I watch in a daze as he picks his way across the cable strewn floor toward the exit, half wishing he would look back.

“Right,” says Zelda, and squeezes my hand. “Let’s get you sorted.”

Extract 8

“I can’t go, Suze,” I say, thrusting the letter down. “I’ve... I’ve got plans that night.”

“But what about poor Tarkie?” says Suze, crestfallen. “He’s so keen on you.”

“I know,” I say, and take a deep breath. “But I’m not keen on him. I’m really sorry, Suze... but that’s the truth. If I could change the way I felt...”

There’s a short silence.

“Oh well,” says Suze at last. “Never mind. You can’t help it.” She disappears into the kitchen and emerges a minute later with two mugs of coffee. “So,” she says, handling me one, “what are you up to tonight? Shall we go out together?”

“Sorry, I can’t,” I say, and clear my throat. “I’ve got a business meeting.”

“Really?” Suze pulls a face. “What a bummer!” She sips at her coffee and leans against the door frame. “Who on earth has business meetings in the evening, anyway?”

“It’s... it’s with Luke Brandon,” I say, trying to sound unconcerned. But it’s no good, I can feel myself starting to blush.

“Luke Brandon?” says Suze puzzledly. “But what–” She stares at me, and her expression slowly changes. “Oh no, Bex! Don’t tell me...”

“It’s just a business meeting,” I say, avoiding her eye. “That’s all. Two businesspeople meeting up and talking about business. In a… in a business situation. That’s all.”

And I hurry off to my room.

Business meeting. Clothes for a business meeting. OK, let’s have a look.

I pull all my outfits out of the wardrobe and lay them on the bed. Blue suit, black suit, pink suit. Hopeless. Pin-striped suit? Hmm. Maybe overdoing it. Cream suit… too weddingy. Green suit . . . isn’t that bad luck or something?

It takes me all afternoon to decide on an outfit. There’s a lot of trying on, and mixing and matching, and suddenly remembering things at the back of my wardrobe. (I must wear those purple jeans sometime.) But eventually I go for simple and straightforward. My nicest black suit (Jigsaw sale, two years ago), a white T-shirt (M&S), and knee-high black suede boots (Dolce & Gabbana, but I told Mum they were from BHS. Which was a mistake, because then she wanted to get some for herself, and I had to pretend they'd all sold out). I put it all on, screw my hair up into a knot, and stare at myself in the mirror.

“Very nice,” says Suze admiringly from the door. “Very sexy.”

“Sexy?” I feel a pang of dismay. “I’m not going for sexy! I’m going for businesslike.”

“Can’t you be both at once?” suggests Suze. “Businesslike and sexy?”

“I… no,” I say after a pause, and look away. “No, I don’t want to.”

I don’t want Luke Brandon to think I’ve dressed up for him, is what I really mean. I don’t want to give him the slightest chance to think I’ve misconstrued what this meeting is about.

“I just want to look as serious and businesslike as possible,” I say, and frown sternly at my reflection.

“I know, then,” says Suze. “You need some accessories. Some businesswoman-type accessories.”

“Like what? A Filofax?”

“Like…” Suze pauses thoughtfully. “OK. Wait there–”

I arrive at the Ritz that evening five minutes after our agreed time of seven-thirty, and as I reach the entrance to the restaurant, I see Luke there already, sitting back looking relaxed and sipping something that looks like a gin and tonic. He’s wearing a different suit from the one he was wearing this morning. I can’t help noticing, and he’s put on a fresh, dark green shin. He actually looks... Well. Quite nice. Quite good-looking.

Not that businessy, in fact.

And, come to think of it, this restaurant isn’t very businessy, either. It’s all chandeliers and gold garlands and soft pink chairs, and the most beautiful painted ceiling, all clouds and flowers. The whole place is sparkling with light, and it looks… Well, actually, the word that springs to mind is romantic.

Oh God. My heart starts thumping with nerves, and I glance quickly at my reflection in a gilded mirror. I’m wearing the black jigsaw suit and white T-shirt and black suede boots as originally planned. But now I also have a crisp copy of the Financial Times under one arm, a pair of tortoiseshell glasses (with clear glass) perched on my head, my clunky executive briefcase in one hand and – Suze’s piece de resistance – an AppleMac laptop in the other.

Maybe I overdid it.

I’m about to back away and see if I can quickly deposit the briefcase in the cloakroom (or, to be honest, just put it down on a chair and walk away), when Luke looks up, sees me, and smiles Damn. So I’m forced to go forward over the plushy carpet, trying to look as relaxed as possible, even though one arm is clamped tightly to my side, to stop the FT from falling on the floor.

