Fan Fictions


Fan Fictions
Fan Fictions

Confessions of a Shopaholic part 3 pg8 (Page 6)

EtherealRati IF-Stunnerz

Joined: 11 April 2009
Posts: 31731

Posted: 13 March 2010 at 9:36am | IP Logged
you did a great job................
i am loving continue soon.........
thanks for the pm.................Big smile

The following 1 member(s) liked the above post:


topsyturvy23 IF-Dazzler

Joined: 31 July 2009
Posts: 3623

Posted: 14 March 2010 at 10:26am | IP Logged
Originally posted by simi2

Originally posted by topsyturvy23

hey , kya hua yaar ,
you are not well , why , what happenned , hmm
please please take care of yourself and noo need to strress with updates , we can surely wait for them , pleae you take complete rest of
love you lots

hey thanks simi for good wishes
i am updating 2nd part
i hope u enjoy  it

The following 1 member(s) liked the above post:


topsyturvy23 IF-Dazzler

Joined: 31 July 2009
Posts: 3623

Posted: 14 March 2010 at 10:26am | IP Logged
Originally posted by nehara

hey ...
get well soon....

thanks for ur good wishes i am fine now
topsyturvy23 IF-Dazzler

Joined: 31 July 2009
Posts: 3623

Posted: 14 March 2010 at 10:27am | IP Logged
Originally posted by premeer928

awesome update...Clap is prem going to be in the continue soon...and thanks for the PM...Smile and dont worry about updating...take rest and get well soon...Hug


topsyturvy23 IF-Dazzler

Joined: 31 July 2009
Posts: 3623

Posted: 14 March 2010 at 10:27am | IP Logged
Originally posted by surbhi123

you did a great job................
i am loving continue soon.........
thanks for the pm.................Big smile

topsyturvy23 IF-Dazzler

Joined: 31 July 2009
Posts: 3623

Posted: 14 March 2010 at 10:29am | IP Logged
here is 2nd part. hope u guys enjoy it


THERE'S JUST ONE essential purchase I have to make on the way to the press conference'and

that's theFinancial Times. TheFT is by far the best accessory a girl can have. Its major advantages are:

1. It's a nice color.

2. It only costs eighty-five pence.

3. If you walk into a room with it tucked under your arm, people take you seriously. With anFT

under your arm, you can talk about the most frivolous things in the world, and instead of thinking

you're an airhead, people think you're a heavyweight intellectual who has broader interests, too.

At my interview forSuccessful Saving , I went in holding copies of theFinancial Times and the

Investor's Chronicle 'and I didn't get asked about finance once. As I remember it, we spent the

whole time talking about holiday villas and gossiping about other editors.

So I stop at a newsstand and buy a copy of theFT . There's some huge headline about Rutland Bank on

the front page, andI'm thinking maybe I should at least skim it, when I catch my reflection in the window

of Denny and George.

I don't look bad, I think. I'm wearing my black skirt from French Connection, and a plain white T-shirt

from Knickerbox, and a little angora cardigan which I got from M&S but looks like it might be Agns b.

And my new square-toed shoes from Hobbs. Even better, although no one can see them, I know that


I'm wearing my gorgeous new matching knickers and bra with embroidered yellow

rosebuds. They're the best bit of my entire

outfit. In fact, I almost wish I could be run over so that the

world would see them.

It's a habit of mine, itemizing all the clothes I'm wearing, as though for a fashion page. I've been doing it

for years'ever since I used to readJust Seventeen. Every issue, they'd stop a girl on the street, take a

picture of her, and list all her clothes. "T-Shirt: Chelsea Girl, Jeans: Top Shop, Shoes: borrowed from

friend." I used to read those lists avidly, and to this day, if I buy something from a shop that's a bit

uncool, I cut the label out. So that if I'm ever stopped in the street, I can pretend I don't know where it's


So anyway. There I am, with theFT tucked under my arm, thinking I look pretty good, and half wishing

someone fromJust Seventeen would pop up with a camera'when suddenly my eyes focus and snap to

attention, and my heart stops. In the window of Denny and George is a discreet sign. It's dark green with

cream lettering, and it says: SALE.

