OCTAGON — flair style • vision
Financial Services Department
8th Floor, Tower House
London Road, Winchester SO44 3DR
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood Charge Card Number 7854 4567
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
5 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Thank you for your check for £43.00, received today.
Unfortunately, the check is unsigned. No doubt just an oversight on your part. I am therefore returning it to you and request that you sign it and return to us.
As you are no doubt aware, this payment is already late by eight days.
I look forward to receiving your signed check.
Yours sincerely,
John Hunter
Customer Accounts Manager
ENDWICH BANK
FULHAM BRANCH 3 Fulham Road
London SW6 9JH
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
5 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Thank you for your answer-machine message of Sunday 4 March.
I am sorry to hear that your dog has died.
Nevertheless, I must insist that you make contact with myself or my assistant, Erica Parnell, within the next few days, in order to discuss your situation.
Yours sincerely,
Derek Smeath
Manager
ENDWICH — BECAUSE WE CARE
Six
OK, I THINK FIRMLY the next day. The thing is not to get freaked out by how much I happened to spend yesterday. It’s water under the bridge. The point is, today is the beginning of my new frugal life. From now on, I’m just going to spend absolutely nothing. David E. Barton says you should aim to cut your expenditure by half in the first week, but I reckon I can do much better than that. I mean, not wanting to be rude, but these self-help books are always for people with absolutely zero self-control, aren’t they? And I gave up smoking easily enough. (Except socially, but that doesn’t count.)
I feel quite exhilarated as I make myself a cheese sandwich and wrap it up in tinfoil. I’ve already saved a couple of quid, just by doing that! I haven’t got a flask (must buy one at the weekend), so I can’t take in coffee, but there’s a bottle of Peach Herbal Blast in the fridge so I decide I’ll take that instead. It’ll be healthier, too.
In fact, it makes you wonder why people buy shop-made sandwiches at all. Look how cheap and easy it is to make your own. And it’s the same with curries. David E. Barton says instead of forking out for expensive takeaway meals you should learn how to make your own curries and stir-fries, for a fraction of the cost. So that’s what I’m going to do this weekend, after I’ve been to a museum or maybe just walked along the river, enjoying the scenery.
As I walk along to the tube I feel pure and refreshed. Stern, almost. Look at all these people on the street, scurrying around, thinking about nothing but money. Money, money, money. It’s an obsession. But once you relinquish money altogether, it ceases to have any relevance. Already I feel I’m in a completely different mindset. Less materialistic, more philosophical. More spiritual. As David E. Barton says, we all fail to appreciate each day just how much we already possess. Light, air, freedom, the companionship of friends. . I mean, these are the things that matter, aren’t they?
It’s almost frightening, the transformation that’s already occurred within me. For example, I walk past the magazine kiosk at the tube station and idly glance over, but I don’t feel the slightest desire to buy any of the magazines. Magazines are irrelevant in my new life. (Plus I’ve already read most of them.)
So I get on the tube feeling serene and impervious, like a Buddhist monk. When I get off the tube at the other end, I walk straight past the discount shoe shop without even looking, and straight past Lucio’s, too. No cappuccino today. No muffin. No spending at all — just straight to the office.
It’s quite an easy time of the month for Successful Saving. We’ve only just put the latest issue of the magazine to bed, which basically means we can laze around for a few days doing nothing, before getting our acts together for the next issue. Of course, we’re meant to be starting on research for next month’s article. In fact, I’m supposed to be making phone calls to a list of stockbrokers today, asking for their investment tips for the next six months. But I already know what they’re all going to say. Jon Burrins will go on about the problems with e-commerce stocks, George Steadman will enthuse about some tiny biotechnology company, and Steve Fox will tell me how he wants to get out of the stockbroking game and start an organic farm.
