conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for a Shopaholic Series, Book with the title 'Confessions of a Shopaholic'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Confessions of a Shopaholic
  Briskly I reach for the phone and dial Flagstaff's number—only to be told by the switchboard operator that all press inquiries are dealt with out of house. She gives me a number, which seems rather familiar, and I frown at it for a moment, then punch it in.
  I can't do this. I can't speak to Luke Brandon. My questions are jotted down on a piece of paper in front of me, but as I stare at them, I'm not reading them. I'm remembering the humiliation I felt that day in Harvey Nichols. That horrible plunge in my stomach, as I heard the patronizing note in his voice and suddenly realized what he thought of me. A nothing. A joke.
  For a while I stare straight ahead in brooding silence. Stupid patronizing cow. Can't even be bothered to take my questions seriously.
  Then gradually it comes to me that this is the way I always get treated when I ring up press offices. No one's ever in any hurry to answer my questions, are they? People are always putting me on hold, saying they'll ring me back and not bothering. I've never minded before—I've rather enjoyed hanging on to a phone, listening to "Greensleeves." I've never cared before whether people took me seriously or not.
  I'll show Alicia, I think fiercely. I'll show them all, Luke Brandon included. Show them that I, Rebecca Bloomwood, am not a joke.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I stare back helplessly, unable even to mutter "Thank you." I've never felt so wrong-footed in all my life. I want to stop and bury my head in my hands and think all of this through slowly and carefully—but I can't, I'm on live television. I'm being watched by 2.5 million people, all around the country.
  And suddenly everyone's laughing, and I join in too, slightly hysterically. I catch Luke's eye and feel something flash in my chest, then quickly look away again.
  And all at once it's over. It's just me and Luke, sitting opposite each other on the sofas, with bright lights still shining in our eyes and microphones still clipped to our lapels. I feel slightly shell-shocked.
  I'm wondering if he's in big trouble now. If attacking one of your clients on live TV is the PR equivalent of hiding clothes from the customers.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: So I knew, after a year, he was The One. But I also knew what would happen if I put a foot wrong. In my experience, the word "marriage" is like an enzyme. It causes all kinds of reactions in a relationship, mostly of the breaking-down kind.
  Richard is definitely better-looking than any of my other boyfriends. (Maybe I'm biased, but I think he's gorgeous.) He works hard as a media analyst, but he's not obsessed. He's not as rich as Julian, but who cares? He's energetic and funny and has an uproarious laugh that makes my spirits lift, whatever mood I'm in. He calls me "Daisy," ever since we went on a picnic where I made him a daisy chain. He can lose his temper with people—but that's OK. No one's perfect. When I look back over our relationship, I don't see a black blot, like with Seamus, or a blank space, like with Julian. I see a cheesy music video. A montage, with blue skies and smiles. Happy times. Closeness. Laughter.
  And now we're getting to the climax of the montage. The bit where he kneels down, takes a deep breath...
  I'm feeling so nervous for him. I want this to go beautifully. I want to be able to tell our children that I fell in love with their father all over again, the day he proposed.
  As I let my mind roll around the images, I feel a release inside me. I'm ready for this. I'm thirty-three years old and I'm ready. All my grown-up life, I've steered away from the subject of marriage. My friends are the same. It's as though there's been a crime-scene cordon around the whole area: NO ENTRY. You just don't go there, because if you do, you've jinxed it and your boyfriend chucks you.