Confessions of a Shopaholic Read Online Free PDF Page B

pull it away quickly before she rips it. This bag is going on the back of my door along with my other prestige carrier bags, to be used in a casual manner when I need to impress. (Thank God they didn’t print special “Sale” bags. I
hate
shops that do that. What’s the point of having a posh bag with “Sale” splashed all over it?)
    Very slowly, I take the dark green box out of the bag, remove the lid, and unfold the tissue paper. Then, almost reverentially, I lift up the scarf. It’s beautiful. It’s even more beautiful here than it was in the shop. I drape it around my neck and grin stupidly at Suze.
    “Oh, Bex,” she murmurs. “It’s gorgeous!”
    For a moment we are both silent. It’s as though we’re communing with a higher being. The god of shopping.
    Then Suze has to go and ruin it all.
    “You can wear it to see James this weekend,” she says.
    “I can’t,” I say almost crossly, taking it off again. “I’m not seeing him.”
    “How come?”
    “I’m not seeing him anymore.” I try to give a nonchalant shrug.
    “Really?” Suze’s eyes widen. “Why not? You didn’t tell me!”
    “I know.” I look away from her eager gaze. “It’s a bit . . . awkward.”
    “Did you chuck him? You hadn’t even shagged him!” Suze’s voice is rising in excitement. She’s desperate to know. But am I desperate to tell? For a moment I consider being discreet. Then I think, oh, what the hell?
    “I know,” I say. “That was the problem.”
    “What do you mean?” Suze leans forward. “Bex, what are you talking about?”
    I take a deep breath and turn to face her.
    “He didn’t want to.”
    “Didn’t fancy you?”
    “No. He—” I close my eyes, barely able to believe this myself. “He doesn’t believe in sex before marriage.”
    “You’re joking.” I open my eyes to see Suze looking at me in horror—as if she’s just heard the worst profanity known to mankind. “You are joking, Becky.” She’s actually pleading with me.
    “I’m not.” I manage a weak smile. “It was a bit embarrassing, actually. I kind of . . . pounced on him, and he had to fight me off.”
    The cringingly awful memory which I had successfully suppressed starts to resurface. I’d met James at a party a few weeks back, and this was the crucial third date. We’d been out for a really nice meal, which he’d insisted on paying for, and had gone back to his place, and had ended up kissing on the sofa.
    Well, what was I
supposed
to think? There he was, there I was—and make no mistake, if his mind was saying no, his body was certainly saying yes, yes, yes. So, being a modern girl, I reached for his trouser zip and began to pull it down. When he reached down and brushed me aside I thought he was playing games, and carried on, even more enthusiastically.
    Thinking back, perhaps it took me longer than it should have to guess that he wasn’t playing ball, so to speak. In fact, he actually had to punch me in the face to get me off him—although he was very apologetic about it afterward.
    Suze is gazing at me incredulously. Then she breaks into gurgles of laughter.
    “He had to fight you off? Bex, you man-eater!”
    “Don’t!” I protest, half laughing, half embarrassed. “He was really sweet about it. He asked, was I prepared to wait for him?”
    “And you said, not bloody likely!”
    “Sort of.” I look away.
    In fact, carried away with the moment, I seem to remember issuing him a bit of a challenge. “Resist me now if you can, James,” I recall saying in a husky voice, gazing at him with what I thought were limpid, sexual eyes. “But you’ll be knocking at my door within the week.”
    Well, it’s been over a week now, and I haven’t heard a peep. Which, if you think about it, is pretty unflattering.
    “But that’s hideous!” Suze is saying. “What about sexual compatibility?”
    “Dunno.” I shrug. “I guess he’s willing to take that gamble.”
    Suze gives a sudden giggle. “Did you get a look