{"product_id":"confessions-of-a-shopaholic-isbn-9780385335485","title":"Confessions of a Shopaholic","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Party Crasher\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eLove Your Life\u003c\/i\u003e comes “a hilarious tale [with] hijinks worthy of classic \u003ci\u003eI Love Lucy\u003c\/i\u003e episodes . . . too good to pass up” (\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e).\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Sophie Kinsella keeps her finger on the cultural pulse, while leaving me giddy with laughter.”—Jojo Moyes, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Giver of Stars\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Last Letter from Your Lover\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecky Bloomwood has a fabulous flat in London’s trendiest neighborhood, a troupe of glamorous socialite friends, and a closet brimming with the season’s must-haves. The only trouble is, she can’t actually afford it—not any of it. Her job writing at \u003ci\u003eSuccessful Saving\u003c\/i\u003e magazine not only bores her to tears, it doesn’t pay much at all. And lately Becky’s been chased by dismal letters from the bank—letters with large red sums she can’t bear to read. She tries cutting back. But none of her efforts succeeds. Her only consolation is to buy herself something . . . just a little something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinally a story arises that Becky actually \u003ci\u003ecares\u003c\/i\u003e about, and her front-page article catalyzes a chain of events that will transform her life—and the lives of those around her—forever.\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for Sophie Kinsella and \u003ci\u003eConfessions of a Shopaholic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kinsella’s Bloomwood is plucky and funny. . . . You won’t have to shop around to find a more winning protagonist.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If a \u003ci\u003ecrème brûlée\u003c\/i\u003e could be transmogrified into a book, it would be \u003ci\u003eConfessions of a Shopaholic\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Star-Ledger\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A have-your-cake-and-eat-it romp, done with brio and not a syllable of moralizing. . . . Kinsella has a light touch and puckish humor.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for Sophie Kinsella and \u003ci\u003eConfessions of a Shopaholic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A hilarious tale . . . hijinks worthy of classic \u003ci\u003eI Love Lucy \u003c\/i\u003eepisodes . . . too good to pass up.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Kinsella’s Bloomwood is plucky and funny. . . . You won’t have to shop around to find a more winning protagonist.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “If a \u003ci\u003ecrème brûlée \u003c\/i\u003ecould be transmogrified into a book, it would be \u003ci\u003eConfessions of a Shopaholic\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Star-Ledger\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A have-your-cake-and-eat-it romp, done with brio and not a syllable of moralizing. . . . Kinsella has a light touch and puckish humor.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eSophie Kinsella\u003c\/b\u003e was a writer and financial journalist. She was the #1 bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eCan You Keep a Secret?, The Undomestic Goddess, Remember Me?, Twenties Girl, I’ve Got Your Number, Wedding Night, My Not So Perfect Life, Surprise Me, The Burnout, What Does It Feel Like?, \u003c\/i\u003ethe hugely popular Shopaholic novels, and the young adult novel \u003ci\u003eFinding Audrey\u003c\/i\u003e. She passed away in 2025.\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOk. 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?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSort of. Roughly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt'll be about ... £200. Three hundred, maybe. Yes, maybe £300. Three-fifty, max.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI 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 £200, come to think of it. But it was definitely worth every penny — everyone's admired it. Or, at least, Suze has.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd the Jigsaw suit was on sale — 30 percent off. So that was actually saving money.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI open my eyes and reach for the bill. As my fingers hit the paper I remember new contact lenses. Ninety-five pounds. Quite a lot. But, I mean, I had to get those, didn't I? What am I supposed to do, walk around in a blur?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I had to buy some new solutions and a cute case and some hypoallergenic eyeliner. So that takes it up to ... £400?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the desk next to mine, Clare Edwards looks up from her post. She's sorting all her letters into neat piles, just like she does every morning. She puts rubber bands round them and puts labels on them saying things like \"Answer immediately\" and \"Not urgent but respond.\" I loathe Clare Edwards.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"OK, Becky?\" she says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Fine,\" I say lightly. \"Just reading a letter.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI reach gaily into the envelope, but my fingers don't quite pull out the bill. They remain clutched around it while my mind is seized — as it is every month — by my secret dream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDo you want to know about my secret dream? It's based on a story I once read in \u003ci\u003eThe Daily World\u003c\/i\u003e about a mix-up at a bank. I loved this story so much, I cut it out and stuck it onto my wardrobe door. Two credit card bills were sent to the wrong people, and — get this — each person paid the wrong bill without realizing. They paid off each other's bills without even checking them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd ever since I read that story, my secret fantasy has been that the same thing will happen to me. I mean, I know it sounds unlikely — but if it happened once, it can happen again, can't it? Some dotty old woman in Cornwall will be sent my humongous bill and will pay it without even looking at it. And I'll be sent her bill for three tins of cat food at fifty-nine pence each. Which, naturally, I'll pay without question. Fair's fair, after all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA smile is plastered over my face as I gaze out of the window. I'm convinced that this month it'll happen — my secret dream is about to come true. But when I eventually pull the bill out of the envelope — goaded by Clare's curious gaze — my smile falters, then disappears. Something hot is blocking my throat. I think it could be panic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe page is black with type. A series of familiar names rushes past my eyes like a mini shopping mall. I try to take them in, but they're moving too fast. Thorntons, I manage to glimpse. Thorntons Chocolates? What was I doing in Thorntons Chocolates? I'm supposed to be on a diet. This bill can't be right. This can't be me. I can't possibly have spent all this money.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon't panic! I yell internally. The key is not to panic. Just read each entry slowly, one by one. I take a deep breath and force myself to focus calmly, starting at the top.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWHSmith (well, that's OK. Everyone needs stationery.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBoots (everyone needs shampoo)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSpecsavers (essential)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOddbins (bottle of wine — essential)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur Price (Our Price? Oh yes. The new Charlatans album. Well, I had to have that, didn't I?)