Confessions of a Shopaholic
Page 8
“Perhaps you should have invested with Foreland Investments, Rebecca,” says Alicia, and another titter goes round the room. A few faces turn round to gawk at me, and I stare back at them lividly. They’re fellow journalists, for God’s sake. They should be on my side. National Union of Journalists solidarity and all that.
Not that I’ve ever actually got round to joining the NUJ. But still.
“What do you need twenty quid for?” says Luke Brandon, from the front of the room.
“I. . my aunt,” I say defiantly. “She’s in hospital and I wanted to get her a present.”
The room is silent. Then, to my disbelief, Luke Brandon reaches into his pocket, takes out a £20 note, and gives it to a guy in the front row of journalists. He hesitates, then passes it back to the row behind. And so it goes on, a twenty-quid note being passed from hand to hand, making its way to me like a fan at a gig being passed over the crowd. As I take hold of it, a round of applause goes round the room and I blush.
“Thanks,” I say awkwardly. “I’ll pay you back, of course.”
“My best wishes to your aunt,” says Luke Brandon.
“Thanks,” I say again. Then I glance at Alicia, and feel a little dart of triumph. She looks utterly deflated.
Toward the end of the question-and-answer session, people begin slipping out to get back to their offices. This is usually when I slip out to go and buy a cappuccino and browse in a few shops. But today I don’t. Today I decide I will stick it out until the last dismal question about tax structures. Then I’ll go up to the front and thank Luke Brandon in person for his kind, if embarrassing, gesture. And then I’ll go and get my scarf. Yippee!
But to my surprise, after only a few questions, Luke Brandon gets up, whispers something to Alicia, and heads for the door.
“Thanks,” I mutter as he passes my chair, but I’m not sure he even hears me.
The tube stops in a tunnel for no apparent reason. Five minutes go by, then ten minutes. I can’t believe my bad luck. Normally, of course, I long for the tube to break down — so I’ve got an excuse to stay out of the office for longer. But today I behave like a stressed businessman with an ulcer. I tap my fingers and sigh, and peer out of the window into the blackness.
Part of my brain knows that I’ve got plenty of time to get to Denny and George before it closes. Another part knows that even if I don’t make it, it’s unlikely the blond girl will sell my scarf to someone else. But the possibility is there. So until I’ve got that scarf in my hands I won’t be able to relax.
As the train finally gets going again I sink into my seat with a dramatic sigh and look at the pale, silent man on my left. He’s wearing jeans and sneakers, and I notice his shirt is on inside out. Gosh, I think in admiration, did he read the article on deconstructing fashion in last month’s Vogue, too? I’m about to ask him — then I take another look at his jeans (really nasty fake 501s) and his sneakers (very new, very white) — and something tells me he didn’t.
“Thank God!” I say instead. “I was getting desperate there.”
“It’s frustrating,” he agrees quietly.
“They just don’t think, do they?” I say. “I mean, some of us have got crucial things we need to be doing. I’m in a terrible hurry!”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry myself,” says the man.
“If that train hadn’t started moving, I don’t know what I would have done.” I shake my head. “You feel so. . impotent!”
“I know exactly what you mean,” says the man intensely. “They don’t realize that some of us. .” He gestures toward me. “We aren’t just idly traveling. It matters whether we arrive or not.”
“Absolutely!” I say. “Where are you off to?”
“My wife’s in labor,” he says. “Our fourth.”
“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well. . Gosh. Congratulations. I hope you—”
“She took an hour and a half last time,” says the man, rubbing his damp forehead. “And I’ve been on this tube for forty minutes already. Still. At least we’re moving now.”
He gives a little shrug, then smiles at me.
“How about you? What’s your urgent business?”
Oh God.
“I. . ahm. . I’m going to. .”
I stop feebly and clear my throat, feeling rather sheepish. I can’t tell this man that my urgent business consists of picking up a scarf from Denny and George.
I mean, a scarf. It’s not even a suit or a coat, or something worthy like that.
Not that I’ve ever actually got round to joining the NUJ. But still.
“What do you need twenty quid for?” says Luke Brandon, from the front of the room.
“I. . my aunt,” I say defiantly. “She’s in hospital and I wanted to get her a present.”
The room is silent. Then, to my disbelief, Luke Brandon reaches into his pocket, takes out a £20 note, and gives it to a guy in the front row of journalists. He hesitates, then passes it back to the row behind. And so it goes on, a twenty-quid note being passed from hand to hand, making its way to me like a fan at a gig being passed over the crowd. As I take hold of it, a round of applause goes round the room and I blush.
“Thanks,” I say awkwardly. “I’ll pay you back, of course.”
“My best wishes to your aunt,” says Luke Brandon.
“Thanks,” I say again. Then I glance at Alicia, and feel a little dart of triumph. She looks utterly deflated.
Toward the end of the question-and-answer session, people begin slipping out to get back to their offices. This is usually when I slip out to go and buy a cappuccino and browse in a few shops. But today I don’t. Today I decide I will stick it out until the last dismal question about tax structures. Then I’ll go up to the front and thank Luke Brandon in person for his kind, if embarrassing, gesture. And then I’ll go and get my scarf. Yippee!
But to my surprise, after only a few questions, Luke Brandon gets up, whispers something to Alicia, and heads for the door.
“Thanks,” I mutter as he passes my chair, but I’m not sure he even hears me.
The tube stops in a tunnel for no apparent reason. Five minutes go by, then ten minutes. I can’t believe my bad luck. Normally, of course, I long for the tube to break down — so I’ve got an excuse to stay out of the office for longer. But today I behave like a stressed businessman with an ulcer. I tap my fingers and sigh, and peer out of the window into the blackness.
Part of my brain knows that I’ve got plenty of time to get to Denny and George before it closes. Another part knows that even if I don’t make it, it’s unlikely the blond girl will sell my scarf to someone else. But the possibility is there. So until I’ve got that scarf in my hands I won’t be able to relax.
As the train finally gets going again I sink into my seat with a dramatic sigh and look at the pale, silent man on my left. He’s wearing jeans and sneakers, and I notice his shirt is on inside out. Gosh, I think in admiration, did he read the article on deconstructing fashion in last month’s Vogue, too? I’m about to ask him — then I take another look at his jeans (really nasty fake 501s) and his sneakers (very new, very white) — and something tells me he didn’t.
“Thank God!” I say instead. “I was getting desperate there.”
“It’s frustrating,” he agrees quietly.
“They just don’t think, do they?” I say. “I mean, some of us have got crucial things we need to be doing. I’m in a terrible hurry!”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry myself,” says the man.
“If that train hadn’t started moving, I don’t know what I would have done.” I shake my head. “You feel so. . impotent!”
“I know exactly what you mean,” says the man intensely. “They don’t realize that some of us. .” He gestures toward me. “We aren’t just idly traveling. It matters whether we arrive or not.”
“Absolutely!” I say. “Where are you off to?”
“My wife’s in labor,” he says. “Our fourth.”
“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well. . Gosh. Congratulations. I hope you—”
“She took an hour and a half last time,” says the man, rubbing his damp forehead. “And I’ve been on this tube for forty minutes already. Still. At least we’re moving now.”
He gives a little shrug, then smiles at me.
“How about you? What’s your urgent business?”
Oh God.
“I. . ahm. . I’m going to. .”
I stop feebly and clear my throat, feeling rather sheepish. I can’t tell this man that my urgent business consists of picking up a scarf from Denny and George.
I mean, a scarf. It’s not even a suit or a coat, or something worthy like that.
