I shut my door behind me, and pull the bags out of their packaging. Right. This should be nice and easy. Just stuff them full, and suck out the air. Ten sweaters per bag, it says — but frankly, who’s going to count?

I start to stuff clothes into the first bag, until it’s as tightly packed as I can get it. Panting with effort, I close the plastic zip — then attach the hoover nozzle to the hole. And I don’t believe this. It works. It works! Before my eyes, my clothes are shrinking away into nothing!

Oh, this is fantastic. This is going to revolutionize my life! Why on earth declutter when you can just shrink-wrap?

There are eight bags in all — and when they’re all full, I cram them all into my wardrobe and close the door. It’s a bit of a tight squash — and I can hear a bit of a hissing sound as I force the door shut — but the point is, they’re in. They’re contained.

And just look at my room now! It’s incredible! OK, it’s not exactly immaculate — but it’s so much better than it was before. I quickly shove a few stray items under my duvet, arrange some cushions on top, and stand back. As I look around, I feel all warm and proud of myself. I’ve never seen my room look so good before. And Suze is right — I do feel different, somehow.

You know, maybe feng shui’s got something to it after all. Maybe this is the turning point. My life will be transformed from now on.

I take one final admiring look at it, then call out of the door, “I’m done!”

As Suze comes to the door I perch smugly on the bed and beam at her astounded expression.

“Bex, this is fantastic!” she says, peering disbelievingly around the cleared space. “And you’re so quick! It took me ages to sort all my stuff out!”

“Well, you know.” I shrug nonchalantly. “Once I decide to do something, I do it.”

She takes a few steps in, and looks in astonishment at my dressing table.

“I never knew that dressing table had a marble top!”

“I know!” I say proudly. “It’s quite nice, isn’t it?”

“But where’s all the rubbish? Where are the bin bags?”

“They’re… I’ve already got rid of them.”

“So did you chuck loads out?” she says, wandering over to the almost-empty mantelpiece. “You must have done!”

“A… a fair amount,” I say evasively. “You know. I was quite ruthless in the end.”

“I’m so impressed!” She pauses in front of the wardrobe, and I stare at her, suddenly nervous.

Don’t open it, I pray silently. Just don’t open it.

“Have you got anything left?” she says, with a grin, and pulls open the door of the wardrobe. And we both scream.

It’s like a nail-bomb explosion.

Except, instead of nails, it’s clothes.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I did wrong. But one of the bags bursts open, showering jumpers everywhere, and pushing all the other bags out. Then another one bursts open, and another one. It’s a clothes storm. Suze is completely covered in stretchy tops. A sequinned skirt lands on the light shade. A bra shoots across the room and hits the window. Suze is half-shrieking and half-laughing, and I’m flapping my arms madly and yelling, “Stop! Stop!”

And oh no.

Oh no. Please stop. Please.

But it’s too late. Now a cascade of gift-shop carrier bags is tumbling down from their hiding place on the top shelf. One after another, out into the daylight. They’re hitting Suze on the head, landing on the floor, and spilling open — and revealing the same contents in each. Gray sparkly boxes with a silver S C-S scrawled on the front.

About forty of them.

“What…” Suze pulls a T-shirt off her head and stares at them, open-mouthed. “Where on earth did you…” She scrabbles among the clothes littering the floor, picks up one of the boxes, and pulls it open and stares in silence. There, wrapped in turquoise tissue paper, is a photo frame made out of tan leather.

Oh God. Oh God.

Without saying anything, Suze bends down and picks up a Gifts and Goodies carrier bag. As she pulls it open, a receipt flutters to the floor. Silently she takes out the two boxes inside — and opens each to reveal a frame made of purple tweed.

I open my mouth to speak — but nothing comes out. For a moment we just stare at each other.

“Bex… how many of these have you got?” says Suze at last, in a slightly strangled voice.

“Um… not many!” I say, feeling my face grow hot. “Just… you know. A few.”

“There must be about… fifty here!”

“No!”

“Yes!” She looks around, cheeks growing pink with distress. “Bex, these are really expensive.”

“I haven’t bought that many!” I give a distracting laugh. “And I didn’t buy them all at once…”

“You shouldn’t have bought any! I told you, I’d make you one!”

“I know,” I say a little awkwardly. “I know you did. But I wanted to buy one. I just wanted to… to support you.”

There’s silence as Suze reaches for another Gifts and Goodies bag, and looks at the two boxes inside.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she says suddenly. “You’re the reason I’ve sold so well.”