I stare at it, and my skin's all prickly. It can't be true. Denny and George can't be having a sale. They never have a sale. Their scarves and pashminas are so coveted, they could probably sell them at twice

the price. Everyone I know in the entire world aspires to owning a Denny and George scarf. (Except my

mum and dad, obviously. My mum thinks if you can't buy it at Bentalls of Kingston, you don't need it.)

I swallow, take a couple of steps forward, then push open the door of the tiny shop. The door pings, and

the nice blond girl who works there looks up. I don't know her name but I've always liked her. Unlike

some snotty cows in clothes shops, she doesn't mind if you stand for ages staring at clothes you really

can't afford to buy. Usually what happens is, I spend half an hour lusting after scarves in Denny and

George, then go off to Accessorize and buy something to cheer myself up. I've got a whole drawerful of

Denny and George substitutes.

"Hi," I say, trying to stay calm. "You're . . . you're having a sale."

"Yes." The blond girl smiles. "Bit unusual for us."

My eyes sweep the room. I can see rows of scarves, neatly folded, with dark green "50 percent off"

signs above them. Printed velvet, beaded silk, embroidered cashmere, all with the distinctive


and George" signature. They're everywhere. I don't know where to start. I think I'm having a panic


"You always liked this one, I think," says the nice blond girl, taking out a shimmering gray-blue scarf

from the pile in front of her.

Oh God, yes. I remember this one. It's made of silky velvet, overprinted in a paler blue and dotted with

iridescent beads. As I stare at it, I can feel little invisible strings, silently tugging me toward it. I have to

touch it. I have to wear it. It's the most beautiful

thing I've ever seen. The girl looks at the label.

"Reduced from 340 to 120." She comes and drapes the scarf around my neck and I gape at my


There is no question. I have to have this scarf. I have to have it. It makes my eyes look bigger, it makes

my haircut look more expensive, it makes me look like a different person. I'll be able to wear it with

everything. People will refer to me as the Girl in the Denny and George Scarf.

"I'd snap it up if I were you." The girl smiles at me. "There's only one of these left."

Involuntarily, I clutch at it.

"I'll have it," I gasp. "I'll have it."

As she's laying it out on tissue paper, I take out my purse, open it up, and reach for my VISA card in

one seamless, automatic

action'but my fingers hit bare leather. I stop in surprise and start to rummage

through all the pockets of my purse, wondering

if I stuffed my card back in somewhere with a receipt or

if it's hidden underneath a business card . . . And then, with a sickening

thud, I remember. It's on my


How could I have been so stupid? How could I have left my VISA card on my desk? What was I

thinking ?

The nice blond girl is putting the wrapped scarf into a dark green Denny and George box. My mouth is

dry with panic. What am I going to do?


"How would you like to pay?" she says pleasantly.

My face flames red and I swallow hard.

"I've just realized I've left my credit card at the office," I stutter.

"Oh," says the girl, and her hands pause.

"Can you hold it for me?" The girl looks dubious.

"For how long?"

"Until tomorrow?" I say desperately. Oh God. She's pulling a face. Doesn't she understand?

"I'm afraid not," she says. "We're not supposed to reserve sale stock."

"Just until later this afternoon, then," I say quickly. "What time do you close?"


Six! I feel a combination of relief and adrenaline sweeping through me. Challenge, Heer. I'll go to the

press conference, leave as soon as I can, then take a taxi back to the office. I'll grab my VISA card, tell

Preet I left my notebook behind, come here, and buy the scarf.


"Can you hold it until then?" I say beseechingly. "Please?Please? " The girl relents.

"OK. I'll put it behind the counter."

"Thanks," I gasp. I hurry out of the shop and down the roadtoward Brandon Communications. Please

let the press conference be short, I pray. Please don't let the questions go on too long. Please God,

please let me have that scarf.

As I arrive at Brandon Communications, I can feel myself begin to relax. I do have three whole hours,

after all. And my scarf is safely behind the counter. No one's going to steal it from me.

There's a sign up in the foyer saying that the Foreland Exotic Opportunities press conference is happening in the Artemis Suite, and a man in uniform is directing everybody down the corridor. This means it must be quite big. Not television-cameras-CNN-world's-press-on-tenterhooks big, obviously.