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBella Pasta (supper with Caitlin)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOddbins (bottle of wine — essential)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEsso (petrol doesn't count)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eQuaglinos (expensive — but it was a one-off)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePret à Manger (that time I ran out of cash)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOddbins (bottle of wine — essential)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRugs to Riches (what? Oh yes. Stupid rug.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLa Senza (sexy underwear for date with James)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAgent Provocateur (even sexier underwear for date with James. Like I needed it.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBody Shop (that skin brusher thing which I must use)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNext (fairly boring white shirt — but it was in the sale)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMillets...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stop in my tracks. Millets? I never go into Millets. What would I be doing in Millets? I stare at the statement in puzzlement, wrinkling my brow and trying to think — and then suddenly, the truth dawns on me. It's obvious. Someone else has been using my card.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh my God. I, Rebecca Bloomwood, have been the victim of a crime.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow it all makes sense. Some criminal's pinched my credit card and forged my signature. Who knows where else they've used it? No wonder my statement's so black with figures! Someone's gone on a spending spree round London with my card — and they thought they would just get away with it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut how? I scrabble in my bag for my purse, open it — and there's my VISA card, staring up at me. I take it out and run my fingers over the glossy surface. Someone must have pinched it from my purse, used it — and then put it back. It must be someone I know. Oh my God. Who?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI look suspiciously round the office. Whoever it is, isn't very bright. Using my card at Millets! It's almost laughable. As if I'd ever shop there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I've never even been into Millets!\" I say aloud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes you have,\" says Clare.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What?\" I turn to her. \"No I haven't.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You bought Michael's leaving present from Millets, didn't you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI feel my smile disappear. Oh, bugger. Of course. The blue anorak for Michael. The blue sodding anorak from Millets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Michael, our deputy editor, left three weeks ago, I volunteered to buy his present. I took the brown envelope full of coins and notes into the shop and picked out an anorak (take it from me, he's that kind of guy). And at the last minute, now I remember, I decided to pay on credit and keep all that handy cash for myself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI can vividly remember fishing out the four £5 notes and carefully putting them in my wallet, sorting out the pound coins and putting them in my coin compartment, and pouring the rest of the change into the bottom of my bag. Oh good, I remember thinking. I won't have to go to the cash machine. I'd thought that sixty quid would last me for weeks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo what happened to it? I can't have just spent sixty quid without realizing it, can I?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Why are you asking, anyway?\" says Clare, and she leans forward. I can see her beady little X-ray eyes gleaming behind her specs. She knows I'm looking at my VISA bill. \"No reason,\" I say, briskly turning to the second page of my statement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I've been put off my stride. Instead of doing what I normally do — look at the minimum payment required and ignore the total completely — I find myself staring straight at the bottom figure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNine hundred and forty-nine pounds, sixty-three pence. In clear black and white.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor thirty seconds I am completely motionless. Then, without changing expression, I stuff the bill back into the envelope. I honestly feel as though this piece of paper has nothing to do with me. Perhaps, if I carelessly let it drop down on the floor behind my computer, it will disappear. The cleaners will sweep it up and I can claim I never got it. They can't charge me for a bill I never received, can they?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm already composing a letter in my head. \"Dear Managing Director of VISA. Your letter has confused me. What bill are you talking about, precisely? I never received any bill from your company. I did not care for your tone and should warn you, I am writing to Anne Robinson of \u003ci\u003eWatchdog\u003c\/i\u003e.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr I could always move abroad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Becky?\" My head jerks up and I see Clare holding this month's news list. \"Have you finished the piece on Lloyds?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nearly,\" I lie. As she's watching me, I feel forced to summon it up on my computer screen, just to show I'm willing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This high-yield, 60-day access account offers tiered rates of interest on investments of over £2,000,\" I type onto the screen, copying directly from a press release in front of me. \"Long-term savers may also be interested in a new stepped-rate bond which requires a minimum of £5,000.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI type a full stop, take a sip of coffee, and turn to the second page of the press release.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is what I do, by the way. I'm a journalist on a financial magazine. I'm paid to tell other people how to organize their money.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course, being a financial journalist is not the career I always wanted. No one who writes about personal finance ever meant to do it. People tell you they \"fell into\" personal finance. They're lying. What they mean is they couldn't get a job writing about anything more interesting. They mean they applied for jobs at \u003ci\u003eThe Times\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Express\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eMarie-Claire\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eVogue\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eGQ\u003c\/i\u003e, and all they got back was \"Piss off.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo they started applying to \u003ci\u003eMetalwork Monthly\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eCheesemakers Gazette\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWhat Investment Plan?\u003c\/i\u003e And they were taken on as the crappiest editorial assistant possible on no money whatsoever and were grateful. And they've stayed on writing about metal, or cheese, or savings, ever since — because that's all they know. I myself started on the catchily titled \u003ci\u003ePersonal Investment Periodical\u003c\/i\u003e. I learned how to copy out a press release and nod at press conferences and ask questions that sounded as though I knew what I was talking about. After a year and a half — believe it or not — I was head-hunted to \u003ci\u003eSuccessful Saving\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course, I still know nothing about finance. People at the bus stop know more about finance than me. Schoolchildren know more than me. I've been doing this job for three years now, and I'm still expecting someone to catch me out.#1 New York Times bestselling author","brand":"Dial Press Trade Paperback","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305116946661,"sku":"NP9780385335485","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780385335485.jpg?v=1767724040","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/confessions-of-a-shopaholic-isbn-9780385335485","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}