“Hello,” says Luke as I arrive at the table. He stands up to greet me, and I realize that I can’t shake his hand, because I’m holding the laptop. Flustered, I plunk my briefcase on the floor, transfer the laptop to the other side – nearly dropping the FT as I do so – and, with as much poise as possible, hold out my hand.

A flicker of amusement passes over Luke’s face and he solemnly shakes it. He gestures to a chair, and watches politely as I put the laptop on the tablecloth, all ready for use.

“That’s an impressive machine,” he says. “Very... high-tech.”

“Yes,” I reply, and give him a brief, cool smile. “I often use it to take notes at business meetings.”

“Ah,” says Luke, nodding. “Very organized of you.”

He’s obviously waiting for me to switch it on, so experimentally I press the return key. This, according to Suze, should make the screen spring to life. But nothing happens.

Casually I press the key again – and still nothing. I jab at it, pretending my finger slipped by accident – and still nothing Shit, this is embarrassing. Why do I ever listen to Suze?

“Is there a problem?” says Luke.

“No!” I say at once, and snap the lid shut. “No, I’ve just– On second thought, I won’t use it today.” I reach into my bag for a notebook. “I’ll jot my notes down in here.”

“Good idea,” says Luke mildly. “Would you like some champagne?”

“Oh,” I say, slightly thrown. “Well... OK.”

But I’m not going to smile, or look pleased or anything. I’m going to stay thoroughly cool and professional. In fact, I'm only going to have one glass, before moving on to still water. I need to keep a clear head, after all.

While the waiter fills my champagne flute, I write down “Meeting between Rebecca Bloomwood and Luke Brandon” in my notebook. I look at it appraisingly, then underline it twice. There. That looks very efficient.

“So,” I say, looking up, and raise my glass. “To business.”

“To business,” echoes Luke, and gives a wry smile. “Assuming I’m still in business, that is...”

“Really?” I say anxiously. “You mean – after what you said on Morning Coffee? Has it gotten you into trouble?”

He nods and I feel a pang of sympathy for him.

I mean, Suze is right – Luke is pretty arrogant. But I actually thought it was really good of him to stick out his neck like that and say publicly what he really thought about Flagstaff Life. And now, if he’s going to be ruined as a result... well, it just seems all wrong.

“Have you lost... everything?” I say quietly, and Luke laughs.

“I wouldn’t go that far. But we’ve had to do an awful lot of explaining to our other clients this afternoon.” He grimaces. “It has to be said, insulting one of your major clients on live television isn’t exactly normal PR practice.”

“Well, I think they should respect you!” I retort. “For actuallу saying what you think! I mean, so few people do that these days. It could he like… your company motto: “We tell the truth.”

I take a gulp of champagne and look up into silence. Luke’s gazing at me, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Rebecca, you have the uncanniest knack of hitting the nail right on the head,” he says at last. “That’s exactly what some of our clients have said. It’s as though we’ve given ourselves a seal of integrity.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling rather pleased with myself. “Well, that’s good. So you’re not ruined.”

“I’m not ruined,” agrees Luke, and gives a little smile. “Just slightly dented.”

Shopaholic Abroad (by Sophie Kinsella)

Extract 1

OK, don’t panic. Don’t panic. It’s simply a question of being organized and staying calm and deciding what exactly I need to take. And then fitting it all neatly into my suitcase. I mean, just how hard can that be?

I step back from my cluttered bed and close my eyes, half hoping that if I wish hard enough, my clothes might magically arrange themselves into a series of neat folded piles. Like in those magazine articles on packing, which tell you how to go on holiday with one cheap sarong and cleverly turn it into six different outfits. (Which I always think is a complete con, because, OK, the sarong costs ten quid, but then they add loads of clothes which cost hundreds, and we’re not supposed to notice.)

But when I open my eyes again, the clutter is all still there. In fact, there seems to be even more of it, as if while my eyes were shut, my clothes have been secretly jumping out of the drawers and running around on my bed. Everywhere I look, all around my room, there are huge great tangled piles of... well... stuff. Shoes, boots, T-shirts, magazines... a Body Shop gift basket that was on sale... a Linguaphone Italian course which I must start... a facial sauna thingy... And, sitting proudly on my dressing table, a fencing mask and sword which I bought yesterday. Only forty quid from a charity shop!

I pick up the sword and experimentally give a little lunge towards my reflection in the mirror. It was a real coincidence, because I’ve been meaning to take up fencing for ages, ever since I read this article about it in the Daily World. Did you know that fencers have better legs than any other sports people? Plus if you’re an expert you can become a stunt double in a film and earn loads of money! So what I’m planning to do is find some fencing lessons nearby, and get really good, which I should think I’ll do quite quickly.

