Confessions of a Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sophie Kinsella
how much flats cost?
“Apparently, Thomas has bought a very nice little starter home in Reigate,” she says, nodding toward our next-door neighbors. “He commutes.” She says this with an air of satisfaction, as though she’s telling me he’s won the Nobel Peace Prize.
“Well, I can’t afford a flat,” I say. “
Or
a starter home.”
Not yet, anyway, I think. Not until eight o’clock tonight. Hee hee hee.
“Money troubles?” says Dad, coming into the kitchen. “You know, there are two solutions to money troubles.”
His eyes are twinkling, and I just know he’s about to give me some clever little aphorism. Dad has a saying for every subject under the sun—as well as a wide selection of limericks and truly terrible jokes. Sometimes I like listening to them. Sometimes I don’t.
“C.B.,” says Dad, his eyes twinkling. “Or M.M.M.”
He pauses for effect and I turn the page of my brochure, pretending I can’t hear him.
“Cut Back,” says my dad, “or Make More Money. One or the other. Which is it to be, Becky?”
“Oh, both, I expect,” I say airily, and turn another page of my brochure. To be honest, I almost feel sorry for Dad. It’ll be quite a shock for him when his only daughter becomes a multimillionaire overnight.
After lunch, Mum and I go along to a craft fair in the local primary school. I’m really just going to keep Mum company, and I’m certainly not planning to buy anything—but when we get there, I find a stall full of amazing handmade cards, only £1.50 each! So I buy ten. After all, you always need cards, don’t you? There’s also a gorgeous blue ceramic plant holder with little elephants going round it—and I’ve been saying for ages we should have more plants in the flat. So I buy that, too. Only fifteen quid. Craft fairs are such a bargain, aren’t they? You go along thinking they’ll be complete rubbish—but you can always find
something
you want.
Mum’s really happy, too, as she’s found a pair of candlesticks for her collection. She’s got collections of candlesticks, toast racks, pottery jugs, glass animals, embroidered samplers, and thimbles. (Personally, I don’t think the thimbles count as a proper collection, because she got the whole lot, including the cabinet, from an ad at the back of the
Mail on Sunday
magazine. But she never tells anybody that. In fact, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.)
So anyway, we’re both feeling rather pleased with ourselves, and decide to go for a cup of tea. Then, on the way out, we pass one of those really sad stalls which no one is going near; the kind people glance at once, then quickly walk past. The poor guy behind it looks really sorry for himself, so I pause to have a look. And no wonder no one’s stopping. He’s selling weird-shaped wooden bowls, and matching wooden cutlery. What on earth is the point of wooden cutlery?
“That’s nice!” I say brightly, and pick one of the bowls up.
“Hand-crafted applewood,” he says. “Took a week to make.”
Well, it was a waste of a week, if you ask me. It’s shapeless and the wood’s a nasty shade of brown. But as I go to put it back down again, he looks so doleful I feel sorry for him and turn it over to look at the price, thinking if it’s a fiver I’ll buy it. But it’s eighty quid! I show the price to Mum, and she pulls a little face.
“That particular piece was featured in
Elle Decoration
last month,” says the man mournfully, and produces a cutout page. And at his words, I freeze.
Elle Decoration
? Is he joking?
He’s not joking. There on the page, in full color, is a picture of a room, completely empty except for a suede beanbag, a low table, and a wooden bowl. I stare at it incredulously.
“Was it this exact one?” I ask, trying not to sound too excited. “This exact bowl?” As he nods, my grasp tightens round the bowl. I can’t believe it. I’m holding a piece of
Elle Decoration
. How cool is that? Now I feel incredibly stylish and
“Apparently, Thomas has bought a very nice little starter home in Reigate,” she says, nodding toward our next-door neighbors. “He commutes.” She says this with an air of satisfaction, as though she’s telling me he’s won the Nobel Peace Prize.
“Well, I can’t afford a flat,” I say. “
Or
a starter home.”
Not yet, anyway, I think. Not until eight o’clock tonight. Hee hee hee.
“Money troubles?” says Dad, coming into the kitchen. “You know, there are two solutions to money troubles.”
His eyes are twinkling, and I just know he’s about to give me some clever little aphorism. Dad has a saying for every subject under the sun—as well as a wide selection of limericks and truly terrible jokes. Sometimes I like listening to them. Sometimes I don’t.
“C.B.,” says Dad, his eyes twinkling. “Or M.M.M.”
He pauses for effect and I turn the page of my brochure, pretending I can’t hear him.
“Cut Back,” says my dad, “or Make More Money. One or the other. Which is it to be, Becky?”
“Oh, both, I expect,” I say airily, and turn another page of my brochure. To be honest, I almost feel sorry for Dad. It’ll be quite a shock for him when his only daughter becomes a multimillionaire overnight.
After lunch, Mum and I go along to a craft fair in the local primary school. I’m really just going to keep Mum company, and I’m certainly not planning to buy anything—but when we get there, I find a stall full of amazing handmade cards, only £1.50 each! So I buy ten. After all, you always need cards, don’t you? There’s also a gorgeous blue ceramic plant holder with little elephants going round it—and I’ve been saying for ages we should have more plants in the flat. So I buy that, too. Only fifteen quid. Craft fairs are such a bargain, aren’t they? You go along thinking they’ll be complete rubbish—but you can always find
something
you want.
Mum’s really happy, too, as she’s found a pair of candlesticks for her collection. She’s got collections of candlesticks, toast racks, pottery jugs, glass animals, embroidered samplers, and thimbles. (Personally, I don’t think the thimbles count as a proper collection, because she got the whole lot, including the cabinet, from an ad at the back of the
Mail on Sunday
magazine. But she never tells anybody that. In fact, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.)
So anyway, we’re both feeling rather pleased with ourselves, and decide to go for a cup of tea. Then, on the way out, we pass one of those really sad stalls which no one is going near; the kind people glance at once, then quickly walk past. The poor guy behind it looks really sorry for himself, so I pause to have a look. And no wonder no one’s stopping. He’s selling weird-shaped wooden bowls, and matching wooden cutlery. What on earth is the point of wooden cutlery?
“That’s nice!” I say brightly, and pick one of the bowls up.
“Hand-crafted applewood,” he says. “Took a week to make.”
Well, it was a waste of a week, if you ask me. It’s shapeless and the wood’s a nasty shade of brown. But as I go to put it back down again, he looks so doleful I feel sorry for him and turn it over to look at the price, thinking if it’s a fiver I’ll buy it. But it’s eighty quid! I show the price to Mum, and she pulls a little face.
“That particular piece was featured in
Elle Decoration
last month,” says the man mournfully, and produces a cutout page. And at his words, I freeze.
Elle Decoration
? Is he joking?
He’s not joking. There on the page, in full color, is a picture of a room, completely empty except for a suede beanbag, a low table, and a wooden bowl. I stare at it incredulously.
“Was it this exact one?” I ask, trying not to sound too excited. “This exact bowl?” As he nods, my grasp tightens round the bowl. I can’t believe it. I’m holding a piece of
Elle Decoration
. How cool is that? Now I feel incredibly stylish and