The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

That really is my intention. Honestly. As I'm walking along the pavement, I promise my intention is to read the letters.

But then I turn into the next street – and there's a skip outside someone's house. A huge great yellow skip, already half full of stuff. Builders are coming in and out of the house, tossing old bits of wood and upholstery into the skip. Loads of rubbish, all jumbled up together.

And a little thought creeps into my mind.

My steps slow down as I approach the skip and I pause, staring intently at it as though I'm interested in the words printed on the side. I stand there, heart thumping, until the builders have gone back into the house and no-one's looking. Then, in one motion, I reach for the two letters, pull them out of my pocket, and drop them over the side, into the skip.

Gone.

As I'm standing there a builder pushes past me with two sacks of broken plaster, and heaves them into the skip. And now they really are gone. Buried beneath a layer of plaster, unread. No-one will ever find them.

Gone for good.

Quickly I turn away from the skip and begin to walk on again. Already my step's lighter and I'm feeling buoyant.

Before long, I'm feeling completely i

As I bound along towards the tube station I honestly feel as though neither of those letters ever existed.

When I arrive at work, I switch on my computer, click efficiently to a new document and start typing my piece on pensions. Perhaps if I work really hard, it's occurred to me, Philip will give me a rise. I'll stay late every night and impress him with my dedication to the job, and he'll realize that I'm considerably undervalued. Perhaps he'll even make me associate editor, or something.

'These days,' I type briskly, 'none of us can rely on the government to take care of us in our old age. Therefore pension pla

'Morning, Clare,' says Philip, coming into the office in his overcoat. 'Morning Rebecca.'

Hah! Now is the time to impress him.

'Morning Philip,' I say, in a friendly-yet-professional ma

'The bwst ootion is oftwn yoor compaamy occupatinoa Ischeme, bt if tehis is not posibsle, a wide vareiety of peronanlas penion lans is on ther markte, ranign from…' I break off, reach for a pension brochure and flip quickly through it, as though sca

'Good weekend, Rebecca?' says Philip.

'Fine, thanks,' I say, glancing up from the brochure as though surprised to be interrupted while I'm at work.

'I was round your neck of the woods on Saturday,' he says. 'The Fulham Road. Trendy Fulham.'

'Right,' I say absently.

'It's the place to be, these days, isn't it? My wife was reading an article about it. Full of It-girls, all living on trust funds.'

'I suppose so,' I say vaguely.

'That's what we'll have to call you,' he says, and gives a little guffaw. 'The office It-girl.'

It-girl? What on earth is he talking about?

'Right,' I say, and smile at him. After all, he's the boss. He can call me whatever he–

Oh God, hang on a minute. Hang-on-minute. Philip hasn't got the idea that I'm rich, has he? He doesn't think I've got a trust fund or something ridiculous, does he?

'Rebecca,' says Clare, looking up from her telephone. 'I've got a call, for you. Someone called Tarquin.'

Philip gives a little grin, as though to say, What else? and ambles off to his desk. I stare after him in frustration.

This is all wrong. If Philip thinks I've got some kind of private income, he'll never give me a rise. But what on earth could have given him that idea?

'Becky,' says Clare meaningfully, gesturing to my ringing phone.

'Oh,' I say. 'Yes,– OK.' I pick up the receiver, and say, 'Hi. Rebecca Bloomwood here.'

'Becky,' comes Tarquin's unmistakable, reedy voice.

He sounds rather nervous, as if he's been gearing up to this phone call for ages. Perhaps he has. 'It's so nice to hear your voice. You know, I've been thinking about you a lot.'

'Really?' I say, as unhelpfully as possible. I mean, I know he's Suze's cousin and everything, but honestly...

'I'd… I'd very much like to spend some more time in your company,' he says. 'May I take you out to di

Oh God. What am I supposed to say to that? It's such an i

Which is pretty near the truth – but I can't say that, can I? And Suze has been so sweet to me recently, and if I turn her darling Tarkie down flat, she'll be really upset.

'I suppose so,' I say, aware that I don't sound too thrilled – and also aware that maybe I should just come clean and say I Don't Fancy You. But somehow I can't face it. To be honest, it would be a lot easier just to go out to di

And anyway, I don't have to actually go. I'll call at the last moment and cancel. Easy.

'I'm in London until Sunday,' says Tarquin.

'Let's make it Saturday night, then!' I say brightly. 'Just before you leave.'

'Seven o'clock?'

'How about eight?' I suggest.

'OK,' he says. 'Eight o'clock.' And he rings off, without mentioning a venue. But since I'm not actually going to meet him, this doesn't really matter. I put the phone down, give an impatient sigh, and start typing again.

'The best option for many is to consult an independent financial adviser, who will be able to advise you on your own particular pension needs and recommend suitable products. New on the market this year is the

..' I break off and reach for a brochure. Any old brochure. 'Sun Assurance "Later Years" Retirement Plan, which…'

'So, was that guy asking you out?' says Clare Edwards.

'Yes, he was, actually,' I say, looking up carelessly. In spite of myself, I feel a little flip of pleasure. Because Clare doesn't know what Tarquin's like, does she? For all she knows, he's incredibly good-looking and witty.

'We're going out on Saturday night.' I give her a nonchalant smile and start typing again.

'Oh, right,' she says, and snaps an elastic band round a pile of letters. 'You know, Luke Brandon was asking me if you had a boyfriend the other day.'

For an instant I can't move. Luke Brandon wants to know if I've got a boyfriend?

'Really?' I say, trying to sound normal. 'When… when was this?'

'Oh, just the other day,' she says. 'I was at a briefing at Brandon Communications, and he asked me. Just casually. You know.'

'And what did you say?'

'I said no,' said Clare, and gives me a little grin. 'You don't fancy him, do you?'

'Of course not,' I say, and roll my eyes.

But I have to admit, I feel quite cheerful as I turn back to my computer and start typing again. Luke Brandon. I mean, not that I like him or anything – but still. Luke Brandon. 'This flexible plan,' I type, 'offers full death benefits and a lump sum on retirement. For example, a typical man in his thirties who invested ?100 a month…'

You know what? I suddenly think, stopping mid sentence. This is boring. I'm better than this.

I'm better than sitting here in this crappy office, typing out the details from a brochure, trying to turn them into some kind of credible journalism. I deserve to do something more interesting than this. Or more well paid. Or both.