But fairly-good-turnout big. A relatively important event in our dull little world.


As I enter the room, there's already a buzz of people milling around, and waitresses circulating with canapes. The journalists are knocking back the champagne as if they've never seen it before; the PR girls are looking supercilious and sipping water. A waiter offers me a glass of champagne and I take two. One for now, one to put under my chair for the boring bits.

In the far corner of the room I can see Kulraj from Investor's Weekly News. She's been pinned into a corner by two earnest men in suits and is nodding at them, with a glassy look in her eye. Kulraj's great. She's only been onInvestor's Weekly News for six months, and already she's applied for forty-three other jobs. What she really wants to be is a beauty editor on a magazine, and I think she'd be really good at it. Every time I see her, she's got a new lipstick on'and she always wears really nteresting clothes. Like today, she's wearing an orange chiffony shirt over a pair of white cotton trousers, espadrilles, and a big wooden necklace, the kind I could never wear in a million years.

WhatI really want to be is Fiona Phillips onGMTV I could really see myself, sitting on that sofa, joshing

with Eamonn every morning and interviewing lots of soap stars. Sometimes, when we're very drunk, we

make pacts that if we're not somewheremore exciting in three months, we'll both leave our jobs. But then

the thought of no money'even for a month'is almost more scary than the thought of writing about

depository trust companies

for the rest of my life.

"Heer. Glad you could make it."

I look up, and almost choke on my champagne. It's Prem Juneja, head honcho of Juneja

Communications, staring straight at me as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking. Staring straight down at

me, I should say. He must be well over six feet tall with dark hair and dark eyes and . . . wow. Isn't that

suit nice? An expensive suit like that almost makes you want to be a man. It's inky blue with a faint

purple stripe, single-breasted, with proper horn buttons. As I run my eyes over it I find myself


if it's by Oswald Boateng, and whether the jacket's got a silk lining in some stunning color. If

this were someone else, I might ask'but not Luke Brandon, no way.

I've only met him a few times, and I've always felt slightly uneasy around him. For a start, he's got such

a scary reputation. Everyone talks all the time about what a genius he is, even Preet, my boss. He started

Juneja Communications from nothing, and now it's the biggest financial PR company in London. A few

months ago he was listed inThe Mail as one of the cleverest entrepreneurs

of his generation. It said his

IQ was phenomenally high and he had a photographic memory.

But it's not just that. It's that he always seems to have a frown on his face when he's talking to me. It'll

probably turn out that the famous Prem Juneja is not only a complete genius but he can read minds,

too. He knows that when I'm staring up at some boring graph, nodding intelligently, I'm really thinking

about a gorgeous black top I saw in Joseph and whether I can afford the trousers as well.

"You know Geet, don't you?" Prem is saying, and he gestures to the immaculate blond girl beside him.

I don't know Geet, as it happens. But I don't need to. They're all the same, the girls at Juneja C, as

they call it. They're welldressed, well spoken, are married to bankers, and have zero sense of humor.

Geet  falls into the identikit pattern exactly, with her baby-blue suit, silk Hermes scarf, and matching

baby-blue shoes, which I've seen in Russell and Bromley, and they cost an absolute

fortune. (Ibet she's

got the bag as well.) She's also got a suntan, which must mean she's just come back from Mauritius or

somewhere, and suddenly I feel a bit pale and weedy in comparison.

"Heer," she says coolly, grasping my hand. "You're onSuccessful Saving , aren't you?"

"That's right," I say, equally coolly.

"It's very good of you to come today" says Geet. "I know you journalists are terribly busy."

"No problem," I say. "We like to attend as many press conferences

as we can. Keep up with industry

events." I feel pleased with my response. I'm almost fooling myself

Geet  nods seriously, as though everything I say is incredibly important to her.

"So, tell me, Heer. What do you think about today's news?" She gestures to theFT under my arm.

"Quite a surprise, didn't you think?"

Oh God. What's she talking about?

"It's certainly interesting," I say still smiling, playing for time. I glance around the room for a clue, but

there's nothing. What's she talking about? Have interest rates gone up or something?

