I love advantage points. Aren’t they a wonderful invention? If you spend enough, you can get really good prizes, like a beauty day at a hotel. Last Christmas I was really canny — I let my points build up until I’d accumulated enough to buy my granny’s Christmas present. What happened in fact was, I’d already built up 1,653 points — and I needed 1,800 to buy her a heated roller set. So I bought myself a great big bottle of Samsara perfume, and that gave me 150 extra points on my card — and then I got the heated roller set absolutely free! The only thing is, I don’t much like Samsara perfume — but I didn’t realize that until I got home. Still, never mind.
The clever way to use advantage points — as with all special offers — is to spot the opportunity and use it, because it may not come your way again. So I grab three pots of moisturizer and buy them. Double advantage points! I mean, it’s just free money, isn’t it?
Then I have to get Suze’s birthday present. I’ve actually already bought her a set of aromatherapy oils — but the other day I saw this gorgeous pink angora cardigan in Benetton, and I know she’d love it. I can always take the aromatherapy oils back or give them to someone for Christmas.
So I go into Benetton and pick up the pink cardigan. I’m about to pay. . when I notice they’ve got it in gray as well. The most perfect, soft, dove-gray angora cardigan, with little pearly buttons.
Oh God. You see, the thing is, I’ve been looking for a nice gray cardigan for ages. Honestly, I have. You can ask Suze, my mum, anybody. And the other thing is, I’m not actually on my new frugal regime yet, am I? I’m just monitoring myself.
David E. Barton says I should act as naturally as possible. So really, I ought to act on my natural impulses and buy it. It would be false not to. It would ruin the whole point.
It only costs forty-five quid. And I can put it on VISA.
Look at it another way — what’s forty-five quid in the grand scheme of things? I mean, it’s nothing, is it?
So I buy it. The most perfect little cardigan in the world. People will call me the Girl in the Gray Cardigan. I’ll be able to live in it. Really, it’s an investment.
After lunch, I have to go and visit Image Store to choose a front-cover picture for the next issue. This is my absolute favorite job — I can’t understand why Philip always offloads it onto someone else. It basically means you get to go and sit drinking coffee all afternoon, looking at rows and rows of transparencies.
Because, of course, we don’t have the editorial budget to create our own front covers. God, no. When I first started out in journalism, I thought I’d be able to go to shoots, and meet models, and have a really glamorous time. But we don’t even have a cameraman. All our sorts of magazines use picture libraries like Image Store, and the same images tend to go round and round. There’s a picture of a roaring tiger that’s been on at least three personal finance covers in the last year. Still, the readers don’t mind, do they? They’re not exactly buying the magazines to look at Kate Moss.
The good thing is that Elly’s editor doesn’t like choosing front covers either — and they use Image Store, too. So we always try to work it that we’ll go together and have a good natter over the pics. Even better, Image Store is all the way over in Notting Hill Gate, so you can legitimately take ages getting there and back. Usually I don’t bother going back to the office. Really, it’s the perfect way to spend a weekday afternoon.
I get there before Elly and mutter, “Becky Bloomwood from Successful Saving,” to the girl at reception, wishing I could say “Becky Bloomwood from Vogue” or “Becky Bloomwood from Wall Street Journal.” Then I sit on a squashy black leather chair, flicking through a catalogue of pictures of glossy happy families, until one of the trendy young men who works there comes and leads me to my own illuminated table.
“I’m Paul,” he says, “and I’ll be looking after you today. Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“Well. .” I say, and pull out my notebook. We had a meeting about the cover yesterday and eventually decided on “Portfolio Management: Getting the Right Balance.” And before your head falls off with boredom, let me just point out that last month, the cover line was “Deposit Accounts: Put to the Test.”
Why can’t we just once put self-tanning creams to the test instead? Oh well.
“I’m looking for pictures of scales,” I say, reading off my list. “Or tightropes, unicycles. .”
“Balancing images,” says Paul. “No problem. Would you like a coffee?”
“Yes, please,” I beam, and relax back in my chair. You see what I mean? It’s so nice here. And I’m being paid to sit in this chair, doing nothing at all.
A few moments later, Elly appears with Paul, and I look at her in surprise. She’s looking really smart, in an aubergine-colored suit and high heels.
“So it’s swimmers, boats, and European images,” says Paul to her.
“That’s it,” says Elly, and sinks into the chair beside me.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Something about floating currencies.”
“Very good,” says Elly. “Actually, it’s ‘Europe: Sink or Swim’?” She says it in an incredibly dramatic voice, and Paul and I both start giggling. When he’s walked away, I look her up and down.
“So how come you’re so smart?”
“I always look smart,” she parries. “You know that.” Paul’s already wheeling trolley-loads of transparencies toward us and she looks over at them. “Are these yours or mine?’
She’s avoiding the subject. What’s going on?
“Have you got an interview?” I say, in a sudden flash of genius. She looks at me, flushes, then pulls a sheet of transparencies out of the trolley.
“Circus acts,” she says. “People juggling. Is that what you wanted?”
“Elly! Have you got an interview? Tell me!”
There’s silence for a while. Elly stares down at the sheet, then looks up.
“Yes,” she says, and bites her lip. “But—”
“That’s fantastic!” I exclaim, and a couple of smooth-looking girls in the corner look up. “Who for?” I say more quietly. “It’s not Cosmo, is it?”
We’re interrupted by Paul, who comes over with a coffee and puts it in front of Elly.
“Swimmers coming up,” he says, then grins and walks off.
“Who’s it for?” I repeat. Elly applies for so many jobs, I lose track.
“It’s Wetherby’s,” she says, and a pink flush creeps over her face.
“Wetherby’s Investments?” She gives a very slight nod, and I frown in bemusement. Why is she applying to Wetherby’s Investments? “Have they got an in-house magazine or something?”
“I’m not applying to be a journalist,” she says in a low voice. “I’m applying to be a fund manager.”
“What?” I say, appalled.
I know friends should be supportive of each other’s life decisions and all that. But I’m sorry, a fund manager?
“I probably won’t even get it,” she says, and looks away. “It’s no big deal.”
“But. .”
I’m speechless. How can Elly even be thinking of becoming a fund manager? Fund managers aren’t real people. They’re the characters we laugh at on press trips.
“It’s just an idea,” she says defensively. “Maybe I want to show Carol I can do something else. You know?”
“So it’s like. . a bargaining tool?” I hazard.
“Yes,” she says, and gives a little shrug. “That’s it. A bargaining tool.”
But she doesn’t sound exactly convinced — and she’s not nearly as chatty as usual during the rest of the afternoon. What’s happened to her? I’m still puzzling over it as I make my way home from Image Store. I walk down to High Street Kensington, cross over the road, and hesitate in front of Marks and Spencer.
The tube is to my right. The shops are to my left.
I must ignore the shops. I must practice frugality, go straight home, and plot my expenditure graph. If I need entertainment, I can watch some nice free television and perhaps make some inexpensive, nutritious soup.
But there’s nothing good on tonight, at least not until EastEnders. And I don’t want soup. I really feel as if I
