Confessions of a Shopaholic (Page 7)

“Clare’s got a briefing in the City. And Westminster’s on your way home to Trendy Fulham, isn’t it?”

Philip always has to make a joke about me living in Fulham. Just because he lives in Harpenden and thinks anyone who doesn’t live in lovely leafy suburbia is mad.

“You can just hop off the tube,” he’s saying, “pick it up, and hop back on again.”

Oh God. I close my eyes and think quickly. An hour here. Rush back to the office, pick up my VISA card, back to Denny and George, get my scarf, rush to Westminster, pick up the report. I should just about make it.

“Fine,” I say. “Leave it to me.”

I sit back down, just as the lights dim and the words Far Eastern Opportunities appear on the screen in front of us. There is a colorful series of pictures from Hong Kong, Thailand, and other exotic places, which would usually have me thinking wistfully about going on holiday. But today I can’t relax, or even feel sorry for the new girl from Portfolio Week, who’s frantically trying to write everything down and will probably ask five questions because she thinks she should. I’m too concerned about my scarf. What if I don’t make it back in time? What if someone puts in a higher offer? The very thought makes me panic.

Then, just as the pictures of Thailand disappear and the boring graphs begin, I have a flash of inspiration. Of course! I’ll pay cash for the scarf. No one can argue with cash. I can get £100 out on my cash card, so all I need is another £20, and the scarf is mine.

I tear a piece of paper out of my notebook, write on it “Can you lend me twenty quid?” and pass it to Elly, who’s still surreptitiously listening to her mobile phone. I wonder what she’s listening to. It can’t still be her horoscope, surely? She looks down, shakes her head, and writes, “No can do. Bloody machine swallowed my card. Living off luncheon vouchers at moment.”

Damn. I hesitate, then write, “What about credit card? I’ll pay you back, honest. And what are you listening to?”

I pass the page to her and suddenly the lights go up. The presentation has ended and I didn’t hear a word of it. People shift around on their seats and a PR girl starts handing out glossy brochures. Elly finishes her call and grins at me.

“Love life prediction,” she says, tapping in another number. “It’s really accurate stuff.”

“Load of old bullshit, more like.” I shake my head disapprovingly. “I can’t believe you go for all that rubbish. Call yourself a financial journalist?”

“No,” says Elly. “Do you?” And we both start to giggle, until some old bag from one of the nationals turns round and gives us an angry glare.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” A piercing voice interrupts us and I look up. It’s Alicia, standing up at the front of the room. She’s got very good legs, I note resentfully. “As you can see, the Foreland Exotic Opportunities Savings Plan represents an entirely new approach to investment.” She looks around the room, meets my eye, and smiles coldly.

“Exotic Opportunities,” I whisper scornfully to Elly and point to the leaflet. “Exotic prices, more like. Have you seen how much they’re charging?”

(I always turn to the charges first. Just like I always look at the price tag first.)

Elly rolls her eyes sympathetically, still listening to the phone.

“Foreland Investments are all about adding value,” Alicia is saying in her snooty voice. “Foreland Investments offer you more.”

“They charge more, you lose more,” I say aloud without thinking, and there’s a laugh around the room. God, how embarrassing. And now Luke Brandon’s lifting his head, too. Quickly I look down and pretend to be writing notes.

Although to be honest, I don’t know why I even pretend to write notes. It’s not as if we ever put anything in the magazine except the puff that comes on the press release. Foreland Investments takes out a whopping double-page spread advertisement every month, and they took Philip on some fantastic research (ha-ha) trip to Thailand last year — so we’re never allowed to say anything except how wonderful they are. Like that’s really any help to our readers.

As Alicia carries on speaking, I lean toward Elly.

“So, listen,” I whisper. “Can I borrow your credit card?”

“All used up,” hisses Elly apologetically. “I’m up to my limit. Why do you think I’m living off LVs?”

“But I need money!” I whisper. “I’m desperate! I need twenty quid!”

I’ve spoken more loudly than I intended and Alicia stops speaking.