“It’s not! Honestly, Suze—”

“You’ve spent all your money on buying my frames.” Her voice starts to wobble. “All your money. And now you’re in debt.”

“I haven’t!”

“If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have my deal!”

“You would!” I say in dismay. “Of course you would! Suze, you make the best frames in the world! I mean… look at this one!” I grab for the nearest box and pull out a frame made out of distressed denim. “I would have bought this even if I hadn’t known you. I would have bought all of them!”

“You wouldn’t have bought this many,” she gulps. “You would have bought maybe… three.”

“I would have bought them all! They’re the best frames in the world! They’d make a perfect present, or a… an ornament for the house…”

“You’re just saying that,” she says tearfully.

“No, I’m not!” I say, feeling tears coming to my own eyes. “Suze, everybody loves your frames. I’ve seen people in shops saying how brilliant they are!”

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have! There was this woman admiring one in Gifts and Goodies, just the other day, and everyone in the shop was agreeing!”

“Really?” says Suze in a small voice.

“Yes. You’re so talented, and successful…” I look around my bomb-site room, and feel a sudden wave of despair. “And I’m such a mess. John Gavin’s right, I should have assets by now. I should be all sorted out. I’m just… worthless.” Tears start to trickle down my face.

“You’re not!” says Suze in horror. “You’re not worthless!”

“I am!” Miserably, I sink to the carpet of clothes on the floor. “Suze, just look at me. I’m unemployed, I haven’t got any prospects, I’m being taken to court, I owe thousands and thousands of pounds, and I don’t know how I’m even going to start paying it all off…”

There’s an awkward cough at the door. I look up, and Tarquin is standing at the door, holding three mugs of coffee.

“Refreshments?” he says, picking his way across the floor.

“Thanks, Tarquin,” I say, sniffing, and take a mug from him. “Sorry about all this. It’s just… not a great time.”

He sits down on the bed and exchanges looks with Suze.

“Bit short of cash?” he says.

“Yes,” I gulp, and wipe my eyes. “Yes, I am.” Tarquin gives Suze another glance.

“Becky, I’d be only too happy to—”

“No. No, thanks.” I smile at him. “Really.”

There’s silence as we all sip our coffee. A shaft of winter sunlight is coming through the window, and I close my eyes, feeling the soothing warmth on my face.

“Happens to the best of us,” says Tarquin sympathetically. “Mad Uncle Monty was always going bust, wasn’t he, Suze?”

“God, that’s right! All the time!” says Suze. “But he always bounced back, didn’t he?”

“Absolutely!” says Tarquin. “Over and over again.”

“What did he do?” I say, looking up with a spark of interest.

“Usually sold off a Rembrandt,” says Tarquin. “Or a Stubbs. Something like that.”

Great. What is it about these millionaires? I mean, even Suze, who I love. They just don’t get it. They don’t know what it’s like to have no money.

“Right,” I say, trying to smile. “Well… unfortunately, I don’t have any spare Rembrandts lying around. All I’ve got is… a zillion pairs of black trousers. And some Tshirts.”

“And a fencing outfit,” puts in Suze.

Next door, the phone starts ringing, but none of us move.

“And a wooden bowl which I hate.” I give a half-giggle, half-sob. “And forty photograph frames.”

“And fifty million pots of lavender honey.”

“And a Vera Wang cocktail dress.” I look around my room, suddenly alert. “And a brand-new Kate Spade bag… and… and a whole wardrobe full of stuff which I’ve never even worn… Suze…” I’m almost too agitated to speak. “Suze…”

“What?”

“Just… just think about it. I haven’t got nothing. I have got assets! I mean, they might have depreciated a little bit…”

“What do you mean?” says Suze puzzledly — then her face lights up. “Ooh, have you got an ISA that you forgot about?”

“No! Not an ISA!”

“I don’t understand!” wails Suze. “Bex, what are you talking about?”

And I’m just opening my mouth to answer, when the answer machine clicks on next door, and a gravelly American voice starts speaking, which makes me stiffen and turn my head.

“Hello, Becky? It’s Michael Ellis here. I’ve just arrived in London for a conference, and I was wondering — could we perhaps meet up for a chat?”


It’s so weird to see Michael here in London. In my mind he belongs firmly in New York, in the Four Seasons. Back in that other world. But here he is, large as life, in the River Room at the Savoy, his face creased in a beam. As I sit down at the table he lifts a hand to a waiter.