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| Editorial Reviews: | | |  | On the face of it, Rebecca Bloomwood has it all. Confident, single and happily living in des-res Fulham with her best friend Suze, she's a financial journalist who spends her days writing articles advising other people on the importance of budgeting and prudent investing. Her private life is a different story though; Rebecca manages her own finances in a way that would make most of her readers' hair curl--for Rebecca is a woman on a mission--she just can't stop spending. I look up and I'm in front of Octagon. My favourite shop in the whole world. Three floors of clothes, accessories, furnishing, gifts, coffee shops, juice bars and a florist which makes you want to fill your entire home with flowers. I've got my purse with me. Just something small, to cheer me up. A T-shirt or something. Or even some bubble bath. I won't spend much. I'll just go in and... I'm already pushing my way through the doors. Oh God, the relief. The warmth, the light. This is where I belong. This is my natural habitat. As the plot unfolds, Rebecca finds increasingly bizarre and often highly comical ways to ignore her ever-growing debts and mounting pile of unpaid Visa bills and red bank statements. Got a bill you can't pay? No problem. Just take it out for a walk and deposit it in the nearest skip whilst no-one is looking. Need to justify that £120 velvet scarf? Don't worry! It was a snip at half price in the sale, so what initially looks like a splurge is actually an example of canny discount shopping. Rebecca's disastrous love life mirrors her finances. And her career seems to be taking a turn for the worse, too. That is, until she finds a financial story that really sparks her journalistic interest, and begins to spar with handsome and successful financial PR millionaire Luke Brandon. Witty, light-hearted and often hilarious, The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic is the ideal read for anyone who has ever found themselves mentally justifying rash purchases in their heads, or buying just one more pair of black trousers because they are so different from the other eight pairs in their wardrobe. --Emily Lowson | | | | If you've ever paid off one credit card with another, thrown out a bill before opening it, or convinced yourself that buying at a two-for-one sale is like making money, then this silly, appealing novel is for you. In the opening pages of Confessions of a Shopaholic, recent college graduate Rebecca Bloomwood is offered a hefty line of credit by a London bank. Within a few months, Sophie Kinsella's heroine has exceeded the limits of this generous offer, and begins furtively to scan her credit-card bills at work, certain that she couldn't have spent the reported sums. In theory anyway, the world of finance shouldn't be a mystery to Rebecca, since she writes for a magazine called Successful Saving. Struggling with her spendthrift impulses, she tries to heed the advice of an expert and appreciate life's cheaper pleasures: parks, museums, and so forth. Yet her first Saturday at the Victoria and Albert Museum strikes her as a waste. Why? There's not a price tag in sight. It kind of takes the fun out of it, doesn't it? You wander round, just looking at things, and it all gets a bit boring after a while. Whereas if they put price tags on, you'd be far more interested. In fact, I think all museums should put prices on their exhibits. You'd look at a silver chalice or a marble statue or the Mona Lisa or whatever, and admire it for its beauty and historical importance and everything--and then you'd reach for the price tag and gasp, "Hey, look how much this one is!" It would really liven things up. Eventually, Rebecca's uncontrollable shopping and her "imaginative" solutions to her debt attract the attention not only of her bank manager but of handsome Luke Brandon--a multimillionaire PR representative for a finance group frequently covered in Successful Saving. Unlike her opposite number in Bridget Jones's Diary, however, Rebecca actually seems too scattered and spacey to reel in such a successful man. Maybe it's her Denny and George scarf. In any case, Kinsella's debut makes excellent fantasy reading for the long stretches between white sales and appliance specials. --Regina Marler | | | Add this aptly titled piffle to the ranks of pink-covered girl-centric fiction that has come sailing out of England over the last two years. At age 25, Rebecca Bloomwood has everything she wants. Or does she? Can her career as a financial journalist, a fab flat and a closet full of designer clothes lessen the blow of the dunning letters from credit card companies and banks that have been arriving too quickly to be contained by the drawer in which Rebecca hides them? Although her romantic entanglements tend toward the superficial, there is that wonderful Luke Brandon of Brandon Communications: handsome, intelligent, the 31st-richest bachelor according to Harper's and actually possessed of a personality that is more substance than style. Too bad that Rebecca blows it whenever their paths cross. Will Rebecca learn to stop shopping before she loses everything worthwhile? When faced with the opportunity to do good for others and impress Luke, will she finally measure up? Rebecca is so unremittingly shallow and Luke is so wonderful that readers may find themselves rooting for the heroine not to get the manAalthough, since Shakespeare's time, there's rarely been any doubt concerning how romantic comedies will end. There's a certain degree of madcap fun with some of Rebecca's creative untruths; when she persuades her parents that a bank manager is a stalker, some very amusing situations ensue. Still, this is familiar stuff, and Rebecca is the kind of unrepentant spender who will make readers, save those who share her disorder in the worst way, pity the poor bill collector. (Feb. 13) Forecast: This is a well-designed book, with a catchy magenta spine, and a colorful and kinetic double coverAwhich will attract many browsers. Major ad/promo, including national NPR sponsorships, will enhance sales, despite the novel's flaws.