Somehow the whole morning goes by and I haven’t done anything, just changed the screen saver on my computer to three yellow fish and an octopus, and written out an expense claim form. To be honest, I can’t really concentrate on proper work. I suppose I’m too exhilarated by my new pure self. I keep trying to work out how much I’ll have saved by the end of the month and what I’ll be able to afford in Jigsaw.
At lunchtime I take out my sandwich wrapped in foil — and for the first time that day, I feel a bit depressed. The bread’s gone all soggy, and some pickle’s leaked out onto the foil, and it really doesn’t look very appetizing at all. What I crave at that moment is Pret à Manger walnut bread and a chocolate brownie.
Don’t think about it, I instruct myself firmly. Think how much money you’re saving. So somehow I force myself to eat my soggy effort, and swig down some Peach Herbal Blast. When I’ve finished, I throw away my foil, screw the top back on the Peach Herbal Blast bottle, and put it in our tiny office fridge. And that’s about. . five minutes of my lunch break gone.
So what am I supposed to do next? Where am I supposed to go?
I slump miserably at my desk. God, this frugality is hard going. I leaf dispiritedly through a few folders. . then raise my head and stare out of the window, at all the busy Oxford Street shoppers clutching carrier bags. I want to get out there so desperately, I’m actually leaning forward in my chair, like a plant toward the light. I’m craving the bright lights and warm air, the racks of merchandise, even the bleep of the cash registers. But I can’t go. This morning I told myself that I wouldn’t go near the shops all day. I promised myself — and I can’t break my own promise.
Then a brilliant thought occurs to me. I need to get a curry recipe for my homemade takeaway, don’t I? David E. Barton says recipe books are a waste of money. He says you should use the recipes printed on the sides of food packets, or take books out of the library. But I’ve got an even better idea. I’ll go into Smith’s and copy out a curry recipe to make on Saturday night. That way, I can go into a shop, but I don’t need to spend any money. Already I’m scrambling to my feet, reaching for my coat. Shops, here I come!
As I walk into Smith’s I feel my whole body expand in relief. There’s a thrill about walking into a shop — any shop — which you can’t beat. It’s partly the anticipation, partly the buzzy, welcoming atmosphere, partly just the lovely newness of everything. Shiny new magazines, shiny new pencils, shiny new protractors. Not that I’ve needed a protractor since I was eleven — but don’t they look nice, all clean and unscratched in their packets? There’s a new range of leopard-print stationery that I haven’t seen before, and for a moment I’m almost tempted to linger. But instead I force myself to stride on past, down to the back of the shop where the books are stacked.
There’s a whole array of Indian recipe books, and I pick up one at random, flicking over the pages and wondering what sort of recipe I should go for. I hadn’t realized quite how complicated this Indian cookery is. Perhaps I should write down a couple, to be on the safe side.
I look around cautiously and take out my notebook and pen. I’m a bit wary, because I know Smith’s doesn’t like you copying down stuff out of their books. The reason I know this is because Suze once got asked to leave the Smith’s in Victoria. She was copying out a pa
ge of the street atlas, because she’d forgotten hers — and they told her she had to either buy it or leave. (Which doesn’t make any sense, because they let you read the magazines for free, don’t they?)
So anyway, when I’m sure no one’s looking, I start copying out the recipe for “Tiger Prawn Biriani.” I’m halfway through the list of spices when a girl in WHSmith uniform comes round the corner, so I quickly close the book and walk off a little, pretending I’m browsing. When I think I’m safe, I open it again — but before I can write anything down, an old woman in a blue coat says loudly, “Is that any good, dear?”
“What?” I say.
“The book!” She gestures to the recipe book with her umbrella. “I need a present for my daughter-in-law, and she comes from India. So I thought I’d get a nice Indian recipe book. Is that a good one, would you say?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t read it yet.”
“Oh,” she says, and starts to wander off. And I ought to keep my mouth shut and mind my own business — but I just can’t leave it there, I have to clear my throat and say, “Excuse me — but doesn’t she have lots of Indian recipes already?”
