money — even for a month — is almost more scary than the thought of writing about depository trust companies for the rest of my life.
“Rebecca. Glad you could make it.”
I look up, and almost choke on my champagne. It’s Luke Brandon, head honcho of Brandon Communications, staring straight at me as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Staring straight down at me, I should say. He must be well over six feet tall with dark hair and dark eyes and. . wow. Isn’t that suit nice? An expensive suit like that almost makes you want to be a man. It’s inky blue with a faint purple stripe, single-breasted, with proper horn buttons. As I run my eyes over it I find myself wondering if it’s by Oswald Boateng, and whether the jacket’s got a silk lining in some stunning color. If this were someone else, I might ask — but not Luke Brandon, no way.
I’ve only met him a few times, and I’ve always felt slightly uneasy around him. For a start, he’s got such a scary reputation. Everyone talks all the time about what a genius he is, even Philip, my boss. He started Brandon Communications from nothing, and now it’s the biggest financial PR company in London. A few months ago he was listed in The Mail as one of the cleverest entrepreneurs of his generation. It said his IQ was phenomenally high and he had a photographic memory.
But it’s not just that. It’s that he always seems to have a frown on his face when he’s talking to me. It’ll probably turn out that the famous Luke Brandon is not only a complete genius but he can read minds, too. He knows that when I’m staring up at some boring graph, nodding intelligently, I’m really thinking about a gorgeous black top I saw in Joseph and whether I can afford the trousers as well.
“You know Alicia, don’t you?” Luke is saying, and he gestures to the immaculate blond girl beside him.
I don’t know Alicia, as it happens. But I don’t need to. They’re all the same, the girls at Brandon C, as they call it. They’re well dressed, well spoken, are married to bankers, and have zero sense of humor. Alicia falls into the identikit pattern exactly, with her baby-blue suit, silk Hermès scarf, and matching baby-blue shoes, which I’ve seen in Russell and Bromley, and they cost an absolute fortune. (I bet she’s got the bag as well.) She’s also got a suntan, which must mean she’s just come back from Mauritius or somewhere, and suddenly I feel a bit pale and weedy in comparison.
“Rebecca,” she says coolly, grasping my hand. “You’re on Successful Saving, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” I say, equally coolly.
“It’s very good of you to come today,” says Alicia. “I know you journalists are terribly busy.”
“No problem,” I say. “We like to attend as many press conferences as we can. Keep up with industry events.” I feel pleased with my response. I’m almost fooling myself.
Alicia nods seriously, as though everything I say is incredibly important to her.
“So, tell me, Rebecca. What do you think about today’s news?” She gestures to the FT under my arm. “Quite a surprise, didn’t you think?”
Oh God. What’s she talking about?
“It’s certainly interesting,” I say, still smiling, playing for time. I glance around the room for a clue, but there’s nothing. What’s she talking about? Have interest rates gone up or something?
In the far corner of the room I can see Elly Granger from Investor’s Weekly News. She’s been pinned into a corner by two earnest men in suits and is nodding at them, with a glassy look in her eye. Elly’s great. She’s only been on Investor’s Weekly News for six months, and already she’s applied for forty-three other jobs. What she really wants to be is a beauty editor on a magazine, and I think she’d be really good at it. Every time I see her, she’s got a new lipstick on — and she always wears really interesting clothes. Like today, she’s wearing an orange chiffony shirt over a pair of white cotton trousers, espadrilles, and a big wooden necklace, the kind I could never wear in a million years.
What I really want to be is Fiona Phillips on GMTV. I could really see myself, sitting on that sofa, joshing with Eamonn every morning and interviewing lots of soap stars. Sometimes, when we’re very drunk, we make pacts that if we’re not somewhere more exciting in three months, we’ll both leave our jobs. But then the thought of no money — even for a month — is almost more scary than the thought of writing about depository trust companies for the rest of my life.
“Rebecca. Glad you could make it.”
I look up, and almost choke on my champagne. It’s Luke Brandon, head honcho of Brandon Communications, staring straight at me as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Staring straight down at me, I should say. He must be well over six feet tall with dark hair and dark eyes and. . wow. Isn’t that suit nice? An expensive suit like that almost makes you want to be a man. It’s inky blue with a faint purple stripe, single-breasted, with proper horn buttons. As I run my eyes over it I find myself wondering if it’s by Oswald Boateng, and whether the jacket’s got a silk lining in some stunning color. If this were someone else, I might ask — but not Luke Brandon, no way.
I’ve only met him a few times, and I’ve always felt slightly uneasy around him. For a start, he’s got such a scary reputation. Everyone talks all the time about what a genius he is, even Philip, my boss. He started Brandon Communications from nothing, and now it’s the biggest financial PR company in London. A few months ago he was listed in The Mail as one of the cleverest entrepreneurs of his generation. It said his IQ was phenomenally high and he had a photographic memory.
But it’s not just that. It’s that he always seems to have a frown on his face when he’s talking to me. It’ll probably turn out that the famous Luke Brandon is not only a complete genius but he can read minds, too. He knows that when I’m staring up at some boring graph, nodding intelligently, I’m really thinking about a gorgeous black top I saw in Joseph and whether I can afford the trousers as well.
“You know Alicia, don’t you?” Luke is saying, and he gestures to the immaculate blond girl beside him.
I don’t know Alicia, as it happens. But I don’t need to. They’re all the same, the girls at Brandon C, as they call it. They’re well dressed, well spoken, are married to bankers, and have zero sense of humor. Alicia falls into the identikit pattern exactly, with her baby-blue suit, silk Hermès scarf, and matching baby-blue shoes, which I’ve seen in Russell and Bromley, and they cost an absolute fortune. (I bet she’s got the bag as well.) She’s also got a suntan, which must mean she’s just come back from Mauritius or somewhere, and suddenly I feel a bit pale and weedy in comparison.
“Rebecca,” she says coolly, grasping my hand. “You’re on Successful Saving, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” I say, equally coolly.
“It’s very good of you to come today,” says Alicia. “I know you journalists are terribly busy.”
“No problem,” I say. “We like to attend as many press conferences as we can. Keep up with industry events.” I feel pleased with my response. I’m almost fooling myself.
Alicia nods seriously, as though everything I say is incredibly important to her.
“So, tell me, Rebecca. What do you think about today’s news?” She gestures to the FT under my arm. “Quite a surprise, didn’t you think?”
Oh God. What’s she talking about?
“It’s certainly interesting,” I say, still smiling, playing for time. I glance around the room for a clue, but there’s nothing. What’s she talking about? Have interest rates gone up or something?
