Confessions of a Shopaholic (Shopaholic #1)

Confessions of a Shopaholic (Shopaholic #1) Page 27

But Suze loves them. She spent all her childhood summers with them in Scotland and she just can’t see that they’re a bit strange. The worst thing is, she starts talking about witchies and titchies when she’s with them.

Still, there’s nothing I can do about it — they’re here now. I finish brushing on my mascara and stand up, looking at my reflection. I’m pretty pleased with what I see. I’m wearing a really simple black top and black trousers — and, tied loosely round my neck, my gorgeous, gorgeous Denny and George scarf. God, that was a good buy. It looks fantastic.

I linger a bit, then resignedly open my bedroom door.

“Hi, Bex!” says Suze, looking up with bright eyes. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of the corridor, ripping open a present, while Fenella and Tarquin stand nearby, looking on. They’re not wearing matching jumpers today, thank God, but Fenella’s wearing a very odd red skirt made out of hairy tweed, and Tarquin’s double-breasted suit looks as if it were tailored during the First World War.

“Hi!” I say, and kiss each of them politely.

“Oh, wow!” cries Suze, as she pulls out a picture in an old gilt frame. “I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” She’s looking from Tarquin to Fenella with shining eyes, and I look at the picture interestedly over her shoulder. But to be honest, I can’t say I’m impressed. For a start it’s really dingy — all sludgy greens and browns — and for another start, it just shows a horse standing still in a field. I mean, couldn’t it have been jumping over a fence or rearing up or something? Or maybe trotting along in Hyde Park, ridden by a girl in one of those lovely Pride and Prejudice dresses.

“Happy Bad Day!” Tarquin and Fenella chime in unison. (That’s another thing. They call birthdays bad days, ever since. . Oh God. It really is too boring to explain.)

“It’s absolutely gorgeous!” I say enthusiastically. “Absolutely beautiful!”

“It is, isn’t it?” says Tarquin earnestly. “Just look at those colors.”

“Mmm, lovely,” I say, nodding.

“And the brushwork. It’s exquisite. We were thrilled when we came across it.”

“It’s a really wonderful picture,” I say. “Makes you want to just. . gallop off over the downs!”

What is this drivel I’m coming out with? Why can’t I just be honest and say I don’t like it?

“Do you ride?” says Tarquin, looking up at me in slight surprise.

I’ve ridden once. On my cousin’s horse. And I fell off and vowed never to do it again. But I’m not going to admit that to Mr. Horse of the Year.

“I used to,” I say, and give a modest little smile. “Not very well.”

“I’m sure you’d get back into it,” says Tarquin, gazing at me. “Have you ever hunted?”

Hunted? Little furry foxes? Is he joking?

“Hey,” says Suze, fondly propping the picture against the wall. “Shall we have a titchy before we go?”

“Absolutely!” I say, turning quickly away from Tarquin. “Good idea.”

“Oooh, yes,” says Fenella. “Have you got any champagne?”

“Should have,” says Suze, and goes into the kitchen. At that moment the phone rings and I go to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hello, may I speak to Rebecca Bloomwood?” says a strange woman’s voice.

“Yes,” I say idly. I’m listening to Suze opening and shutting cupboard doors in the kitchen and wondering if we have actually got any champagne, apart from the dregs of the half bottle we drank for breakfast. . “Speaking.”

“Ms. Bloomwood, this is Erica Parnell from Endwich Bank,” says the voice, and I freeze.

Shit. It’s the bank. Oh God, they sent me that letter, didn’t they, and I never did anything about it.

What am I going to say? Quick, what am I going to say?

“Ms. Bloomwood?” says Erica Parnell.

OK, what I’ll say is, I’m fully aware that my overdraft is slightly larger than it should be, and I’m planning to take remedial action within the next few days. Yes, that sounds good. “Remedial action” sounds very good. OK — go.

Firmly I tell myself not to panic — these people are human — and take a big breath. And then, in one seamless, unplanned movement, my hand puts down the receiver.

I stare at the silent phone for a few seconds, not quite able to believe what I’ve just done. What did I do that for? Erica Parnell knew it was me, didn’t she? Any minute, she’ll ring back. She’s probably pressing redial now, and she’ll be really angry. .