Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  CONFESSIONS OF A SHOPAHOLIC

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt From Mini Shopaholic

  SHOPAHOLIC TAKES MANHATTAN

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Sophie Kinsella

  SHOPAHOLIC TIES THE KNOT

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Can You Keep a Secret?

  Also by Sophie Kinsella

  SHOPAHOLIC & SISTER

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Sophie Kinsella

  SHOPAHOLIC & BABY

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Sophie Kinsella

  CONFESSIONS OF A SHOPAHOLIC

  CONFESSIONS OF A SHOPAHOLIC

  A Dial Press Trade Paperback Book

  Publishing History

  Dial Press Trade Paperback edition / July 2005

  Delta Trade Paperback edition / February 2001

  Published by

  The Dial Press

  A Division of Random House, Inc.

  New York, New York

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2001 by Sophie Kinsella

  Excerpt from Mini Shopaholic copyright 2010 by Sophie Kinsella

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The Dial Press and Dial Press Trade Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Information:

  Kinsella, Sophie

  Confessions of a shopaholic / Sophie Kinsella.

  p. cm.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Mini Shopaholic.

  This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eISBN: 978-0-440-33445-3

  1. Young women—Fiction. 2. London (England)—Fiction.

  3. Shopping—Fiction. 4. Debt—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6061.I54 C6 2001

  823′.92—dc21 00-060398

  v3.0_r1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt From Mini Shopaholic

  • ENDWICH BANK •

  1 Stallion Square

  London W1 3HW

  Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood

  Flat 4

  63 Jarvis Road

  Bristol BS1 0DN

  6 July
1997

  Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

  Congratulations! As a recent graduate of Bristol University you are undoubtedly proud of your performance.

  We at Endwich are also proud of our performance as a flexible, caring bank with accounts to suit everyone. We pride ourselves particularly in our farsighted approach when it comes to customers of a caliber such as yours.

  We are therefore offering you, Ms. Bloomwood—as a graduate—a free extended overdraft facility of £2,000 during the first two years of your career. Should you decide to open an account with Endwich, this facility will be available immediately.* I do hope you decide to take advantage of this unique offer and look forward to receiving your completed form.

  Once again, congratulations!

  Yours sincerely,

  Nigel Fairs

  Graduate Marketing Manager

  *(subject to status)

  • ENDWICH — BECAUSE WE CARE •

  • ENDWICH BANK •

  FULHAM BRANCH

  3 Fulham Road

  London SW6 9JH

  Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood

  Flat 2

  4 Burney Rd.

  London SW6 8FD

  10 September 1999

  Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

  Further to my letters of 3 May, 29 July, and 14 August, you will be aware that your free graduate overdraft facility is due to end on 19 September 1999. You will also be aware that you have substantially exceeded the agreed limit of £2,000.

  The current balance stands at a debit of £3,794.56.

  Perhaps you would be kind enough to telephone my assistant, Erica Parnell, at the above number to arrange a meeting concerning this matter.

  Yours sincerely,

  Derek Smeath

  Manager

  • ENDWICH — BECAUSE WE CARE •

  • ENDWICH BANK •

  FULHAM BRANCH

  3 Fulham Road

  London SW6 9JH

  Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood

  Flat 2

  4 Burney Rd.

  London SW6 8FD

  22 September 1999

  Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

  I am sorry to hear that you have broken your leg.

  When you have recovered, perhaps you would be kind enough to ring my assistant, Erica Parnell, and arrange a meeting to discuss your ongoing overdraft needs.

  Yours sincerely,

  Derek Smeath

  Manager

  • ENDWICH — BECAUSE WE CARE •

  One

  OK. DON’T PANIC. Don’t panic. It’s only a VISA bill. It’s a piece of paper; a few numbers. I mean, just how scary can a few numbers be?

  I stare out of the office window at a bus driving down Oxford Street, willing myself to open the white envelope sitting on my cluttered desk. It’s only a piece of paper, I tell myself for the thousandth time. And I’m not stupid, am I? I know exactly how much this VISA bill will be.

  Sort of. Roughly.

  It’ll be about … £200. Three hundred, maybe. Yes, maybe £300. Three-fifty, max.

  I casually close my eyes and start to tot up. There was that suit in Jigsaw. And there was dinner with Suze at Quaglinos. And there was that gorgeous red and yellow rug. The rug was £200, come to think of it. But it was definitely worth every penny—everyone’s admired it. Or, at least, Suze has.

  And the Jigsaw suit was on sale—30 percent off. So that was actually saving money.

  I open my eyes and reach for the bill. As my fingers hit the paper I remember new contact lenses. Ninety-five pounds. Quite a lot. But, I mean, I had to get those, didn’t I? What am I supposed to do, walk around in a blur?

  And I had to buy some new solutions and a cute case and some hypoallergenic eyeliner. So that takes it up to … £400?

  At the desk next to mine, Clare Edwards looks up from her post. She’s sorting all her letters into neat piles, just like she does every morning. She puts rubber bands round them and puts labels on them saying things like “Answer immediately” and “Not urgent but respond.” I loathe Clare Edwards.

  “OK, Becky?” she says.

  “Fine,” I say lightly. “Just reading a letter.”

  I reach gaily into the envelope, but my fingers don’t quite pull out the bill. They remain clutched around it while my mind is seized—as it is every month—by my secret dream.