And then – this is my secret little plan – when I’ve got my gold badge, or whatever it is, I’ll write to Catherine Zeta Jones. Because she must need a stunt double, mustn’t she? And why shouldn’t it be me? In fact she’d probably prefer someone British. Maybe she’ll phone back and say she always watches my television appearances on cable, and she’s always wanted to meet me! God, yes. Wouldn’t that be great? We’ll probably really hit it off, and turn out to have the same sense of humour and everything. And then I’ll fly out to her luxury home, and get to meet Michael Douglas and play with the baby. We’ll be all relaxed together like old friends, and some magazine will do a feature on celebrity best friends and have us in it, and maybe they’ll even ask me to be...

‘Hi Bex!’ With a jolt, the happy pictures of me laughing with Michael and Catherine vanish from my head, and my brain snaps into focus. Suze my flat-­mate is wandering into my room, wearing a pair of ancient paisley pyjamas. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks curiously.

‘Nothing!’ I say, hastily putting the fencing sword back. ‘Just... you know. Keep fit.’

‘Oh right,’ she says vaguely. ‘So – how’s the packing going?’ She wanders over to my mantelpiece, picks up a lipstick and begins to apply it. Suze always does this in my room – just wanders about picking things up and looking at them and putting them down again. She says she loves the way you never know what you might find, like in a junk shop. Which I’m fairly sure she means in a nice way.

‘It’s going really well,’ I say. ‘I’m just deciding which suitcase to take.’

‘Ooh,’ says Suze turning round, her mouth half bright pink. ‘What about that little cream one? Or your red holdhall?’

‘I thought maybe this one,’ I say, hauling my new acid green shell case out from under the bed. I bought it at the weekend, and it’s absolutely gorgeous.

‘Wow!’ says Suze, her eyes widening. ‘Bex! That’s fab! Where did you get it?’

‘Fenwicks,’ I say, grinning broadly. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’

‘It’s the coolest case I’ve ever seen!’ says Suze, running her fingers admiringly over it. ‘So... how many suitcases have you got now?’ She glances up at my wardrobe, on which are teetering a brown leather case, a lacquered trunk and three vanity cases.

‘Oh, you know,’ I say, shrugging a little defensively. ‘The normal amount.’

I suppose I have been buying quite a bit of luggage recently. But the thing is, for ages I didn’t have any, just one battered old canvas bag. Then, a few months ago I had an incredible revelation in the middle of Harrods, a bit like St Paul on the road to Mandalay. Luggage. And since then, I’ve been making up for all the lean years.

Besides which, everyone knows good luggage is an investment.

‘I’m just making a cup of tea,’ says Suze. ‘D’you want one?’

‘Ooh, yes please!’ I say. ‘And a KitKat?’ Suze grins.

‘Definitely a KitKat.’

Recently, we had this friend of Suze’s to stay on our sofa – and when he left he gave us this huge box full of a hundred KitKats. Which is such a great thank-you present, but it means all we eat, all day long, is KitKats. Still, as Suze pointed out last night, the quicker we eat them, the quicker they’ll be gone – so in a way, it’s more healthy just to stuff in as many as possible.

Suze ambles out of the room and I turn to my case. Right. Concentrate. Packing. This really shouldn't take long. All I need is a very basic, pared-down capsule wardrobe for a mini-break in Somerset. I’ve even written out a list, which should make things nice and simple.

Jeans: two pairs. Easy. Scruffy and not quite so scruffy.

T-shirts:

Actually, make that three pairs of jeans. I’ve got to take my new Diesel ones, they’re just so cool, even if they are a bit tight. I’ll just wear them for a few hours in the evening or something.

T-shirts:

Oh, and my embroidered cutoffs from Oasis, because I haven’t worn them yet. But they don’t really count because they’re practically shorts. And anyway, jeans hardly take up any room, do they?

OK, that’s probably enough jeans. I can always add some more if I need to.

T-shirts: selection. So let’s see. Plain white, obviously. Grey, ditto. Black cropped, black vest (Calvin Klein), other black vest (Warehouse but actually looks nicer), pink sleeveless, pink sparkly, pink–

I stop, halfway through transferring folded T-shirts into my case. This is stupid. How am I supposed to predict which T-shirts I'm going to want to wear? The whole point about T-shirts is you choose them in the morning according to your mood, like crystals, or aromatherapy oils. Imagine if I woke up in the mood for my ‘Elvis is Groovy’ T-shirt and I didn’t have it with me?

You know, I think I’ll just take them all. I mean, a few T-shirts aren’t going to take up much room, are they? I'll hardly even notice them.

I tip them all into my case and add a couple of cropped bra-tops for luck.

Excellent. This capsule approach is working really well. OK, what’s next?