How Not To Shop Read online

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Title

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Ninteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Extract Three in a Bed Chapter One

  Also Available The Personal Shopper

  Late Night Shopping

  Secrets at St Jude's

  How Not to Shop Quiz

  Carmen Reid is the bestselling author of, most recently, The Personal Shopper and Late Night Shopping, also starring Annie Valentine.

  She has worked as a newspaper journalist and columnist, but now writes fiction full-time. Carmen also writes a series for teen readers, Secrets at St Judes. She lives in Glasgow, Scotland with her husband and two children.

  For more information on Carmen Reid and her books visit her website at www.carmenreid.com

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Also by Carmen Reid

  THREE IN A BED

  DID THE EARTH MOVE?

  HOW WAS IT FOR YOU?

  Starring Annie Valentine

  UP ALL NIGHT

  THE PERSONAL SHOPPER

  LATE NIGHT SHOPPING

  And for teenage readers

  SECRETS AT ST JUDE'S: NEW GIRL

  SECRETS AT ST JUDE'S: JEALOUS GIRL

  HOW NOT

  TO SHOP

  Carmen Reid

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 9781409093831

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  A Random House Group Company

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  HOW NOT TO SHOP

  A CORGI BOOK: 9780552158855

  First publication in Great Britain

  Corgi edition published 2009

  Copyright © Carmen Reid 2009

  Carmen Reid has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and

  Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case

  of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK

  can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk

  The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009

  ISBN: 9781409093831

  Version 1.0

  HOW NOT TO SHOP

  Chapter One

  Dr Yasmin 'cosmetologist' at work:

  White cotton coat (medical suppliers)

  White gauze mask (same)

  Black and pink silk high-collared dress (Alexander McQueen)

  Pink peep-toe slingback heels (Christian Louboutin)

  Total est. cost: £960

  'And how does that feel now?'

  'Just hold nice and still, this is going to be a little uncomfortable.'

  Annie's heart began to pound. When a straight-backed professional in a pristine white coat, paper mask and latex gloves, carrying a syringe, tells you something's going to be 'a little uncomfortable', you know it's going to hurt like . . .

  'Nice and still,' the outrageously expensive Harley Street 'cosmetologist' repeated as Annie instinctively nudged her face away from the tip of the needle.

  Then yow!! the point was in and she could feel her first ever hit of Botox coursing coolly into the offending frown lines between her eyebrows.

  Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! It hurt. Why had she not been told how much it hurt? And the 'Doctor', though really she was probably just a souped-up dental nurse with a very snazzy client list, was going to do her brow lines next. There was even less skin up there on her forehead. That would really sting.

  Dr Yasmin's assistant pressed a tissue to the side of Annie's face to catch the tears of pain slipping silently from her eyes.

  To take her mind from this horror, Annie let her eyes roll towards the corner of the room, where four large shopping bags were stacked in a fat heap against a chair.

  She hadn't wanted to let those bags out of her sight and now, just stealing a quick glance at them helped to soothe her. Those four bulging carriers represented something very important. Crucial. Fundamental. Those four glossy bags symbolized the end of her old career and the beginning of a whole shiny, brand new phase.

  A veteran of self-improvement, Annie Valentine was about to move on and up in the biggest way imaginable. She had worked in London's most glamorous, most high-end fashion emporium, The Store, for nine whole years and now she was leaving.

  She had been The Store's top, best known and most trusted personal shopper. She had shopped for, styled and made over women from every walk of life. In short, there was nothing about fashion or buying clothes that Annie didn't know. In several swift minutes, Annie could size you up from head to toe and teach you more about what shapes, sizes, colours and styles you should be wearing than all that time spent schlepping hopelessly in and out of changing rooms could possibly have done.

  Working for The Store had transformed her over the years too. The hair in her tight, high ponytail had become increasingly blonde. The slightly too short and slightly too curvy figure had been lifted and lengthened with expensive high heels, ramrod posture and a hefty dose of Lycra in all the right places. Now that she was in her . . . erm . . . late-thirties, she was at Dr Yasmin's because she wasn't going to let some pesky little frown
lines give the game away.

  Annie knew she was leaving more than just a job. Over those nine years, The Store had become her second home. When she'd lost her husband, she'd been able to lose herself in The Store; when she'd struggled to meet the school fees for her two children, her clients from The Store had rallied round to give her extra out-of-hours work. Even the new man in her life, Ed, though he understood not one shred about fashion, understood completely the importance of The Store in Annie's life.

  But she was about to leave! Leave her job and her monthly commission (not to mention her regular bonuses for best saleswoman) and her hugely tempting staff discount (the kind of discount which meant there were labels she could previously only have dreamed about hanging in her wardrobe) and the staff who had become best friends.

  Annie was about to walk away from it all because she had been offered the perhaps once in a lifetime chance to become a real, live TV STAR. Oh yes! She still had to pinch herself to believe it.

  After two auditions and a screen test, finally, the call had come. Now Annie and her ridiculously wealthy client-turned-friend, Svetlana Wisneski, were going to be the makeover gurus on a new Channel Five show, Wonder Women.

  Well, OK, to be honest, Annie wasn't wildly enthusiastic about the series name either, but maybe there was still time for a rethink.

  The shopping bags in the corner of Dr Yasmin's office contained the framework of the TV presenter wardrobe Annie had bought for herself today in a six-hour non-stop retail session.

  Inside the bags – two from The Store, one from Prada and one from H&M – was the culmination of nine years of shopping expertise.

  In expectation of the money she was about to earn, Annie had allowed herself to buy several amazing treasures, like the complicated ankle boots from the best shoemaker in London and the jewelled leather long-lace sandals by inimitable Miu Miu.

