The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

'I know you're a very busy woman, with a lot to do,' comes Luke Brandon's voice, and my head jerks up in shock. There he is, leaning out of the taxi window, his dark eyes crinkled up in a little smile. 'But if you had the odd half-hour to spare – you wouldn't be interested in doing a little shopping, would you?'

This day is unreal. Completely and utterly unreal.

I get into the taxi, put my clunky briefcase on the floor and shoot a nervous look at Luke as I sit down. I'm already slightly regretting this. What if he asks me a question about interest rates? What if he wants to talk about the Bundesbank or American growth prospects? But all he says is, 'Harrods, please,' to the driver.

As we zoom ff, I can't stop a smile coming to my face. This is so cool. I thought I was going to have to go home and be all miserable on my own – and instead, I'm on my way to Harrods, and someone else is paying.

I mean, you can't get more perfect than that.

As we drive along, I look out of the window at the crowded streets. Although it's March, there are still a few SALE signs in the shop windows left over from January, and I find myself peering at the displays, wondering if there are any bargains I might have missed.

We pause outside a branch of Lloyds Bank. I look idly at the window, and at the queue of people inside, and hear myself saying, 'You know what? Banks should run January sales. Everyone else does."

There's silence and I look up, to see a look of amusement on Luke Brandon's face.

'Banks?' he says.

'Why not?' I say defensively. 'They could reduce their charges for a month or something. And so could building societies. Big posters in the windows, "Prices Slashed"…' I think for a moment. 'Or maybe they should have April sales, after the end of the tax year. Investment houses could do it, too. "Fifty per cent off a selected range of funds."'

'A unit trust sale,' says Luke Brandon slowly. 'Reductions on all upfront charges.'

'Exactly,' I say. 'Everyone's a sucker for a sale. Even rich people.'

The taxi moves on again, and I gaze out at a woman in a gorgeous white coat, wondering where she got it. Maybe at Harrods. Maybe I should buy a white coat, too. I'll wear nothing but white, all winter. A snowy white coat and a white fur hat. People will start calling me the Girl in the White Coat.

When I look back again, Luke's writing something down in a little notebook. He looks up and meets my eye for a moment, then says, 'Rebecca, are you serious about leaving journalism?'

'Oh,' I say vaguely. To be honest, I'd forgotten all about leaving journalism. 'I don't know. Maybe.'

'And you really think banking would suit you better?'

'Who knows?' I say, feeling a bit rattled at his tone.

It's all right for him. He doesn't have to worry about his career – he's got his own multimillion-pound company. I've only got my own multimillion-pound overdraft.

'Elly Granger is leaving Investor's Weekly News,' I add. 'She's joining Wetherby's as a fund manager.'

'I heard,' he says. 'But you're nothing like Elly Granger.'

Really? This comment intrigues me. If I'm not like Elly, who am I like, then? Someone really cool like Kristin Scott Thomas, maybe.

'You have imagination,' adds Luke. 'She doesn't.'

Wow! Now I really am gobsmacked. Luke Brandon thinks I have imagination? Gosh. That's good, isn't it.

That's quite flattering, really. You have imagination. Mmm, yes, I like that. Unless…

Hang on. It's not some polite way of saying I'm stupid, is it? Or a liar? Like 'creative accounting'. Perhaps he's trying to say that none of my articles are accurate.

Oh God, now I don't know whether to look pleased or not.

To cover up my embarrassment, I look out of the window. We've stopped at a traffic light, and a very large lady in a pink velour jogging suit is trying to cross the road. She's holding several bags of shopping and a pug dog, and she keeps losing grasp of one or other of them and having to put something down. It's so frustrating, I almost want to leap out and help her. Then, suddenly, she loses her grasp of one of the bags, and drops it on the ground. It falls open – and three huge tubs of ice-cream come out of it and start rolling down the road.

Don't laugh, I instruct myself. Be mature. Don't laugh. I clamp my lips together, but I can't stop a little giggle escaping,

I glance at Luke, and his lips are clamped together, too.

Then the woman starts chasing her ice-cream down the road, pug dog in tow, and that's it. I can't stop myself giggling. And when the pug dog reaches the ice cream before the lady, and starts trying to get the lid off with its teeth, I think I'm going to die laughing. I look over at Luke, and I can't believe it. He's laughing helplessly too, wiping the tears from his eyes. God, I didn't think Luke Brandon ever laughed.

'Oh God,' I manage at last. 'I know you shouldn't laugh at people. But I mean…'

'That dog!' Luke starts laughing again. 'That bloody dog!'

'That outfit!' I give a little shudder as we start to move off again, past the pink woman. She's bending over the ice-cream, her huge pink bottom thrust up in the air. 'I'm sorry, but pink velour jogging suits should be banned from this planet.'

'I couldn't agree more,' says Luke, nodding seriously. 'Pink velour jogging suits are hereby banned. Along with cravats.'

'And Y-fronts,' I say without thinking – then blush pink. How could I mention Y-fronts in front of Luke Brandon? 'And toffee-flavoured popcorn,' I quickly add.

'Right,' says Luke. 'So we're banning pink velour jogging suits, cravats, Y-fronts, toffee-flavoured popcorn…'

'And punters with no change,' comes the taxi driver's voice from the front.

'Fair enough,' says Luke, giving a little shrug. 'Punters with no change.'

'And punters who vomit. They're the worst.'

'OK…'

'And punters who don't know where the fuck they're going.'

Luke and I exchange glances and I begin to giggle again.

'And punters who don't speak the bloody language. Drive you crazy.'

'Right,' says Luke. 'So… most punters, in fact.'

'Don't get me wrong,' says the taxi driver. 'I've got nothing against foreigners…' He pulls up outside Harrods. 'Here we are. Going shopping, are you?'

'That's right,' says Luke, getting out his wallet.

'So – what're you after?'

I look at Luke expectantly. He hasn't told me what we're here to buy. Clothes? A new aftershave? Will I have to keep smelling his cheek? (I wouldn't mind that, actually.) Furniture? Something dull like a new desk?

'Luggage,' he says, and hands a tenner to the driver. 'Keep the change.'

Luggage! Suitcases and holdalls and stuff like that. As I wander round the department, looking at Louis Vuitton suitcases and calfskin bags, I'm quite thrown. Quite shocked by myself. Luggage. Why on earth have I never considered luggage before?

I should explain. For years now, I've kind of operated under an informal shopping cycle. A bit like a farmer's crop rotation system. Except, instead of wheat-maize-barley-fallow, mine pretty much goes clothes-makeup-shoes-clothes. (I don't usually bother with fallow.) Shopping is actually very similar to farming a field. You can't keep buying the same thing – you have to have a bit of variety. Otherwise you get bored and stop enjoying yourself.

And I thought I had as much variety in my shopping life as anybody. I thought I had all the areas covered. To be honest, I was quite blas about it. But look what I've been missing out on, all this time. Look what I've been denying myself. I feel quite shaky as I realize the opportunities I've just been throwing away over the years. Suitcases, weekend bags, monogrammed hat boxes… With weak legs, I wander into a corner and sit down on a carpeted pedestal, next to a red leather vanity case.