"I have to say, I think it's bad news for the industry," says Geet  earnestly. "But of course, you must

have your own views."

She's looking at me, waiting for an answer. I can feel my cheeks flaming bright red. How can I get out of

this? After this, I promise myself, I'm going to read the papers every day. I'm never going to be caught

out like this again.

"I agree with you," I say eventually. "I think it's very bad news." My voice feels strangled. I take a quick

swig of champagne and pray for an earthquake.

"Were you expecting it?" Geet  says. "I know you journalists are always ahead of the game."

"I . . . I certainly saw it coming," I say, and I'm pretty sure I sound convincing.

"And now this rumor about Scottish Prime and Flagstaff Life going the same way!" She looks at me

intently. "Do you think that's really on the cards?"

"It's . . . it's difficult to say," I reply, and take a gulp of champagne.

What rumor? Why can't she leave

me alone?

Then I make the mistake of glancing up at Prem Juneja. He's staring at me, his mouth twitching

slightly. Oh shit. He knows I don't have a clue, doesn't he?

"Geet ," he says abruptly, "that's Maggie Stevens coming in. Could you'"

"Absolutely," she says, trained like a racehorse, and starts to move smoothly toward the door.

"And Geet'" adds Prem, and she quickly turns back. "I want to know exactly who f**ked up on

those figures."

"Yes," gulps Geet , and walks off.

God he's scary. And now we're on our own. I think I might quickly run away.

"Well," I say brightly. "I must just go and . . ."

But Prem  is leaning toward me.

"SBG announced that they've taken over Rutland Bank this morning," he says quietly.

And of course, now that he says it, I remember that frontpage


"I know they did," I reply haughtily. "I read it in theFT ." And before he can say anything else, I walk

off, to talk to Kulraj.

As the press conference is about to start, Kulraj and I sidle toward the back and grab two seats together.

We're in one of the bigger conference rooms and there must be about a hundred chairs arranged in rows,

facing a podium and a large screen. I open my notebook, write "Juneja Communications" at the top of

the page, and start doodling swirly flowers down the side. Beside me, Kulraj's dialing her telephone

horoscope on her mobile phone.

I take a sip of champagne, lean back, and prepare to relax. There's no point listening at press

conferences. The information's always in the press pack, and you can work out what they were talking

about later. In fact, I'm wondering whether anyone would notice if I took out a pot of Hard Candy and

did my nails, when suddenly the awful Geet  ducks her head down to mine.


"Yes?" I say lazily.

"Phone call for you. It's your editor."

"Preet?" I say stupidly. As though I've a whole array of editors

to choose from.

"Yes." She looks at me as though I'm a moron and gestures to a phone on a table at the back. Kulraj gives

me a questioning look and I shrug back. Preet's never phoned me at a press conference before.

I feel rather excited and important as I walk to the back of the room. Perhaps there's an emergency at

the office. Perhaps he's scooped an incredible story and wants me to fly to New York to follow up a


"Hello, Preet?" I say into the receiver'then immediately I wish I'd said something thrusting and

impressive, like a simple "Yep."

"Heer, listen, sorry to be a bore," says Preet, "but I've got a migraine coming on. I'm going to head

off home."

"Oh," I say puzzledly.

"And I wondered if you could run a small errand for me."

An errand? If he wants somebody to buy him Tylenol, he should get a secretary.

"I'm not sure," I say discouragingly. "I'm a bit tied up here."

"When you've finished there. The Social Security SelectCommittee is releasing its report at five o'clock.

Can you go and pick it up? You can go straight to Westminster from your press conference


What? I stare at the phone in horror. No, I can't pick up a bloody report. I need to pick up my VISA

card! I need to secure my scarf.

"Can't Veera go?" I say. "I was going to come back to the office and finish my research on . . ." What

am I supposed to be writing about this month? "On mortgages."

"Veera's got a briefing in the City. And Westminster's on your way home to Trendy Fulham, isn't it?"

Preet always has to make a joke about me living in Fulham. Just because he lives in Harpenden and

thinks anyone who doesn't live in lovely leafy suburbia is mad.

