The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

I honestly feel as though I've run an assault course to get here. In fact I think they should list shopping under cardiovascular activity. My heart never beats as fast as it does when I see a 'reduced by 50 per cent' sign.

I count out the money in tens and twenties and wait, almost shivering as she ducks behind the counter and produces the green box. She slides it into a thick glossy bag with dark green cord handles and hands it to me. I almost want to close my eyes, the feeling is so wonderful.

That moment. That instant when your fingers curl round the handles of a shiny, uncreased bag – and all the gorgeous new things inside it become yours.

What's it like? It's like going hungry for days, then cramming your mouth full of warm buttered toast. It's like waking up and realizing it's the weekend. It's like the better moments of sex. Everything else is blocked out of your mind. It's pure, selfish pleasure.

I walk slowly out of the shop, still in a haze of delight. I've got a De

'Rebecca.' A man's voice interrupts my thoughts. I look up and my stomach gives a lurch of horror. It's Luke Brandon.

Luke Brandon is standing on the street, right in front of me, and he's staring down at my carrier bag. I feel myself growing lustered. What's he doing here on the pavement anyway? Don't people like that have chauffeurs? Shouldn't he be whisking off to some vital reception or something?

'Did you get it all right?' he says, frowning slightly.

'What?'

'Your aunt's present.'

'Oh yes,' I say, and swallow. 'Yes I… I got it.'

'Is that it?' He gestures to the bag and I feel my cheeks flame red.

'Yes,' I say eventually. 'I thought a… a scarf would be nice.'

'Very generous of you. De

'She is,' I say, and clear my throat. 'She's terribly creative and original.'

'I'm sure she is,' said Luke, and pauses. 'What's her name?'

Oh God. I should have run as soon as I saw him, while I had a chance. Now I'm paralysed. I can't think of a single female name.

'Erm…Ermintrude,' I hear myself saying.

'Aunt Ermintrude,' said Luke thoughtfully. 'Well, give her my best wishes.'

He nods at me, and walks off, and I stare after him, trying to work out if he guessed or not.

Three

I walk through the door of our flat, Suze looks up – and the first thing she says is, 'De

'Yes,' I say, gri

'Show me!' says Suze, unwinding herself from the sofa. 'Show-me-show-me-show-me!' She comes over and starts tugging at the strings of the carrier. 'I want to see your new scarf! Show me!'

This is why I love sharing a flat with Suze. Julia, my old flatmate, would have wrinkled her brow and said, 'De

But Suze completely and utterly understands. If anything, she's worse than me.

But then, she can afford to be. Although she's twenty-five, like me, her parents still give her pocket money. It's called an 'allowance' and apparently comes from some family trust – but as far as I can see, it's pocket money. Her parents also bought her a flat in Fulham as a twenty-first birthday present and she's been living in it ever since, half working and half dossing about.

She was in PR for a (very) short while, and that's when I met her, on a press trip to Guernsey. As a matter of fact, she was working for Brandon Communications.

Without being rude – she admits it herself– she was the worst PR girl I've ever come across. She completely forgot which bank she was supposed to be promoting, and started talking enthusiastically about one of their competitors. The man from the bank looked crosser and crosser, while all the journalists pissed themselves laughing. Suze got in big trouble over that. In fact, that's when she decided PR wasn't the career for her. (The other way of putting it is that Luke Brandon gave her the sack as soon as they got back to London. Another reason not to like him.)

But the two of us had a whale of a time sloshing back wine until the early hours, and kept in touch ever since. Then, when Julia suddenly upped and ran off with the professor supervising her PhD (she was a dark horse, that one), Suze suggested I move in with her. I'm sure the rent she charges is too low, but I've never insisted I pay the full market rate, because I couldn't afford it. As market rates go, I'm nearer Elephant and Castle than Fulham on my salary. How can normal people afford to live in such hideously expensive places? I can never fathom it.

'Bex, open it up!' Suze is begging. 'Let me see!' She's grabbing inside the bag with eager long fingers, and I pull it away quickly before she rips it. This bag is going on the back of a door along with my other prestige carrier bags, to be used in a casual ma

Very slowly, I take the dark green box out of the bag, remove the lid and unfold the tissue paper. Then, almost reverentially, I lift up the scarf. It's beautiful. It's even more beautiful here than it was in the shop.

I drape it around my neck and grin stupidly at Suze.

'Oh Bex,' she murmurs. 'It's gorgeous!'

For a moment we are both silent. We’re communing with a higher being: the God of Shopping.

Then Suze has to go and ruin it all.

'You can wear it to see James this weekend,' she says.

'I can't,' I say almost crossly, taking it off again. 'I'm not seeing him.'

'How come?'

'I'm not seeing him any more.' I try to give a nonchalant shrug.

'Really?' Suze's eyes widen. 'Why not? You didn't tell me!'

'I know.' I look away from her eager gaze. 'It's a bit… awkward.'

'Did you chuck him? You hadn't even shagged him!'

Suze's voice is rising in excitement. She's desperate to know. But am I desperate to tell? For a moment I consider being discreet. Then I think, oh what the hell?

'I know,' I say. 'That was the problem.'

'What do you mean?' Suze leans forward. 'Bex, what are you talking about?'

I take a deep breath and turn to face her.

'He didn't want to.'

'Didn't fancy you?'

'No. He…' I close my eyes, barely able to believe this myself. 'He doesn't believe in sex before marriage.'

'You're joking.' I open my eyes to see Suze looking at me in horror – as if she's just heard the worst profanity known to mankind. 'You are joking, Becky.' She's actually pleading with me.

'I'm not.' I manage a weak smile. 'It was a bit embarrassing, actually. I kind of… pounced on him, and he had to fight me off.'

The cringingly awful memory which I had successfully suppressed starts to resurface. I'd met James at a party a few weeks back, and this was the crucial third date. We'd been out for a really nice meal, which he'd insisted on paying for, and had gone back to his place, and had ended up kissing on the sofa.

Well, what was I supposed to think? There he was, there I was – and make no mistake, if his mind was saying no, his body was certainly saying yes, yes, yes.

So, being a modern girl, I reached for his trouser zip and began to pull it down. When he reached down and brushed me aside I thought he was playing games, and carried on, even more enthusiastically than before.

Thinking back, perhaps it took me longer than it should have to twig that he wasn't playing ball, so to speak. In fact, he actually had to punch me in the face to get me off him – although he was very apologetic about it afterwards.