Instead of which, I have unpaid bills stacked up in my dressing table drawer. I have a meeting with my bank manager on Monday morning. I have no idea what I’m going to do. No idea at all.
Miserably I take a sip of coffee and unwrap my little chocolate. I’m not in the mood for chocolate, but I stuff it into my mouth anyway.
The worst thing — the very worst thing of all — is that I was actually starting to quite like Tarquin. Maybe he isn’t God’s gift in the looks department, but he’s very kind, and quite funny, in his own way. And that brooch — it’s really quite sweet.
And the way he didn’t tell Suze what he’d seen me doing. And the way he believed me when I told him I liked dogs and Wagner and bloody violinists in Mozambique. The way he was so completely, utterly unsuspicious.
Now I really am going to start crying.
Roughly I brush at my eyes, drain my cup, and stand up. Out on the street I hesitate, then begin walking briskly again. Maybe the breeze will blow these unbearable thoughts out of my head.
But I stride and stride, and I still feel no better. My head’s aching and my eyes are red and I could really do with a drink or something. Just a little something, to make me feel a bit better. A drink, or a cigarette, or. .
I look up, and I’m in front of Octagon. My favorite shop in the whole world. Three floors of clothes, accessories, furnishings, gifts, coffee shops, juice bars, and a florist which makes you want to buy enough bouquets to fill your house.
I’ve got my purse with me.
Just something small, to cheer me up. A T-shirt or something. Or even some bubble bath. I need to buy myself something. I won’t spend much. I’ll just go in, and. .
I’m already pushing my way through the doors. Oh God, the relief. The warmth, the light. This is where I belong. This is my natural habitat.
Except that even as I’m heading toward the T-shirts, I’m not quite as happy as I should be. I look through the racks, trying to summon the excitement I usually feel at buying myself a little treat — but somehow today I feel a bit empty. Still, I choose a cropped top with a silver star in the middle and put it over my arm, telling myself I feel better already. Then I spot a rack of dressing gowns. I could do with a new dressing gown, as a matter of fact.
As I finger a lovely white waffle robe, I can hear a little voice at the back of my head, like a radio turned down low. Don’t do it. You’re in debt. Don’t do it. You’re in debt.
But quite frankly, what does it matter now? It’s too late to make any difference. I’m already in debt; I might as well be more in debt. Almost savagely, I pull the dressing gown down from the rack and put it over my arm. Then I reach for the matching waffle slippers. No point buying one without the other.
The checkout point is directly to my left, but I ignore it. I’m not done yet. I head for the escalators and go up to the home-furnishing floor. Time for a new duvet set. White, to match my new dressing gown. And a pair of bolster cushions.
Every time I add something to my pile, I feel a little whoosh of pleasure, like a firework going off. And for a moment, everything’s all right. But then, gradually, the light and sparkles disappear, and I’m left with cold dark blackness again. So I look feverishly around for something else. A huge scented candle. A bottle of Jo Malone shower gel. A bag of handmade potpourri. As I add each one, I feel a whoosh — and then blackness. But the whooshes are getting shorter and shorter each time. Why won’t the pleasure stay? Why don’t I feel happier?
“Can I help you?” says a voice, interrupting my thoughts. A young assistant, dressed in the Octagon outfit of white shirt and linen trousers, has come up and is looking at my pile of stuff on the floor. “Would you like me to hold some of these while you continue shopping?”
“Oh,” I say blankly, and look down at the stuff I’ve accumulated. It’s actually quite a lot by now. “No, don’t worry. I’ll just. . I’ll just pay for this lot.”
Somehow, between us, we manage to lug all my shopping across the beechwood floor to the stylish granite checkout point in the middle, and the assistant begins to scan everything through. The bolster cushions have been reduced, which I hadn’t realized, and while she’s checking the exact price, a queue begins to form behind me.
“That’ll be £370.56,” she says eventually, and smiles at me. “How would you like to pay?”
“Erm. . debit card,” I say, and reach for my purse. As she’s swiping it, I eye up my carrier bags and wonder how I’m going to get all this stuff home.
But immediately my thoughts bounce away. I don’t want to think about home. I don’t want to think about Suze, or Tarquin, or last night. Or any of it.
“I’m sorry,” says the girl apologetically, “but there’s something wrong with your card. It won’t authorize the purchase.” She hands it back to me. “Do you have anything else?”
“Oh,” I say, slightly flustered. “Well. . here’s my VISA card.”
How embarrassing. And anyway, what’s wrong with my card? It looks all right to me. I must call the bank about this.
The bank. Meeting tomorrow, with Derek Smeath. Oh God. Quick, think about something else. Look at the floor. Glance about the shop. There’s quite a big line of people now, and I can hear coughing and clearing of throats. Everyone’s waiting for me. As I meet the eye of the woman behind me, I smile awkwardly.
“No,” says the girl. “This one’s no good either.”
“What?” I whip round in shock. How can my VISA card be no good? It’s my VISA card, for God’s sake. Accepted all over the world. What’s going on? It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t make any. .