Confessions of a Shopaholic (Shopaholic #1)

Confessions of a Shopaholic (Shopaholic #1) Page 89

Nineteen

THE CAR TO TAKE me to the television studios arrives promptly at seven-thirty the next morning. When the doorbell rings, Mum, Dad, and I all jump, even though we’ve been waiting in a tense silence for ten minutes.

“Well,” says Dad gruffly, glancing at his watch. “They’re here, anyway.”

Ever since I told him about the arrangements, Dad’s been predicting that the car won’t turn up and that he’ll have to drive me to the studios himself. He even worked out a route last night, and phoned up Uncle Malcolm as a standby. (To be honest, I think he was quite looking forward to it.)

“Oh, Becky,” says Mum in a trembling voice. “Good luck, darling.” She looks at me, then shakes her head. “Our little Becky, on television. I can’t believe it.”

I start to get up, but Dad puts out a restraining arm.

“Now, before you answer the door, Becky,” he says. “You are sure, aren’t you? About the risk you’re taking.” He glances at Mum, who bites her lip.

“I’ll be fine!” I say, trying to sound as soothing as possible. “Honestly, Dad, we’ve been over it all.”

Last night, it suddenly occurred to Dad that if I went on the telly, my stalker would know where I was. At first he was adamant I’d have to call the whole thing off — and it took an awful lot of persuasion to convince him and Mum I’d be perfectly safe in the TV studios. They were even talking about hiring a bodyguard, can you believe it? I mean, what on earth would I look like, turning up with a bodyguard?

Actually, I’d look pretty cool and mysterious, wouldn’t I? That might have been quite a good idea.

The doorbell rings again and I leap to my feet.

“Well,” says Dad. “You just be careful.”

“I will, don’t worry!” I say, picking up my bag. I walk to the door calmly, trying not to give away how excited I feel. Inside I feel as light as a bubble.

I just can’t believe how well everything’s going. Not only am I going to be on the telly, but everyone’s being so nice to me! Yesterday I had several phone conversations with an assistant producer of Morning Coffee, who’s a really sweet girl called Zelda. We went over exactly what I was going to say on the program, then she arranged for a car to come and pick me up — and when I told her I was at my parents’ house with none of my clothes handy, she thought for a bit — then said I could choose something to wear from the wardrobe. I mean, how cool is that? Choosing any outfit I like from the wardrobe! Maybe they’ll let me keep it afterward, too.

As I open the front door, my stomach gives an excited leap. There, waiting in the drive, is a portly, middle-aged man in a blue blazer and cap, standing next to a shiny black car. My own private chauffeur! This just gets better and better.

“Miss Bloomwood?” says the driver.

“Yes,” I say, unable to stop myself from grinning in delight. I’m about to reach for the door handle — but he gets there before me, opens the car door with a flourish, and stands to attention, waiting for me to get in. God, this is like being a film star or something!

I glance back toward the house and see Mum and Dad standing on the front step, both looking utterly gobsmacked.

“Well — bye then!” I say, trying to sound casual, as though I always ride around in a chauffeur-driven car. “See you later!”

“Becky, is that you?” comes a voice from next door, and Janice appears on the other side of the hedge in her dressing gown. Her eyes grow large as they take in the car and she glances at Mum, who raises her shoulders, as though to say “I know, isn’t it unbelievable?”

“Morning, Janice,” says Dad.

“Morning, Graham,” says Janice dazedly. “Oh, Becky! I’ve never seen anything like it. In all the years. . If Tom could only see you. .” She breaks off and looks at Mum. “Have you taken any photographs?”

“We haven’t!” says Mum in dismay. “It didn’t even occur to us. Graham, quick — go and get the camera.”

“No, wait, I’ll get our camcorder!” says Janice. “It won’t take me two ticks. We could have the car arriving in the drive, and Becky walking out of the front door. . and maybe we could use The Four Seasons as the soundtrack, and then cut straight to. .”

“No!” I say hastily, seeing a flicker of amusement pass across the face of the driver. And I was doing so well at looking nonchalant and professional. “We haven’t got time for any pictures. I have to get to the studios!”

“Yes,” says Janice, suddenly looking anxious. “Yes, you don’t want to be late.” She glances fearfully at her watch, as though afraid the program might already have started. “It’s on at eleven, isn’t it?”