“Who, dear?” says the woman, turning round.
“Your daughter-in-law!” Already I’m regretting this. “If she’s Indian, doesn’t she already know how to cook Indian food?”
“Oh,” says the old woman. She seems completely flummoxed. “Well, what should I get, then?”
Oh God.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe a book on. . on something else?”
“That’s a good idea!” she says brightly, and comes toward me. “You show me, dear.”
“Well,” I say, looking helplessly around the racks of books. “What’s she interested in? Does she. . have any particular hobby?”
“She likes the fresh air,” says the woman thoughtfully. “Walking in the countryside.”
“Perfect!” I say in relief. “Why not try the travel section for a walking book?”
I point the woman in the right direction, then hurry off to do my copying. I reach the CD and video section, which is always quite empty, and hide behind a rack of Teletubbies videos. I glance around and check no one’s about, then open the book again. Okay, turn to page 214, “Tiger Prawn Biriani”. . I start copying again, and I’ve just got to the end of the list of spices, when a stern voice says in my ear, “Excuse me?”
I’m so startled, my pen jerks off my notebook and, to my horror, makes a blue line, straight across a photograph of perfectly cooked basmati rice. Quickly I shift my hand, almost covering up the mark, and turn round innocently. A man in a white shirt and a name badge is looking at me disapprovingly.
“This isn’t a public library, you know,” he says.
“I’m just browsing,” I say hurriedly, and make to close the book. But the man’s finger comes out of nowhere and lands on the page before I can get it shut. Slowly he opens the book out again and we both stare at my blue Biro line.
“Browsing is one thing,” says the man sternly. “Defacing shop stock is another.”
“It was an accident!” I say. “You startled me!”
“Hmm,” says the man, and gives me a hard stare. “Were you actually intending to buy this book? Or any book?”
There’s a pause — then, rather shamefacedly, I say, “No.”
“I see,” says the man, tightening his lips. “Well, I’m afraid this matter will have to go to the manager. Obviously, we can’t sell this book now, so it’s our loss. If you could come with me and explain to her exactly what you were doing when the defacement occurred. .”
Is he serious? Isn’t he just going to tell me kindly that it doesn’t matter and would I like a loyalty card? My heart starts to thud in panic. What am I going to do? Obviously, I can’t buy the book, under my new frugal regime. But I don’t want to go and see the manager, either.
“Lynn?” the man’s calling to an assistant at the pen counter. “Could you page Glenys for me, please?”
He really is serious. He’s looking all pleased with himself, as though he’s caught a shoplifter. Can they prosecute you for making Biro marks in books? Maybe it counts as vandalism. I’ll have a criminal record. I won’t ever be able to go to America.
“Look, I’ll buy it, okay?” I say breathlessly. “I’ll buy the bloody book.” I wrench it from the man’s grasp and hurry off to the checkout before he can say anything else.
Standing at the next checkout is the old woman in the blue coat, and she calls triumphantly, “I took your advice! I’ve got her one of those traveling books. I think she’ll really like it!”
“Oh good,” I reply, handing my recipe book over to be scanned.
“It’s called The Rough Guide to India,” says the old woman, showing me the fat blue paperback. “Have you heard of it?”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, yes, but—”
“That’s £24.99, please,” says the girl at my till.
What? I look at the girl in dismay. Twenty-five quid, just for recipes? Why couldn’t I have picked up some cheap paperback? Damn. Damn. Very reluctantly, I take out my credit card and hand it over. Shopping is one thing, being forced into purchases against your will is something else. I mean, I could have bought some nice underwear with that twenty-five quid.
On the other hand, I think as I walk away, that’s quite a lot of new points on my Club Card. The equivalent to. . fifty pence! And now I’ll be able to make loads of delicious, exotic curries and save all that wasted takeaway money. Really, I’ve got to think of this book as an investment.
