Free Confessions of a Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella

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