Confessions of a Shopaholic (Shopaholic #1)

Confessions of a Shopaholic (Shopaholic #1) Page 82

“Great,” I mutter, unable to concentrate.

“They’ve got some super window boxes, too,” she says. “You could do with some nice window boxes in your flat.”

“Yes,” I say. “Maybe.”

“Shall I put you down for a couple? They’re not expensive.”

“No, it’s OK.”

“You can pay by check, or VISA. .” she says, flipping over the page.

“No, really, Mum,” I say, my voice sharpening slightly.

“You could just phone up with your VISA card, and have them delivered—”

“Mum, stop it!” I cry. “I don’t want them, OK?”

Mum gives me a surprised, slightly reproving look and turns to the next page of her catalogue. And I gaze back at her, full of a choking panic. My VISA card doesn’t work. My debit card doesn’t work. Nothing works. And she has no idea.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. I grab for an ancient copy of the Radio Times on the coffee table and begin to leaf through it blindly.

“It’s a shame about poor Martin and Janice, isn’t it?” says Mum, looking up. “Fancy switching funds two weeks before the takeover! Such bad luck!”

“I know,” I mumble, staring down at a page of listings. I don’t want to be reminded about Martin and Janice.

“It seems a terrible coincidence,” says Mum, shaking her head. “That the company should launch this new fund just before the takeover. You know, there must be a lot of people who did exactly what Martin and Janice did, who have lost out. Dreadful, really.” She looks at the television. “Oh look, it’s starting again.”

The cheery Countdown music begins to play, and a round of applause rattles noisily from the television. But I’m not listening to it, or even paying any attention to the vowels and consonants. I’m thinking about what Mum has just said. A terrible coincidence — but it wasn’t exactly a coincidence, was it? The bank actually wrote to Janice and Martin, suggesting that they switch funds. They even offered an incentive, didn’t they? A carriage clock.

Suddenly I feel alert. I want to see the letter from Flagstaff Life — and find out exactly how long before the takeover they sent it.

“ ‘ending,’ ” says Mum, staring at the screen. “That’s six. Ooh, there’s an S. Can you have ‘endings’?”

“I’m just. . popping next door,” I say, getting to my feet. “I won’t be a minute.”

As Martin opens the front door, I see that he and Janice have also been sitting in front of the telly, watching Countdown.

“Hi,” I say sheepishly. “I was just wondering — could I have a quick chat?”

“Of course!” says Martin. “Come on in! Would you like a sherry?”

“Oh,” I say, a little taken aback. I mean, not that I’m against drinking, obviously — but it isn’t even five o’clock yet. “Well — OK then.”

“Never too early for a sherry!” says Martin.

“I’ll have another one, thanks, Martin,” comes Janice’s voice from the sitting room.

Blow me down. They’re a pair of alcoholics!

Oh God, perhaps this is my fault too. Perhaps their financial mishap has driven them to seek solace in alcohol and daytime television.

“I was just wondering,” I say nervously as Martin pours dark brown sherry into a schooner. “Just out of interest, could I have a look at that letter you got from Flagstaff Life, asking you to switch funds? I was wondering when they sent it.”

“It arrived the very day we saw you,” says Martin. “Why do you want to see it?” He raises his glass. “Your good health.”

“Cheers,” I say, and take a sip. “I’m just wondering—”

“Come into the living room,” he interrupts, and ushers me through from the hall. “Here you are, my love,” he adds, and gives Janice her sherry. “Bottoms up!”

“Sssh,” she replies. “It’s the numbers game! I need to concentrate.”

“I thought I might do a little investigation into this,” I whisper to Martin as the Countdown clock ticks round. “I feel so bad about it.”

“Fifty times 4 is 200,” says Janice suddenly. “Six minus 3 is 3, times 7 is 21 and add it on.”

“Well done, love!” says Martin, and roots about in a carved oak sideboard. “Here’s the letter,” he says. “So — do you want to write an article or something?”

“Possibly,” I say. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”