Confessions of a Shopaholic (Page 33)

In fact, this morning has been a great success. As I emerge from the museum, I feel incredibly content and uplifted. It just shows the effect that a morning of pure culture has on the soul. From now on, I decide, I’m going to spend every Saturday morning at a museum.

When I get back home, the second post is on the doormat and there’s a square envelope addressed to me in writing I don’t recognize. I rip it open as I lug my carrier bags to my room — and then stop in surprise. It’s a card from Luke Brandon. How did he get my home address? Dear Rebecca, it says, It was good to bump into you the other night, and I do hope you had an enjoyable evening. I now realize that I never thanked you for the prompt repayment of my loan. Much appreciated.With all best wishes — and, of course, deepest sympathy on the loss of your Aunt Ermintrude. (If it’s any consolation, I can’t imagine that scarf could suit anyone better than you.)

Luke.

For a while I stare at it silently. I’m quite taken aback. Gosh, I think cautiously. It’s nice of him to write, isn’t it? A nice handwritten card like this, just to thank me for my card. I mean, he’s not just being polite, is he? You don’t have to send a thank-you card to someone just because they repaid your twenty quid.

Or do you? Maybe, these days, you do. Everyone seems to send cards for everything. I haven’t got a clue what’s done and what’s not anymore. (I knew I should have read that etiquette book I got in my stocking.) Is this card just a polite thank-you? Or is it something else? And if so. . what?

Is he taking the piss?

Oh God, that’s it. He knows Aunt Ermintrude doesn’t exist. He’s just pulling my leg to embarrass me.

But then. . would he go to all the trouble of buying a card, writing in it, and sending it, just to pull my leg?

Oh, I don’t know. Who cares? I don’t even like him, anyway.

Having been so cultured all morning, I deserve a bit of a treat in the afternoon, so I buy myself Vogue and a bag of Minstrels, and lie on the sofa for a bit. God, I’ve missed little treats like this. I haven’t read a magazine for. . well, it must be a week, except Suze’s copy of Cosmo yesterday. And I can’t remember the last time I tasted chocolate.

I can’t spend too long enjoying myself, though, because I’ve got to go out and buy the stuff for our homemade curry. So after I’ve read my horoscope, I close Vogue and get out my new Indian recipe book. I’m quite excited, actually. I’ve never made curry before.

I’ve gone off the tiger prawn recipe because it turns out tiger prawns are very expensive. So what I’m going to make instead is chicken and mushroom Balti. It all looks very cheap and easy, and I just need to write out my shopping list.

When I’ve finished I’m a bit taken aback. The list is quite a lot longer than I’d thought it would be. I hadn’t realized you needed so many spices just to make one curry. I’ve just looked in the kitchen, and we don’t have a Balti pan, or a grinder for grinding spices, or a blender for making the aromatic paste. Or a wooden spoon or any scales that work.

Still, never mind. What I’ll do is quickly go to Peter Jones and buy all the equipment we need for the kitchen, and then I’ll get the food and come back and start cooking. The thing to remember is, we only have to buy all this stuff once — and then we’re fully equipped to make delicious curries every night. I’ll just have to think of it as an investment.

By the time Suze arrives back from Camden Market that evening, I am dressed in my new stripy apron, grinding up roasted spices in our new grinder.

“Phew!” she says, coming into the kitchen. “What a stink!”

“It’s aromatic spices,” I say a bit crossly, and take a swig of wine. To be honest, this is all a bit more difficult than I’d thought. I’m trying to make something called Balti masala mix, which we will be able to keep in a jar and use for months, but all the spices seem to be disappearing into the grinder and refusing to come back out. Where are they going?

“I’m absolutely starving,” says Suze, pouring herself a glass of wine. “Will it be ready soon?”

“I don’t know,” I say, peering into the grinder. “If I can just get these bloody spices out. .”

“Oh well,” says Suze. “I might just make some toast.” She pops a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster and then starts picking up all my little bags and pots of spices and looking at them.

“What’s allspice?” she says, holding up a pot curiously. “Is it all the spices, mixed together?”

“I don’t know,” I say, banging the grinder on the counter. A tiny dusting of powder falls out and I stare at it angrily. What happened to a whole jarful that I could keep for months? Now I’ll have to roast some more of the bloody things.