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc. | | | London's chic boutiques and glamorous socialites star in this comic novel about binge shopping for clothes and makeup. Kinsella wickedly sets up shopping addict and financial writer Becky Bloomwood at Successful Savings , a second-rate trade magazine. Becky, for whom saving is a concept for other people, relieves the tedium of meaningless work with giddy sprees she can ill afford. As her debt grows ever more unmanageable, Becky's self-justifying obbligatos become ever more shrill, and her white lies turn steadily darker. In one self-delusional attempt to find a better paying job, she bolsters her resume with fluency in Finnish, only to come face to face with the CEO of the Bank of Helsinki. But when Becky gets her teeth into a real news story, she discovers her limits are far greater than she had imagined. Kinsella's novel, though antic, would be more compelling if Becky were even slightly more self-aware. Does Kinsella sustain an entire novel with a 25-year-old writer addicted to clothes and makeup? Perhaps, if readers love clothes and makeup just as much. Suzanne Young
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved | | | "Too good to pass up."?USA Today
From the Paperback edition. | | | | Now in paperback--the "New York Times" bestselling all-too-true debut novel that chronicles one woman's hilarious efforts to overcome her expensive--if stylish--addiction to shopping. | | | | Sophie Kinsella ist Schriftstellerin und ehemalige Wirtschaftsjournalistin. Sie geht sehr, sehr vorsichtig mit ihrem Geld um und wird nur ganz selten dabei erwischt, wie sie auf der Jagd nach Schnäppchen ihre Heimatstadt London durchstreift. Das Verhältnis zu dem Manager ihrer Bank ist durch keinerlei Probleme getrübt | | | Chapter One
Ok. 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?
I 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.
Sort of. Roughly.
It'll be about ... £200. Three hundred, maybe. Yes, maybe £300. Three-fifty, max.
I 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.
And the Jigsaw suit was on sale ? 30 percent off. So that was actually saving money.
I 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?
And I had to buy some new solutions and a cute case and some hypoallergenic eyeliner. So that takes it up to ... £400?
At 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.
"OK, Becky?" she says.
"Fine," I say lightly. "Just reading a letter."
I 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.
Do you want to know about my secret dream? It's based on a story I once read in The Daily World 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.
And 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.
A 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.
The 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.
Don'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.
WHSmith (well, that's OK. Everyone needs stationery.)
Boots (everyone needs shampoo)
Specsavers (essential)
Oddbins (bottle of wine ? essential)
Our Price (Our Price? Oh yes. The new Charlatans album. Well, I had to have that, didn't I?)
Bella Pasta (supper with Caitlin)
Oddbins (bottle of wine ? essential)
Esso (petrol doesn't count)
Quaglinos (expensive ? but it was a one-off)
Pret à Manger (that time I ran out of cash)
Oddbins (bottle of wine ? essential)
Rugs to Riches (what? Oh yes. Stupid rug.)
La Senza (sexy underwear for date with James)
Agent Provocateur (even sexier underwear for date with James. Like I needed it.)
Body Shop (that skin brusher thing which I must use)
Next (fairly boring white shirt ? but it was in the sale)
Millets...
I 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.
Oh my God. I, Rebecca Bloomwood, have been the victim of a crime.
Now 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.
But 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?
I 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.
"I've never even been into Millets!" I say aloud.
"Yes you have," says Clare.
"What?" I turn to her. "No I haven't."
"You bought Michael's leaving present from Millets, didn't you?"
I feel my smile disappear. Oh, bugger. Of course. The blue anorak for Michael. The blue sodding anorak from Millets.
When 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.
I 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.
So what happened to it? I can't have just spent sixty quid without realizing it, can I?
"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.
But 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.
Nine hundred and forty-nine pounds, sixty-three pence. In clear black and white.
For 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?
