Confessions of a Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella Page A

supper—chicken Provençale from Marks and Spencer, and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio, which I brought. I know the chicken Provençale comes from Marks and Spencer because I’ve bought it myself, quite a few times. I recognized the sun-dried tomatoes and the olives, and everything. Mum, of course, still acted like she’d made it from scratch, from her own recipe.
    I don’t know why she bothers. It isn’t like anyone would care—especially when it’s just me and Dad. And I mean, it’s pretty obvious that there are never any raw ingredients in our kitchen. There are lots of empty cardboard boxes and lots of fully prepared meals—and nothing in between. But still Mum never ever admits she’s bought a ready-made meal, not even when it’s a pie in a foil container. My dad will eat one of those pies, full of plastic mushrooms and gloopy sauce, and then say, with a perfectly straight face, “Delicious, my love.” And my mum will smile back, looking all pleased with herself.
    But tonight it’s not foil pie, it’s chicken Provençale. (To be fair, I suppose it almost does look homemade—except no one would ever cut a red pepper up that small for themselves, would they? People have more important things to do.) So anyway, we’ve eaten it and we’ve drunk a fair amount of the Pinot Grigio, and there’s an apple crumble in the oven—and I’ve suggested, casually, that we all go and watch telly. Because I know from looking at the clock that the National Lottery program has already started. In a matter of minutes, it’s all going to happen. I cannot wait.
    Luckily, my parents aren’t the sort who want to make conversation about politics or talk about books. We’ve already caught up with all the family news, and I’ve told them how my work’s going, and they’ve told me about their holiday in Corsica—so by now, we’re grinding to a bit of a halt. We need the telly on, if only as a conversational sounding board.
    So we all troop into the sitting room, and my dad lights the gas flame-effect fire and turns on the telly. And there it is! The National Lottery, in glorious Technicolor. The lights are shining, and Dale Winton is joshing with Tiffany from
EastEnders
, and every so often the audience gives an excited whoop. My stomach’s getting tighter and tighter, and my heart’s going thump-thump-thump. Because in a few minutes those balls are going to fall. In a few minutes I’m going to be a millionaire. I just
know
I am.
    I lean calmly back on the sofa and think what I’ll do when I win. At the very instant that I win, I mean. Do I scream? Do I keep quiet? Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone for twenty-four hours. Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone
at all
.
    This new thought transfixes me. I could be a secret winner! I could have all the money and none of the pressure. If people asked me how I could afford so many designer clothes I’d just tell them I was doing lots of freelance work. Yes! And I could transform all my friends’ lives anonymously, like a good angel.
    I’m just working out how big a house I could manage to buy without everyone twigging, when a voice on the screen alerts me.
    “Question to number three.”
    What?
    “My favorite animal is the flamingo because it’s pink, fluffy, and has long legs.” The girl sitting on the stool excitedly unwinds a pair of long glossy legs, and the audience goes wild. I stare at her dazedly. What’s going on? Why are we watching
Blind Date
?
    “Now, this show used to be fun,” says Mum. “But it’s gone downhill.”
    “You call this rubbish fun?” retorts my dad incredulously.
    “Listen, Dad, actually, could we turn back to—”
    “I didn’t say it was fun
now
. I said—”
    “Dad!” I say, trying not to sound too panicky. “Could we just go back to BBC1 for a moment?”
    Blind Date
disappears and I sigh with relief. The next moment, an earnest man in a suit fills the screen.
    “What the police failed to appreciate,” he says in a nasal voice,