I don’t want to boast, but apart from that one purchase, I do incredibly well over the next couple of days. The only things I buy are a really nice chrome flask to take coffee into the office. (And some coffee beans and an electric grinder.) And some flowers and champagne for Suze’s birthday.
But I’m allowed to get those, because, as David E. Barton says, you must treasure your friends. He says the simple act of breaking bread with friends is one of the oldest, most essential parts of human life. “Do not stop giving your friends gifts,” he says. “They need not be extravagant — use your creativity and try making them yourself.”
So I’ve bought Suze a half bottle of champagne instead of a whole one — and instead of buying expensive croissants from the patisserie, I’m going to make them out of that special dough you get in tubes.
In the evening we’re going out to Terrazza for supper with Suze’s cousins Fenella and Tarquin — and, to be honest, it might be quite an expensive evening. But that’s OK, because it counts as breaking bread with friends. (Except the bread at Terrazza is sun-dried tomato focaccia and costs £4.50 a basket.)
Fenella and Tarquin arrive at six o’clock, and as soon as she sees them, Suze starts squealing with excitement. I stay in my bedroom and finish my makeup, putting off the moment of having to go out and say hello. I’m not that keen on Fenella and Tarquin. In fact, to be honest with you, I think they’re a bit weird. For a start, they look weird. They’re both very skinny, but in a pale, bony way, and have the same slightly protruding teeth. Fenella does make a bit of an effort with clothes and makeup, and doesn’t look too bad. But Tarquin, frankly, looks just like a stoat. Or a weasel. Some bony little creature, anyway. They do strange things, too. They ride around on a tandem and wear matching jumpers knitted by their old nanny and have this family language which no one else can understand. Like they call sandwiches “witchies.” And a drink is a “titchy” (except if it’s water, which is “Ho”). Take it from me, it gets irritating after a while.
But Suze loves them. She spent all her childhood summers with them in Scotland and she just can’t see that they’re a bit strange. The worst thing is, she starts talking about witchies and titchies when she’s with them.
Still, there’s nothing I can do about it — they’re here now. I finish brushing on my mascara and stand up, looking at my reflection. I’m pretty pleased with what I see. I’m wearing a really simple b
lack top and black trousers — and, tied loosely round my neck, my gorgeous, gorgeous Denny and George scarf. God, that was a good buy. It looks fantastic.
I linger a bit, then resignedly open my bedroom door.
“Hi, Bex!” says Suze, looking up with bright eyes. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of the corridor, ripping open a present, while Fenella and Tarquin stand nearby, looking on. They’re not wearing matching jumpers today, thank God, but Fenella’s wearing a very odd red skirt made out of hairy tweed, and Tarquin’s double-breasted suit looks as if it were tailored during the First World War.
“Hi!” I say, and kiss each of them politely.
“Oh, wow!” cries Suze, as she pulls out a picture in an old gilt frame. “I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” She’s looking from Tarquin to Fenella with shining eyes, and I look at the picture interestedly over her shoulder. But to be honest, I can’t say I’m impressed. For a start it’s really dingy — all sludgy greens and browns — and for another start, it just shows a horse standing still in a field. I mean, couldn’t it have been jumping over a fence or rearing up or something? Or maybe trotting along in Hyde Park, ridden by a girl in one of those lovely Pride and Prejudice dresses.
“Happy Bad Day!” Tarquin and Fenella chime in unison. (That’s another thing. They call birthdays bad days, ever since. . Oh God. It really is too boring to explain.)
“It’s absolutely gorgeous!” I say enthusiastically. “Absolutely beautiful!”
“It is, isn’t it?” says Tarquin earnestly. “Just look at those colors.”
“Mmm, lovely,” I say, nodding.
“And the brushwork. It’s exquisite. We were thrilled when we came across it.”
“It’s a really wonderful picture,” I say. “Makes you want to just. . gallop off over the downs!”
What is this drivel I’m coming out with? Why can’t I just be honest and say I don’t like it?