I'm already composing a letter in m... | | | | OK. 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? I 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. Sort of. Roughly. It'll be about ... 200 pounds. Three hundred, maybe. Yes, maybe three hundred. Three-fifty max. I casually close my eyes and start to tot up. There was that suit in Jigsaw. And there was dinner with Suze at Quaglino's. And there was that gorgeous red and yellow rug. The rug was 200 pounds, come to think of it. But it was definitely worth every penny - everyone's admired it. Or, at least, Suze has. And the Jigsaw suit was on sale 30 per cent off. So that was actually saving money. I 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? And I had to buy some new solutions and a cute case and some hypo-allergenic eyeliner. So that takes it up to . . . four hundred? At the desk next door 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. "OK, Becky?" she says. "Fine," I say lightly. "Just reading a letter.' I 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. Do you want to know about my secret dream? It's based on a story I once read in the newspaper 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. And ever since I read that story, my secret dream has been that the same thing will happen to me. Some dotty old woman in Cornwall will be sent my humungous bill and will pay it without even looking at it. And I'll be sent her bill for three tins of cat food at 59p each. Which, naturally, I'll pay without question. Fair's fair, after all. A 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. The 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 the hell 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. Don'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. WH Smith (well, that's OK. Everyone needs stationery) Boots (ditto) Specsavers (essential) Oddbins (bottle of wine - essential) Our Price (Our Price? Oh yes. The new Charlatans album. Well, I had to have that, didn't I?) Bella Pasta (supper with Caitlin) Oddbins (bottle of wine - essential) Esso (petrol doesn't count) Quaglino's (expensive - but it was a one-off) Pret a Manger (that time I ran out of cash) Oddbins (bottle of wine - essential) Rugs to Riches (what? Oh yes, the rug. Stupid rug) La Senza (sexy underwear for date with James) Agent Provocateur (even sexier underwear for date with James. Huh. Like I needed it) Body Shop (that skin brusher thing which I must use) Next (fairly boring white shirt - but it was in the sale) Millets . . . I stop in my tracks. Millets? I never go into Millets. What the hell 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. Oh my God. I, Rebecca Bloomwood, have been the victim of a crime. Now 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. But how have they managed it? 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 gaze at it. 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? I 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. "I've never even been into Millets!" I say aloud. "Yes you have," says Clare. "What?" I turn to her, not particularly pleased to be interrupted. "No I haven't." "You bought Michael's leaving present from Millets, didn't you?" I stare at her and feel my smile disappear. Oh bugger. Of course. The blue anorak for Michael. The blue sodding anorak from Millets. When 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 the handy cash for myself. I can vividly remember fishing out the four 5-pound 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 drossy change into the bottom of my bag. Oh good, I remember thinking. I won't have to go to the cashpoint. I'd thought that sixty quid would last me for weeks. So what happened to it? I can't have just spent 60 quid without realizing it, can I? "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. | |
| Custom Reviews: | |
|
| | Dieses Buch ist die amerikanische Ausgabe von The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic von Sophie Kinsella, die in Wirklichkeit Madeleine Wickham heißt.
Das Buch ist klasse geschrieben und derart witzig, dass ich Tränen gelacht habe. Definitiv ein lohndender Kauf, vor allem natürlich für Shopaholics!!! :D
PS. 2009 kommt der Film zum Buch heraus mit Isla Fisher in der Hauptrolle!
| | | Shoppingsüchtige werden es nachfühlen können... alle anderen werden die Geschichte aufgrund des Unterhaltungswertes ebenfalls fantastisch finden.
| | | "Shopaholic" ist ein faszinierendes Buch! Ich habe alle Shopaholic Bücher gelesen und bin ein totaler fan geworden. Diese Bücher haben Witz und sind gleichzeitig total rührend und süß geschrieben. Ich kann nur sagen: Ein wahnsinns Buch!
| | Wenn Sie Handtaschen und Schuhe mögen, werden sie Becky Bloomwood lieben | |
| | Wer nur mal eben neue Socken kaufen möchte und mit einem Paar neuer Highheels sowie einer unverzichtbaren Handtasche gefüllt mit den absolut angesagtesten Glasperlenarmbändern in allen Farben (eine für jedes Outfit) nach Hause kommt, kennt das Gefühl, dass Becky Bloomwood in all ihren Büchern ebenfalls durchmacht: das Haben-wollen unverzichtbarer Gegenstände und das Sich-einreden, dass man diese Sachen unbedingt braucht. Schuhe braucht man schließlich, soll man etwa ohne gehen? Und Handtaschen braucht man ebenfalls... und Cardigans ... und Designerschals ... und .... einen Bankbetreuer, der einem abnimmt, dass man zu seinen Treffen nicht kommen kann, weil der Hund gestorben, ein böses Fieber ausgebrochen oder sonstwas passiert ist.
Ausgezeichnete Freizeitliteratur und wunderbar zu lesen auf Englisch... Lovely und Charming!
| | In jedem Kapitel eine Ohrfeige für Bex! | |
| | Ich muss sagen, ich weiß nicht warum man dieses buch wirklich zuende liest. Nach einem Kapitel rege ich mich immer so sehr auf, dass ich es wieder zur Seite legen muss. Wenn ich schon 20 Briefe meiner Bank bekommen habe, kaufe ich doch nicht noch für 150Pfund Pfannen etc, nur um ein Curry zu kochen. Becky verdient wirklich ein paar Schläge auf den Hinterkopf. Dennoch muss ich sagen, dass an weniger extremen Stellen das Buch durchaus zum lachen ist. Habe erst 2/3 gelesen, aber wenn nicht bald etwas vernünftiges in dem Buch passiert, werde ich die anderen der Reihe nicht mehr lesen.
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