The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic: Read online

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Endwich Bank

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Brompton's Store

  Chapter Four

  Brompton's Store

  Chapter Five

  Endwich Bank

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  PGNI First Bank Visa

  Chapter Eight

  Brompton's Store

  Chapter Nine

  PGNI First Bank Visa

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  PGNI First Bank Visa

  BANK OF LONDON

  Chapter Twelve

  OCJAGON

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  BANK OF LONDON

  Endwich Bank

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  BANK OF HELSINKI

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  BANK OF HELSINKI

  Fine Frames Ltd

  Endwich Bank

  Sophie Kinsella is a writer and former financial journalist. She is very, very careful with her money and only occasionally finds herself queuing outside the Whistles sale. Her relationship with her bank manager is excellent. She is the author of the bestselling 'Shopaholic' series: The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic, Shopaholic Abroad and Shopaholic Ties the Knot, as well as the bestselling Can You Keep a Secret?, all published by Black Swan.

  www.booksattransworld.co.uk

  Also by Sophie Kinsella

  SHOPAHOLIC ABROAD

  SHOPAHOLIC TIES THE KNOT

  CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?

  and published by Black Swan

  The Secret Dreamworld

  of a Shopaholic

  Sophie Kinsella

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 9781409081012

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  THE SECRET DREAMWORLD OF A SHOPAHOLIC

  A BLACK SWAN BOOK

  ISBN: 9781409081012

  Version 1.0

  First publication in Great Britain

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Black Swan edition published 2000

  27 26

  Copyright © Sophie Kinsella 2000

  The right of Sophie Kinsella to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious,

  and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  Condition of Sale

  This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  Set in 11/12pt Melior by

  County Typesetters, Margate, Kent.

  Black Swan Books are published by Transworld Publishers,

  61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA,

  A Random House Group Company.

  Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK

  can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk

  The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RG1 8EX.

  This book is dedicated to my friend and agent,

  Araminta Whitley.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Patrick Plonkington-Smythe, Linda Evans and the Transworld team, Celia Hayley, Mark Lucas and all at LAW, Nicki Kennedy and Jessica Buckman, Valerie Hoskins and Rebecca Watson, and Brian Siberell at CAA.

  Special thanks to Samantha Wickham, Sarah Manser, Paul Watts, Chantal Rutherford-Brown, my wonderful family and especially Gemma, who taught me how to shop.

  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 far-sighted approach when it comes to customers of calibre 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 Road

  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 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 Road

  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

  Endwich Bank

  FULHAM BRANCH

  3 Fulham Road

  London SW6 9JH

  Ms Rebecca Bloomwood

  Flat 2

  4 Burney Road

  London SW6 8FD

  17 Nov
ember 1999

  Dear Ms Bloomwood

  I am sorry to hear that you have glandular fever.

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

  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 three hundred. 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 Quaglino's. 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 per cent 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 hypo-allergenic eyeliner. So that takes it up to . . . four hundred?

  At the desk next door 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 newspaper 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 dream has been that the same thing will happen to me. 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 59p 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 the hell 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.

  WH Smith (well, that's OK. Everyone needs stationery)

  Boots (ditto)

  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)

  Quaglino's (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, the rug. Stupid rug)

  La Senza (sexy underwear for date with James)

  Agent Provocateur (even sexier underwear for date with James. Huh. 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 the hell 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 have they managed it? 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 gaze at it. 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 been into Millets!' I say aloud.

  'Yes you have,' says Clare.

  'What?' I turn to her, not particularly pleased to be interrupted. 'No I haven't.'

  'You bought Michael's leaving present from Millets, didn't you?'

  I stare at her and 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 the 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 drossy change into the bottom of my bag. Oh good, I remember thinking. I won't have to go to the cashpoint. 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.

  I stare at it silently for thirty seconds, then stuff the bill back into the envelope. I honestly feel, at that moment, 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 Rob
inson of Watchdog.'

  Or I could always move abroad.

  'Becky?' My head jerks up and I see Clare staring at me. 'Have you finished the piece on Lloyds?'

  'Nearly,' I lie. As she's watching me, I feel forced to summon it up on my computer screen, just to show willing. But she's still bloody watching me.

  'Savers can benefit from instant access,' I type onto the screen, copying directly from a press release in front of me. 'The account is also offering tiered rates of interest for those investing more than £5,000.'

  I type a full stop, take a sip of coffee and turn to the second page of the press release.

  This is what I do, by the way. I'm a journalist on a financial magazine. I'm paid to tell other people how to organize their money.

  Of course, it's not the career I always wanted. No-one who writes about personal finance ever meant to do it. People tell you they 'fell into' personal finance. They're lying. What they mean is they couldn't get a job writing about anything more interesting. They mean they applied for jobs on The Times and the Express and Marie-Claire and Vogue and GQ and Loaded, and all they got back was 'Piss off'.

  So they started applying to Metalwork Monthly and Cheesemakers Gazette and What Investment Plan? And they were taken on as the crappiest editorial assistant possible on no money whatsoever and were grateful. And they've stayed on writing about metal, or cheese, or savings, ever since – because that's all they know. I myself started on the catchily titled Personal Investment Periodical. I learned how to copy out a press release and nod at press conferences and ask questions that sounded as though I knew what I was talking about. After a year and a half – believe it or not – I was head-hunted to Successful Saving.

  Of course, I still know nothing about finance. People at the bus stop know more about finance than me. Schoolchildren know more than me. I've been doing this job for three years now, and I'm still expecting someone to catch me out.

  That afternoon, Philip the editor calls my name, and I jump in fright.