Confessions of a Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella

says Janice. “After all, you never know, do you?” She smiles coyly at me, and ridiculously, I feel myself start to blush. Why am I blushing? This is so stupid. Now she thinks I fancy Tom. She’s picturing us together in the starter home, making supper together in the limed oak kitchen.
    I should say something. I should say, “Janice, I don’t fancy Tom. He’s too tall and his breath smells.” But how on earth can I say that?
    “Well, do give him my love,” I hear myself saying instead.
    “I certainly will,” she says, and pauses. “Does he have your London number?”
    Aarrgh!
    “I think so,” I lie, smiling brightly. “And he can always get me here if he wants.” Now everything I say sounds like some saucy double entendre. I can just imagine how this conversation will be reported back to Tom. “She was asking
all
about your starter home. And she asked you to call her!”
    Life would be a lot easier if conversations were rewindable and erasable, like videos. Or if you could instruct people to disregard what you just said, like in a courtroom.
Please strike from the record all references to starter homes and limed oak kitchens
.
    Luckily, at that moment, Martin reappears, clutching a piece of paper.
    “Thought you might cast your eye over this,” he says. “We’ve had this with-profits fund with Flagstaff Life for fifteen years. Now we’re thinking of transferring to their new unit-linked growth fund. What do you think?”
    I don’t know. What’s he talking about, anyway? Some kind of savings plan? Please don’t ask me, I want to say. Please ask someone who knows what they’re talking about. But there’s no way they’ll believe that I’m not a financial genius—so I’ll just have to do the best I can.
    I run my eye over the piece of paper in what I hope looks like a knowledgeable fashion and nod several times. It’s a letter making some kind of special offer if investors switch to this new fund. Sounds reasonable enough.
    “The company wrote to us, saying we might want a higher return in our retirement years,” says Martin. “There’s a guaranteed sum, too.”
    “And they’ll send us a carriage clock,” chimes in Janice. “Swiss-made.”
    “Mmm,” I say, studying the letterhead intently. “Well, I should think that’s quite a good idea.”
    Flagstaff Life, I’m thinking. I’m sure I’ve heard something about them recently. Which ones are Flagstaff Life? Oh yes! They’re the ones who threw a champagne party at Soho Soho. That’s right. And Elly got incredibly pissed and told David Salisbury from
The Times
that she loved him. It was a bloody good party, come to think of it. One of the best.
    Hmm. But wasn’t there something else? Something I’ve heard recently? I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember . . . but it’s gone. I’ve probably got it wrong, anyway.
    “D’you rate them as a company?” says Martin.
    “Oh yes,” I say, looking up. “They’re very well regarded among the profession.”
    “Well then,” says Martin, looking pleased. “If Becky thinks it’s a good idea . . .”
    “Yes, but, I really wouldn’t just listen to me!” I say quickly. “I mean, a financial adviser or someone would know far more . . .”
    “Listen to her!” says Martin with a little chuckle. “The financial expert herself.”
    “You know, Tom sometimes buys your magazine,” puts in Janice. “Not that he’s got much money now, what with the mortgage and everything . . . But he says your articles are very good! Tom says—”
    “How nice!” I cut in. “Well, look, I really must go. Lovely to see you. And love to Tom!”
    And I turn into the house so quickly, I bump my knee on the door frame. Then I feel a bit bad, and wish I’d said good-bye nicely. But honestly! If I hear one more word about bloody Tom and his bloody kitchen, I’ll go mad.
     
     
    By the time I sit down in front of the National Lottery, however, I’ve forgotten all about them. We’ve had a nice