The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

Sixteen

When I turn up at my parents' house that afternoon with no warning, saying I want to stay for a few days, I can't say they seem shocked, or even surprised. In fact, so unsurprised do they seem, that I begin to wonder if they've been expecting this eventuality all along, ever since I moved to London. Have they been waiting every week for me to arrive on the doorsteps with no luggage and red eyes? They're certainly behaving as calmly as a hospital casualty team operating an emergency procedure that was rehearsed only last week.

Except that surely the casualty team wouldn't keep arguing about the best way to resuscitate the patient? After a few minutes, I feel like going outside, letting them decide on their plan of action, and ringing the bell again.

'You go upstairs and have a nice hot bath,' says Mum, as soon as I've put down my handbag. 'I expect you're exhausted!'

'She doesn't have to have a bath if she doesn't want to!' retorts Dad. 'She might want a drink! D'you want a drink, darling?'

'Is that wise?' says Mum, shooting him a meaningful What If She's An Alkie? look, which presumably I'm not supposed to notice.

'I don't want a drink, thanks,' I say. 'But I'd love a cup of tea.'

'Of course you would!' says Mum. 'Graham, go and put the kettle on.' And she gives him another meaningful look. As soon as he's disappeared into the kitchen, she comes close to me and says, in a lowered voice,

'Are you feeling all right, darling? Is anything… wrong?'

Oh God, there's nothing like your mother's sympathetic voice when you're feeling down, to make you want to burst into tears.

'Well,' I say, in a slightly wobbly voice. 'Things have been better. I'm just…, in a bit of a difficult situation at the moment. But it'll be all right in the end.' I give a small shrug and look away.

'Because…' She lowers her voice even more. 'Your father isn't as old-fashioned as he seems. And I know that if it were a case of us looking after a… a Little One, while you pursued your career…'

What?

'Mum, don't worry!' I exclaim sharply. 'I'm not pregnant!'

'I never said you were,' she says and flushes a little. 'I just wanted to offer you our support.'

Bloody hell, what are my parents like? They watch too many soap operas, that's their trouble. In fact, they were probably hoping I was pregnant. By my wicked married lover whom they could then murder and bury under the patio.

And what's this 'offer you our support' business, anyway? My mum would never have said that before she started watching Ricki Lake every afternoon.

'Well, come on,' she says. 'Let's sit you down with a nice cup of tea.'

And so I follow her into the kitchen, and we all sit down with a nice cup of tea. And I have to say, it is very nice. Hot strong tea and a chocolate bourbon biscuit. Perfect. I close my eyes and take a few sips, and then open them again, to see both my parents gazing at me with naked curiosity all over their faces.

Immediately my mother changes her expression to a smile, and my father gives a little cough – but I can tell, they are gagging to know what's wrong.

'So,' I say cautiously, and both their heads jerk up. 'You're both well, are you?'

'Oh yes,' says my mother. 'Yes, we're fine.'

There's another silence.

'Becky?' says my father gravely, and both Mum and I swivel to face him. 'Are you in some kind of trouble we should know about? Only tell us if you want to,' he adds hastily. 'And I want you to know – we're there for you.'

That's another bloody Ricki Lake-ism, too. My parents should really get out more.

'Are you all right, darling?' says Mum gently – and she sounds so kind and understanding that, in spite of myself, I find myself putting down my cup with a shaky hand and saying, 'To tell you the truth, I am in a spot of bother. I didn't want to worry you, so I haven't said anything before now…' I can feel tears gathering in my eyes.

'What is it?' says Mum in a panicky voice. 'Oh God, you're on drugs, aren't you?'

'No, I'm not on drugs!' I exclaim. 'I'm just… It's just that I… I'm…' I take a deep gulp of tea. This is even harder than I thought it would be. Come on, Rebecca, just say it.

I close my eyes. and clench my hand tightly around my mug.

'The truth is…' I say slowly.

'Yes?' says Mum.

'The truth is…' I open my eyes. 'I'm being stalked. By a man called… called Derek Smeath.'

There's silence apart from a long hiss as my father sucks in breath.

'I knew it!' says my mother in a sharp, brittle voice. 'I knew it! I knew there was something wrong!'

'We all knew there was something wrong!' says my father, and rests his elbows heavily on the table. 'How long has this been going on, Becky?'

'Oh, ahm… months now,' I say, staring into my tea. 'It's just pestering, really. It's not serious or anything. But I just couldn't deal with it any more.'

'And who is this Derek Smeath?' says Dad. 'Do we know him?'

'I don't think so. I came across him… I came across him through work.'

'Of course you did!' says Mum. 'A young, pretty girl like you, with a high-profile career… I knew this was going to happen!'

'Is he another journalist?' says Dad and I shake my head.

'He works for Endwich Bank. He does things like.. like phone up and pretend he's in charge of my bank account. He's really convincing.'

There's silence while my parents digest this and I eat another chocolate bourbon.

'Well,' says Mum at last. 'I think we'll have to phone the police.'

'No!' I exclaim, spluttering crumbs all over the table 'I don't want the police! He's never threatened me or anything. In fact, he's not really a stalker at all. He's just a pain I thought if I disappeared for a while…'

'I see,' says Dad, and glances at Mum. 'Well, that makes sense.'

'So what I suggest,' I say, meshing my hands tightly in my lap, 'is that if he rings, you say I've gone abroad and you don't have a number for me. And… if anyone else rings, say the same thing. Even Suze.'

'Are you sure?' says Mum, wrinkling her brow 'Wouldn't it be better to go to the police?'

'No!' I say quickly. 'That would only make him feel important. I just want to vanish for a bit.'

'Fine,' says Dad. 'As far as we're concerned, you're not here'

He reaches across the table and clasps my hand. And as I see the worry on his face, I hate myself for what I'm doing I feel so guilty that, for a moment, I feel I might just burst into tears, and tell them everything, truth hilly.

But… I can't do it. I simply can't tell my kind, loving parents that their so-called successful daughter with her so-called top job is in fact a disorganized, deceitful mess, up to her eyeballs in debt.

And so we have supper (Waitrose Cumberland Pie) and watch an Agatha Christie adaptation together, and then I go upstairs to my old bedroom, put on an old nightie and go to bed. And when I wake up the next morning I feel more happy and well rested than I have for weeks. '

Above all, staring at my old bedroom ceiling, I feel safe. Cocooned from the world; wrapped up in cotton wool. No-one can get me here. No-one even knows I'm here. I won't get any nasty letters and I won't get any nasty phone calls and I won't get any nasty visitors. It's like a sanctuary. All responsibility has been lifted from my shoulders. I feel as if I'm fifteen again, with nothing to worry about but my homework. (And I haven't even got any of that.)

It's at least nine o'clock before I rouse myself and get out of bed, and as I do so, it occurs to me that miles away in London, Derek Smeath is expecting me to arrive for a meeting in half an hour. A slight twinge passes through my stomach and for a moment I consider phoning up the bank and giving some excuse. But even as I'm considering it, I know I'm not going to do it. I don't even want to acknowledge the bank's existence. I want to forget all about it.