"You can just hop off the tube," he's saying, "pick it up, and hop back on again."

Oh God. I close my eyes and think quickly. An hour here. Rush back to the office, pick up my VISA

card, back to Denny and George, get my scarf, rush to Westminster, pick up the report.

I should just

about make it.

"Fine," I say. "Leave it to me."

I sit back down, just as the lights dim and the words Far Eastern Opportunities appear on the screen in

front of us. There is a colorful series of pictures from Hong Kong, Thailand, and other exotic places,

which would usually have me thinking wistfully about going on holiday. But today I can't relax, or even

feel sorry for the new girl from Portfolio Week, who's frantically trying to write everything down and will

probably ask five questions because

she thinks she should. I'm too concerned about my scarf. What if I

don't make it back in time? What if someone puts in a higher offer? The very thought makes me panic.

Then, just as the pictures of Thailand disappear and the boring

graphs begin, I have a flash of

inspiration. Of course! I'll paycash for the scarf. No one can argue with cash. I can get 100 out on my

cash card, so all I need is another 20, and the scarf is mine.

I tear a piece of paper out of my notebook, write on it "Can you lend me twenty quid?" and pass it to

Kulraj  who's still surreptitiously

listening to her mobile phone. I wonder what she's listening to. It can't still

be her horoscope, surely? She looks down, shakes her head, and writes, "No can do. Bloody machine

swallowed my card. Living off  luncheon vouchers at moment."

Damn. I hesitate, then write, "What about credit card? I'll pay you back, honest. And what are you

listening to?"

I pass the page to her and suddenly the lights go up. The presentation has ended and I didn't hear a

word of it. People shift around on their seats and a PR girl starts handing out glossy brochures. Kulraj

finishes her call and grins at me.

"Love life prediction," she says, tapping in another number. "It's really accurate stuff."

"Load of old bullshit, more like." I shake my head disapprovingly.

"I can't believe you go for all that

rubbish. Call yourself a financial journalist?"


"No," says Kulraj. "Do you?" And we both start to giggle, until some old bag from one of the nationals

turns round and gives us an angry glare.

"Ladies and gentlemen." A piercing voice interrupts us and I look up. It's Geet , standing up at the front

of the room. She's got very good legs, I note resentfully. "As you can see, the Foreland Exotic

Opportunities Savings Plan represents an entirely new approach

to investment." She looks around the

room, meets my eye, and smiles coldly.

"Exotic Opportunities," I whisper scornfully to Kulraj and point to the leaflet. "Exotic prices, more like.

Have you seen how much they're charging?"

(I always turn to the charges first. Just like I always look at the price tag first.)

Kulraj  rolls her eyes sympathetically, still listening to the phone.

"Foreland Investments are all about adding value," Geet  is saying in her snooty voice. "Foreland

Investments offer you more."

"They charge more, you lose more," I say aloud without thinking, and there's a laugh around the room.

God, how embarrassing.

And now Prem Juneja's lifting his head, too. Quickly I look down and

pretend to be writing notes.

Although to be honest, I don't know why I even pretend to write notes. It's not as if we ever put

anything in the magazine except the puff that comes on the press release. Foreland Investments

takes out

a whopping double-page spread advertisement every month, and they took Preet on some fantastic

research (ha-ha) trip to Thailand last year'so we're never allowed to say anything

except how

wonderful they are. Like that's really any help to our readers.

As Geet carries on speaking, I lean toward Kulraj.

"So, listen," I whisper. "Can I borrow your credit card?"

"All used up," hisses Kulraj apologetically. "I'm up to my limit. Why do you think I'm living off LVs?"

"But I need money!" I whisper. "I'm desperate! I need twenty quid!"

I've spoken more loudly than I intended and Geet  stops speaking.

"Perhaps you should have invested with Foreland Investments,

Heer," says Geet , and another titter

goes round the room. A few faces turn round to gawk at me, and I stare back at them lividly. They're

fellow journalists, for God's sake. They should be on my side. National Union of Journalists solidarity

and all that.

Not that I've ever actually got round to joining the NUJ. But still.

"What do you need twenty quid for?" says Prem Juneja , from the front of the room.

