Confessions of a Shopaholic [antikvár]

One Ok. don't panic. Don't panic. It's only a VISA bill. It's a piece of paper; a few numbers. I mean, just how scary can a few numbers be? I stare out of the office window at a bus driving down Oxford Street, willing myself to open the white envelope sitting on my cluttered desk. It's only a piece of paper, I tell myself for the thousandth time. And I'm not stupid, am I? I know exactly how much this VISA bill will be. Sort of. Roughly. It'll be about . . . L200. Three hundred, maybe. Yes, maybe L300. Three-fifty, max. I casually close my eyes and start to tot up. There was that suit in Jigsaw. And there was dinner with Suze at Quaglinos. And there was that gorgeous red and yellow rug. The rug was L200, come to think of it. But it was definitely worth every penny— everyone's admired it. Or, at least, Suze has. And the Jigsaw suit was on sale—30 percent off. So that was actually saving money I open my eyes and reach for the bill. As my fingers hit the paper I remember new contact lenses. Ninety-five pounds. Quite