  Do you want to know about my secret dream? It’s based on a story I once read in The Daily World about a mix-up at a bank. I loved this story so much, I cut it out and stuck it onto my wardrobe door. Two credit card bills were sent to the wrong people, and—get this—each person paid the wrong bill without realizing. They paid off each other’s bills without even checking them.

  And ever since I read that story, my secret fantasy has been that the same thing will happen to me. I mean, I know it sounds unlikely—but if it happened once, it can happen again, can’t it? Some dotty old woman in Cornwall will be sent my humongous bill and will pay it without even looking at it. And I’ll be sent her bill for three tins of cat food at fifty-nine pence each. Which, naturally, I’ll pay without question. Fair’s fair, after all.

  A smile is plastered over my face as I gaze out of the window. I’m convinced that this month it’ll happen—my secret dream is about to come true. But when I eventually pull the bill out of the envelope—goaded by Clare’s curious gaze—my smile falters, then disappears. Something hot is blocking my throat. I think it could be panic.

  The page is black with type. A series of familiar names rushes past my eyes like a mini shopping mall. I try to take them in, but they’re moving too fast. Thorntons, I manage to glimpse. Thorntons Chocolates? What was I doing in Thorntons Chocolates? I’m supposed to be on a diet. This bill can’t be right. This can’t be me. I can’t possibly have spent all this money.

  Don’t panic! I yell internally. The key is not to panic. Just read each entry slowly, one by one. I take a deep breath and force myself to focus calmly, starting at the top.

  WHSmith (well, that’s OK. Everyone needs stationery.)

  Boots (everyone needs shampoo)

  Specsavers (essential)

  Oddbins (bottle of wine—essential)

  Our Price (Our Price? Oh yes. The new Charlatans album. Well, I

  had to have that, didn’t I?)

  Bella Pasta (supper with Caitlin)

  Oddbins (bottle of wine—essential)

  Esso (petrol doesn’t count)

  Quaglinos (expensive—but it was a one-off)

  Pret à Manger (that time I ran out of cash)

  Oddbins (bottle of wine—essential)

  Rugs to Riches (what? Oh yes. Stupid rug.)

  La Senza (sexy underwear for date with James)

  Agent Provocateur (even sexier underwear for date with James. Like I needed it.)

  Body Shop (that skin brusher thing which I must use)

  Next (fairly boring white shirt—but it was in the sale)

  Millets …

  I stop in my tracks. Millets? I never go into Millets. What would I be doing in Millets? I stare at the statement in puzzlement, wrinkling my brow and trying to think—and then suddenly, the truth dawns on me. It’s obvious. Someone else has been using my card.

  Oh my God. I, Rebecca Bloomwood, have been the victim of a crime.

  Now it all makes sense. Some criminal’s pinched my credit card and forged my signature. Who knows where else they’ve used it? No wonder my statement’s so black with figures! Someone’s gone on a spending spree round London with my card—and they thought they would just get away with it.

  But how? I scrabble in my bag for my purse, open it—and there’s my VISA card, staring up at me. I take it out and run my fingers over the glossy surface. Someone must have pinched it from my purse, used it—and then put it back. It must be someone I know. Oh my God. Who?

  I look suspiciously round the office. Whoever it is, isn’t very bright. Using my card at Millets! It’s almost laughable. As if I’d ever shop there.

  “I’ve never even b
een into Millets!” I say aloud.

  “Yes you have,” says Clare.

  “What?” I turn to her. “No I haven’t.”

  “You bought Michael’s leaving present from Millets, didn’t you?”

  I feel my smile disappear. Oh, bugger. Of course. The blue anorak for Michael. The blue sodding anorak from Millets.

  When Michael, our deputy editor, left three weeks ago, I volunteered to buy his present. I took the brown envelope full of coins and notes into the shop and picked out an anorak (take it from me, he’s that kind of guy). And at the last minute, now I remember, I decided to pay on credit and keep all that handy cash for myself.

  I can vividly remember fishing out the four £5 notes and carefully putting them in my wallet, sorting out the pound coins and putting them in my coin compartment, and pouring the rest of the change into the bottom of my bag. Oh good, I remember thinking. I won’t have to go to the cash machine. I’d thought that sixty quid would last me for weeks.

  So what happened to it? I can’t have just spent sixty quid without realizing it, can I?

  “Why are you asking, anyway?” says Clare, and she leans forward. I can see her beady little X-ray eyes gleaming behind her specs. She knows I’m looking at my VISA bill. “No reason,” I say, briskly turning to the second page of my statement.

  But I’ve been put off my stride. Instead of doing what I normally do—look at the minimum payment required and ignore the total completely—I find myself staring straight at the bottom figure.

  Nine hundred and forty-nine pounds, sixty-three pence. In clear black and white.

  For thirty seconds I am completely motionless. Then, without changing expression, I stuff the bill back into the envelope. I honestly feel as though this piece of paper has nothing to do with me. Perhaps, if I carelessly let it drop down on the floor behind my computer, it will disappear. The cleaners will sweep it up and I can claim I never got it. They can’t charge me for a bill I never received, can they?

  I’m already composing a letter in my head. “Dear Managing Director of VISA. Your letter has confused me. What bill are you talking about, precisely? I never received any bill from your company. I did not care for your tone and should warn you, I am writing to Anne Robinson of Watchdog.”