  Then there were slightly more practical items: scoop-necked tops, beads and bracelets from H&M, a pair of vibrant, stretchy dresses by her favourite American designer and two architectural, nipped-in (whisper it, Westwood) jackets.

  She'd also chosen sling-backed, red patent pumps for walking briskly from shop to shop with the women she'd be making over, and an extravagant bright blue, creamily soft, Chloé silk shirt.

  But the most wonderful purchase of all was the Prada skirt wrapped up in layers of tissue paper as carefully as a museum exhibit. The kind of skirt that you didn't get your hands on just by turning up at the Prada shop and hoping for the best. No way. She'd been on the waiting list for that pleated, crinkled, dip-dyed fashion masterpiece for seven weeks, knowing full well it would fly out of the doors without ever hitting a hanger.

  Everything she'd bought was vibrant and colourful because she knew television drank in colour and she suspected that the women she'd be making over would be dressed in the dowdy, sludgy colours of the unconfident or fashion-inexperienced.

  The shopping trip had cost . . . well . . . including the Jimmy Choo ankle boots . . . Oh. My. Lord. Just over £4,000. Then the Botox with snazzy Dr Yaz, another £600. Ouch.

  Ed had warned her. He'd told her not to get too carried away with the TV presenter preparations until she knew exactly how much money she was going to be paid and exactly how long the job would go on for. But it had been hard not to get very, very excited. Channel Five! And had the producer, Donnie ('call me Finn') Finnigan, not told her over and over again how much 'potential' he could 'sense' in Wonder Women? Had he not bandied about phrases like 'bigger than Trinny and Susannah' and 'Look out, Gok Wan'?

  Filming was due to start in just a few weeks, so really she had to have something to wear! Finn was just waiting to 'hear the final details' of 'the commission' and he'd promised to get back to Svetlana and Annie this afternoon. So, just as soon as Dr Yaz had finished with her instruments of torture, Annie was going to meet Svetlana, so that they could be together when the news arrived.

  'Come to my house,' Svetlana had drawled on the phone in her rich and melodious Ukraine-beauty-meets-serious-Mayfair-millions accent.

  'Your house?' Annie had echoed with surprise. Although Svetlana had rarely bought so much as a belt without Annie's advice for about six years, this was Annie's first ever invitation to Svetlana's four-storey, prime Belgravia Divorce Settlement.

  But they would be working together now. Annie was no longer a member of Svetlana's service personnel: she was on the verge of becoming her colleague, her slightly more equal – her friend, even? It was interesting new territory. At least in the old roles, they'd both known exactly where they were: Svetlana, the ex-wife of two multimillionaires and one billionaire, and Annie her trusted personal shopper . . . in London. Obviously there was another personal shopper in Paris, one in New York and one a little under-used in Moscow. ('Just for fur, she know nothing, bumpkin from Siberia.')

  'And how does that feel now?' Dr Yasmin asked cheerfully.

  Although the real answer was: Like you're sticking a long, sharp needle into my forehead! Annie managed a more polite, 'Just fine,' as the assistant continued to dab at her trickling tears.

  Ed would never approve of what she was doing here. Very sweetly, he always told her he loved her just the way she was. Although, honestly he had no idea. She shuddered to think what she would really look like if she stopped waxing, plucking, highlighting, manicuring, applying make-up and dressing with care and concentration.

  If he ever found out about the Botox and the shopping spree, he'd have one of his rare, but nevertheless unpleasant, freak-outs. But there was no need for him to find out, was there? She kept her own severely tested credit cards well away from his gaze and stored the bills carefully on-line. Plus, apparently men never, ever noticed when you'd had Botox. This was something she was doing, on Svetlana's recommendation, for the searching gaze of the small screen.

  At last, the syringeing was over and Annie was allowed to sit up and survey the results in the mirror.

  'Now, it may look a little puffy or bruised over the next few days and I always warn my clients . . .' the doctor began.

  Oh no, she was going to do the warning bit again and Annie had tried so hard to blank it out the first time: partial paralysis, cardiac arrest, stroke, blah, blah . . .

  But no, the doctor had new information. 'It may be hard to express anger, shock or intense emotion. You may have to tell people how you are feeling,' she said.

  'Right.' Annie nodded, looking fixedly at her forehead. The lines had gone! Totally gone! Erased! This was amazing! She was coming back here every three months just as soon as her TV salary was hot in her hands. The doctor had performed nothing short of a miracle.

  'That is brilliant, thank you!' she exclaimed, trying to give the doctor a delighted smile, but feeling a dull tug from the top of her head as her forehead tried, but failed, to move with her expression.

  'That feels strange,' she added.

  'Yes, it takes a little time, but you get used to it.'

  Dr Yasmin removed her paper mask and gave a careful, lower face only smile which Annie at once understood.

  When she was back in reception paying her hefty bill, Annie's mobile began to buzz. She checked the screen as she picked it up, wondering if it was her daughter Lana, 16, making an after-school phone call because she'd run out of pocket money, or her son, Owen, 12, making an after-school phone call because he'd run out of food.

  No. It was Ed.

  Annie answered, then wished she hadn't, slightly panicked that somehow he would be able to tell over the phone that she'd spent close to five grand on her ever-expanding wardrobe and her newly flattened face.

  'Annie?' Ed asked.

  'Hello, babes!' she replied. 'Good day at school?'

  Ed taught at her children's school. Despite her previous conviction that she would never, ever find another good man no matter where in the world she looked, as it happened, she'd not had to look far. She'd just had to look closely, many, many times, before she'd finally spotted him.

  'Fine,' he rep
lied.