"I . . . my aunt," I say defiantly. "She's in hospital and I wanted to get her a present."

The room is silent. Then, to my disbelief, Prem Juneja reaches into his pocket, takes out a 20 note,

and gives it to a guy in the front row of journalists. He hesitates, then passes it back to the row behind


And so it goes on, a twenty-quid note being passed from hand to hand, making its way to me like a fan at

a gig being passed over the crowd. As I take hold of it, a round of applause goes round the room and I


"Thanks," I say awkwardly. "I'll pay you back, of course."

"My best wishes to your aunt," says Prem Juneja.

"Thanks," I say again. Then I glance at Geet , and feel a little dart of triumph. She looks utterly deflated.

Toward the end of the question-and-answer session, people begin slipping out to get back to their

offices. This is usually when I slip out to go and buy a cappuccino and browse in a few shops. But today

I don't. Today I decide I will stick it out until the last dismal question about tax structures. Then I'll go up

to the front and thank Luke Brandon in person for his kind, if embarrassing,

gesture. And then I'll go

and get my scarf. Yippee!

But to my surprise, after only a few questions, Prem Juneja gets up, whispers something to Geet , and

heads for the door.

"Thanks," I mutter as he passes my chair, but I'm not sure he even hears me.

The tube stops in a tunnel for no apparent reason. Five minutes

go by, then ten minutes. I can't believe

my bad luck. Normally, of course, I long for the tube to break down'so I've got an excuse to stay out

of the office for longer. But today I behave like a stressed businessman with an ulcer. I tap my fingers and

sigh, and peer out of the window into the blackness.

Part of my brain knows that I've got plenty of time to get to Denny and George before it closes. Another

part knows that even if I don't make it, it's unlikely the blond girl will sell my scarf tosomeone else. But

the possibility is there. So until I've got that scarf in my hands I won't be able to relax.

As the train finally gets going again I sink into my seat with a dramatic sigh and look at the pale, silent

man on my left. He's wearing jeans and sneakers, and I notice his shirt is on inside out. Gosh, I think in

admiration, did he read the article on deconstructing

fashion in last month'sVogue , too? I'm about to

ask him'then I take another look at his jeans (really nasty fake 501s) and his sneakers (very new, very

white)'and something tells me he didn't.

"Thank God!" I say instead. "I was getting desperate there."

"It's frustrating," he agrees quietly.

"They just don't think, do they?" I say. "I mean, some of us have got crucial things we need to be doing.

I'm in a terrible hurry!"


"I'm in a bit of a hurry myself," says the man.

"If that train hadn't started moving, I don't know what I would have done." I shake my head. "You feel

so . . . impotent!"

"I know exactly what you mean," says the man intensely. "They don't realize that some of us . . ." He

gestures toward me. "We aren't just idly traveling. Itmatters whether we arrive or not."

"Absolutely!" I say. "Where are you off to?"

"My wife's in labor," he says. "Our fourth."

"Oh," I say, taken aback. "Well . . . Gosh. Congratulations. I hope you'"

"She took an hour and a half last time," says the man, rubbing his damp forehead. "And I've been on

this tube for forty minutes already. Still. At least we're moving now."

He gives a little shrug, then smiles at me.

"How about you? What's your urgent business?"

Oh God.

"I . . . ahm . . . I'm going to . . ."

I stop feebly and clear my throat, feeling rather sheepish. Ican't tell this man that my urgent business

consists of picking up a scarf from Denny and George.

I mean, a scarf. It's not even a suit or a coat, or something worthy like that.

"It's not that important," I mumble.

"I don't believe that," he says nicely.

Oh, now I feel awful. I glance up'and thank goodness, it's my stop.

"Good luck," I say, hastily getting up. "I really hope you get there in time."

As I walk along the pavement I'm feeling a bit shamefaced. I should have got out my 120 quid and given

it to that man for his baby, instead of buying a pointless scarf. I mean, when you think about it, what's

more important? Clothes'or the miracle of new life?

As I ponder this issue, I feel quite deep and philosophical. In fact, I'm so engrossed, I almost walk past

my turning. But I look up just in time and turn the corner'and feel a jolt. There's a girl coming toward

me and she's carrying a Denny and George carrier bag. And suddenly everything is swept from my mind.

