Confessions of a Shopaholic

Millions of readers have come to adore New York Times best-selling author Sophie Kinsella’s irrepressible heroine. Meet Becky Bloomwood, America’s favorite shopaholic—a young woman with a big heart, big dreams…and just one little weakness.

Becky has a fabulous flat in London''s trendiest neighborhood, a troupe of glamorous socialite friends, and a closet brimming with the season''s must-haves. The only trouble is that she can''t actually afford it—not any of it.

Her job writing at Successful Savings not only bores her to tears, it doesn''t pay much at all. And lately Becky''s been chased by dismal letters from the bank—letters with large red sums she can''t bear to read—and they''re getting ever harder to ignore.

She tries cutting back. But none of her efforts succeeds. Becky''s only consolation is to buy herself something ... just a little something....

Finally a story arises that Becky actually cares about, and her front-page article catalyzes a chain of events that will transform her life—and the lives of those around her—forever.

Sophie Kinsella has brilliantly tapped into our collective consumer conscience to deliver a novel of our times—and a heroine who grows stronger every time she weakens. Becky''s hilarious schemes to pay back her debts are as endearing as they are desperate. Her "confessions" are the perfect pick-me-up when life is hanging in the (bank) balance.

CONFESSIONS OF A SHOPAHOLIC

One

Ok. dont panic. Dont panic. Its only a VISA bill. Its a piece of paper; a few numbers. I mean, just how scary can a few numbers be?

I stare out of the office window at a bus driving down Oxford Street, willing myself to open the white envelope sitting on my cluttered desk. Its only a piece of paper, I tell myself for the thousandth time. And Im not stupid, am I? I know exactly how much this VISA bill will be.

Sort of. Roughly.

Itll be about ... £200. Three hundred, maybe. Yes, maybe £300. Three-fifty, max.

I casually close my eyes and start to tot up. There was that suit in Jigsaw. And there was dinner with Suze at Quaglinos. And there was that gorgeous red and yellow rug. The rug was £200, come to think of it. But it was definitely worth every penny — everyones admired it. Or, at least, Suze has.

And the Jigsaw suit was on sale — 30 percent off. So that was actually saving money.

I open my eyes and reach for the bill. As my fingers hit the paper I remember new contact lenses. Ninety-five pounds. Quite a lot. But, I mean, I had to get those, didnt I? What am I supposed to do, walk around in a blur?

And I had to buy some new solutions and a cute case and some hypoallergenic eyeliner. So that takes it up to ... £400?

At the desk next to mine, Clare Edwards looks up from her post. Shes sorting all her letters into neat piles, just like she does every morning. She puts rubber bands round them and puts labels on them saying things like ＂Answer immediately＂ and ＂Not urgent but respond.＂ I loathe Clare Edwards.

＂OK, Becky?＂ she says.

＂Fine,＂ I say lightly. ＂Just reading a letter.＂

I reach gaily into the envelope, but my fingers dont quite pull out the bill. They remain clutched around it while my mind is seized — as it is every month — by my secret dream.

Do you want to know about my secret dream? Its based on a story I once read in The Daily World about a mix-up at a bank. I loved this story so much, I cut it out and stuck it onto my wardrobe door. Two credit card bills were sent to the wrong people, and — get this — each person paid the wrong bill without realizing. They paid off each others bills without even checking them.

And ever since I read that story, my secret fantasy has been that the same thing will happen to me. I mean, I know it sounds unlikely — but if it happened once, it can happen again, cant it? Some dotty old woman in Cornwall will be sent my humongous bill and will pay it without even looking at it. And Ill be sent her bill for three tins of cat food at fifty-nine pence each. Which, naturally, Ill pay without question. Fairs fair, after all.

A smile is plastered over my face as I gaze out of the window. Im convinced that this month itll happen — my secret dream is about to come true. But when I eventually pull the bill out of the envelope — goaded by Clares curious gaze — my smile falters, then disappears. Something hot is blocking my throat. I think it could be panic.

The page is black with type. A series of familiar names rushes past my eyes like a mini shopping mall. I try to take them in, but theyre moving too fast. Thorntons, I manage to glimpse. Thorntons Chocolates? What was I doing in Thorntons Chocolates? Im supposed to be on a diet. This bill cant be right. This cant be me. I cant possibly have spent all this money.

Dont panic! I yell internally. The key is not to panic. Just read each entry slowly, one by one. I take a deep breath and force myself to focus calmly, starting at the top.

WHSmith (well, thats OK. Everyone needs stationery.)

Boots (everyone needs shampoo)

Specsavers (essential)

Oddbins (bottle of wine — essential)

Our Price (Our Price? Oh yes. The new Charlatans album. Well, I had to have that, didnt I?)

Bella Pasta (supper with Caitlin)

Oddbins (bottle of wine — essential)

Esso (petrol doesnt count)

Quaglinos (expensive — but it was a one-off)

Pret a Manger (that time I ran out of cash)

Oddbins (bottle of wine — essential)

Rugs to Riches (what? Oh yes. Stupid rug.)

La Senza (sexy underwear for date with James)

Agent Provocateur (even sexier underwear for date with James. Like I needed it.)

Body Shop (that skin brusher thing which I must use)

Next (fairly boring white shirt — but it was in the sale)

Millets...