The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

There's silence, during which Janice and Martin glance at each other and I hunch my shoulders, loathing myself. Inside, I can hear the phone ringing, and footsteps as someone goes to answer it.

'I see,' says Martin eventually. 'Well… not to worry. These things happen.'

'Don't blame yourself, Becky,' says Janice kindly. 'It was our decision to switch funds, not yours.'

'And remember, you've been under a lot of pressure yourself recently,' adds Martin, putting a sympathetic hand on my arm. 'What with this dreadful stalking business.'

Now I really think I'm going to cry. I don't deserve these people's kindness. I've just lost them ?20,000, through being too bloody lazy to keep up with events I'm supposed to know about. I'm a financial journalist, for God's sake.

And suddenly, standing there in my parents' garden, I'm plunged to the lowest ebb of my life. What have I got going for me? Nothing. Not one thing. I can't control my money, I can't do my job and I haven't got a boyfriend. I've hurt my best friend, I've lied to my parents – and now I've mined my neighbours. I should just give up and go to a Buddhist monastery or something.

'Becky?'

My father's voice interrupts us all, and I look up in surprise. He's striding across the lawn towards us, a perturbed look on his face.

'Becky, don't be alarmed,' he says, 'but I've just had that Derek Smeath chap on the phone.'

'What?' I say, feeling my face drain in horror.

'The stalker?' exclaims Janice, and Dad gives a sober nod.

'Quite an unpleasant fellow, I would say. He was really quite aggressive towards me.'

'But how does he know Becky's here?' says Janice.

'Obviously just taking pot luck,' says Dad. 'I was very civil, simply told him you weren't here and that I had no idea where you were.'

'And… and what did he say?' I say in a strangled voice.

'Came out with some nonsense about a meeting you'd set up with him.' Dad shakes his head. 'The chap's obviously deluded.'

'You should change your number,' advises Martin. 'Go ex-directory.'

'But where was he phoning from?' says Janice, her voice rising in alarm. 'He could be anywhere!' She starts looking agitatedly around the garden as though expecting him to jump out from behind a bush.

'Exactly,' says Dad. 'So, Becky, I think maybe you should come inside now. You never know with these characters.'

'OK,' I say numbly. I can't quite believe this is happening. I look at Dad's kind, concerned face and suddenly feel like crumpling into tears. Oh why didn't I tell him and Mum the truth? Why did I let myself get into this situation?

'You look quite shaken up, dear,' says Janice, and pats rne on the shoulder. 'You go and have a nice cup of tea.'

'Yes,' I say. 'Yes, I think I will.'

And Dad leads me off gently towards the house, as though I'm some kind of invalid.

This is all getting out of hand. Now, not only do I feel like an utter failure, I don't feel safe any more either. I don't feel cocooned and secure; I feel exposed and edgy. I sit on the sofa next to Mum, drinking tea and watching Countdown, and every time there's a sound outside, I jump with nerves.

What if Derek Smeath's on his way here? How long would it take him to drive here from London? An hour and a half? Two, if the traffic's bad?

He wouldn't do that. He's a busy man.

But he might.

Or send the bailiffs round. Oh God. Threatening men in leather jackets. My stomach is squeezed tight with fear. I'm begi

As the advert break begins, Mum reaches for a catalogue full of gardening things. 'Look at this lovely birdbath,' she says. 'I'm going to get one for the garden.'

'Great,' I mutter, unable to concentrate.

'They've got some super windowboxes, too,' she says. 'You could do with some nice windowboxes in your flat.'

'Yes,' I say. 'Maybe.'

'Shall I put you down for a couple? They're not expensive.'

'No, it's OK.'

'You can pay by cheque, or VISA…' she says, flipping over the page.

'No, really, Mum,' I say, my voice sharpening slightly.

'You could just phone up with your VISA card, and have them delivered-'

'Mum, stop it!' I cry. 'I don't want them, OK?'

Mum gives me a surprised, slightly reproving look, and turns to the next page of her catalogue. And I gaze back at her, full of a choking panic. My VISA card doesn't work. My Switch card doesn't work. Nothing works. And she has no idea.

Don't think about it. Don't think about it. I grab for an ancient copy of the Radio Times on the coffee table, and begin to leaf through it blindly.

'It's a shame about poor Martin and Janice, isn't it?' says Mum, looking up. 'Fancy switching funds two weeks before the takeover! Such bad luck!'

'I know,' I mumble, staring down at a page of listings.

I don't want to be reminded about Martin and Janice.

'It seems a terrible coincidence,' says Mum, shaking her head. 'That the company should launch this new fund just before the takeover. You know, there must be a lot of people who did exactly what Martin and Janice did, who have lost out. Dreadful, really.' She looks at the television. 'Oh look, it's starting again.'

The cheery Countdown music begins to play, and a round of applause rattles noisily from the television. But I'm not listening to it, or even paying any attention to the vowels and consonants. I'm thinking about what Mum has just said. A terrible coincidence – but it wasn't exactly a coincidence, was it? The bank actually wrote to Janice and Martin, suggesting that they switch funds. They even offered an incentive, didn't they? A carriage clock.

Why did they do that?

Suddenly I feel alert. I want to see the letter from Flagstaff Life – and find out exactly how long before the takeover they sent it.

'"ENDING",' says Mum, staring at the screen. 'That's six. Ooh, there's an S. Can you have "ENDINGS"?'

'I'm just… popping next door,' I say, getting to my feet. 'I won't be a minute.'

As Martin opens the front door, I see that he and Janice have also been sitting in front of the telly, watching Countdown.

'Hi,' I say sheepishly. 'I was just wondering – could we have a quick chat?'

'Of course!' says Martin. 'Come on in! Would you like a sherry?'

'Oh,' I say, a little taken aback. I mean, not that I'm against drinking, obviously – but it isn't even five o'clock yet. 'Well – OK then.'

'Never too early for a sherry!' says Martin.

'I'll have another one, thanks, Martin,' comes Janice's' voice from the sitting room.

Blow me down. They're a pair of alcoholics!

Oh God, perhaps this is my fault too. Perhaps their financial mishap has driven them to seek solace in alcohol and daytime television.

'I was just wondering,' I say nervously as Martin pours dark brown sherry into a schooner. 'Just out of interest, could I have a look at that letter you got from Flagstaff Life, asking you to switch funds? I was wondering when they sent it.'

'It arrived the very day we saw you,' says Martin. 'Why do you want to see it?' He raises his glass. 'Your good health.'

'Cheers,' I say, and take a sip. 'I'm just wondering-'

'Come into the living room,' he interrupts, and ushers me through from the hall. 'Here you are, my love,' he adds, and gives Janice her sherry. 'Bottoms up!'

'Sssh,' she replies. 'It's the numbers game! I need to concentrate.'

'I thought I might do a little investigation into this,' I whisper to Martin as the Countdown clock ticks round. 'I feel so bad about it.'

'Fifty times 4 is 200,' says Janice suddenly. 'Six minus 3 is 3, times 7 is 21 and add it on.'

'Well done, love!' says Martin, and roots about in a carved oak sideboard. 'Here's the letter,' he says. 'So do you want to write an article or something?'