Oh my God.


What if she's got my scarf?

What if she asked for it specially and that assistant sold it to her, thinking I wasn't going to come back?

My heart starts to beat in panic and I begin to stride along the street toward the shop. As I arrive at the

door and push it open, I can barely breathe for fear. What if it's gone? What will I do?

But the blond girl smiles as I enter.

"Hi!" she says. "It's waiting for you."

"Oh, thanks," I say in relief and subside weakly against the counter.

I honestly feel as though I've run an obstacle course to get here. In fact, I think, they should list shopping

as a cardiovascular activity. My heart never beats as fast as it does when I see a "reduced by 50

percent" sign.

I count out the money in tens and twenties and wait, almost shivering as she ducks behind the counter

and produces the green box. She slides it into a thick glossy bag with dark green cord handles and hands

it to me, and I almost want to cry out loud, the moment is so wonderful.

That moment. That instant when your fingers curl round the handles of a shiny, uncreased bag'and all

the gorgeous new things inside it become yours. What's it like? It's like going hungry

for days, then

cramming your mouth full of warm buttered toast. It's like waking up and realizing it's the weekend. It's

like the better moments of sex. Everything else is blocked out of your mind. It's pure, selfish pleasure.

I walk slowly out of the shop, still in a haze of delight. I've got a Denny and George scarf. I've got a

Denny and George scarf! I've got. . .

"Heer." A man's voice interrupts my thoughts. I look up and my stomach gives a lurch of horror. It's

Prem Juneja.

Prem is standing on the street, right in front of me, and he's staring down at my carrier bag. I

feel myself growing flustered. What's he doing here on the pavement anyway? Don't people like that

have chauffeurs? Shouldn't he be whisking off to some vital financial reception or something?

"Did you get it all right?" he says, frowning slightly.


"Your aunt's present."

"Oh yes," I say, and swallow. "Yes, I . . . I got it."

"Is that it?" He gestures to the bag and I feel a guilty blush spread over my cheeks.

"Yes," I say eventually. "I thought a . . . a scarf would be nice."

"Very generous of you. Denny and George." He raises his eyebrows.

"Your aunt must be a stylish



"She is," I say, and clear my throat. "She's terribly creative and original."

"I'm sure she is," says Prem, and pauses. "What's her name?"

Oh God. I should have run as soon as I saw him, while I hada chance. Now I'm paralyzed. I can't think

of a single female name.

"Gayatri ," I hear myself saying.

"Aunt Gayatri," says Prem  thoughtfully. "Well, give her my best wishes."

He nods at me, and walks off, and I stand, clutching my bag, trying to work out if he guessed or not.



3 Fulham Road

London SW6 9JH

Ms. Heer Mann

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd.

London SW6 8FD

17 November 1999

Dear Ms. Mann:

I am sorry to hear that you have glandular fever.

When you have recovered, perhaps you would be kind enough to ring my assistant, Erica Parnell, and

arrange a meeting to discuss your situation


Yours sincerely,

Derek Smeath





Edited by topsyturvy23 - 16 March 2010 at 1:17am

The following 7 member(s) liked the above post:


searchoffriends IF-Rockerz

Joined: 28 March 2009
Posts: 5691

Posted: 14 March 2010 at 10:40am | IP Logged
Originally posted by topsyturvy23

Originally posted by simi2

Originally posted by topsyturvy23

hey , kya hua yaar ,
you are not well , why , what happenned , hmm
please please take care of yourself and noo need to strress with updates , we can surely wait for them , pleae you take complete rest of
love you lots

hey thanks simi for good wishes
i am updating 2nd part
i hope u enjoy  it
hey its great that now you r feeling well hmm
and lol's you updatting part 2 , and i have evne not replied on part one LOLLOLLOL 
no problem i will do that together now after reading them

The following 1 member(s) liked the above post:


Ishia IF-Rockerz

Joined: 10 November 2009
Posts: 8026

Posted: 14 March 2010 at 10:46am | IP Logged
res will be back after dinner

The following 1 member(s) liked the above post:


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