Chapter 12

I ARRIVE HOME that afternoon, feeling weary and misera-ble. Suddenly, triple-A-rated jobs in banking and Harrods with Luke Brandon seem miles away. Real life isn’t swanning round Knightsbridge in a taxi, choosing ￡1,000 suitcases, is it? This is real life. Home to a tiny flat which still smells of curry, and a pile of nasty letters from the bank, and no idea what to do about them.

I put my key in the lock, and as I open the door, I hear Suze cry “Bex? Is that you?”

“Yes!” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “Where are you?”

“Here,” she says, appearing at the door of my bedroom. Her face is all pink, and there’s a shine in her eyes. “Guess what! I’ve got a surprise for you!”

“What is it?” I say, putting down my briefcase. To be honest, I’m not in the mood for one of Suze’s surprises. She’ll just have moved my bed to a different place, or something. And all I want is to sit down and have a cup of tea and something to eat. I never did get any lunch.

“Come and see. No, no, shut your eyes, first. I’ll lead you.”

“OK,” I say reluctantly. I close my eyes and allow her to takemy hand. We start to walk along the corridor—and of course, as we near my bedroom door, I start feeling a little tingle of anticipa-tion in spite of myself. I always fall for things like this.

“Da-daaa! You can look now!”

I open my eyes and look dazedly around my room, wonder-ing what mad thing Suze has done. At least she hasn’t painted the walls or touched the curtains, and my computer’s safely switched off. So what on earth can she have . . .

And then I see them. On my bed. Piles and piles of uphol-stered frames. All made up perfectly, with no wonky corners, and the braid glued neatly in place. I can’t quite believe my eyes. There must be at least . . .

“I’ve done a hundred,” says Suze behind me. “And I’m going to do the rest tomorrow! Aren’t they fab?”

I turn and stare incredulously at her. “You . . . you did all these?”

“Yes!” she says proudly. “It was easy, once I got into a rhythm. I did it in front ofMorning Coffee. Oh, I wish you’d seen it. They hadsuch a good phone-in, about men who dress up in women’s clothes! Emma was being all sympathetic, but Rory looked like he wanted to—”

“Wait,” I say, trying to get my head round this. “Wait. Suze, I don’t understand. This must have taken you ages.” My eye runs disbelievingly over the pile of frames again. “Why . . . why on earth did you—”

“Well, you weren’t getting very far with them, were you?” says Suze. “I just thought I’d give you a helping hand.”

“A helping hand?” I echo weakly.

“I’ll do the rest tomorrow, and then I’ll ring up the delivery people,” says Suze. “You know, it’s a very good system. You don’t have to post them, or anything. They just come and pick them up! And then they’ll send you a check. It should come to about ￡284. Pretty good, huh?”

“Hang on.” I turn round. “What do you mean, they’ll send me a check?” Suze looks at me as though I’m stupid.

“Well, Bex, they areyour frames.”

“But you made them! Suze, you should get the money!”

“But I did them for you!” says Suze, and stares at me. “I did them so you could make your three hundred quid!”

I stare at her silently, feeling a sudden thickness in my throat. Suze made all these frames for me. Slowly I sit down on the bed, pick up one of the frames, and run my finger along the fabric. It’s absolutely perfect. You could sell it in Liberty’s.

“Suze, it’s your money. Not mine,” I say eventually. “It’s your project now.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” says Suze, and a trium-phant look spreads over her face. “I’ve got my own project.”

She comes over to the bed, reaches behind the pile of made-up frames, and pulls something out. It’s a photo frame, but it’s nothing like a Fine Frame. It’s upholstered in silver furry fabric, and the word ANGEL is appliquéd in pink across the top, and there are little silver pom-poms at the corners. It’s the coolest, kitschest frame I’ve ever seen.

“Do you like it?” she says, a bit nervously.

“I love it!” I say, grabbing it from her hands and looking more closely at it. “Where did you get it?”

“I didn’t get it anywhere,” she says. “I made it.”

“What?” I stare at her. “You . . . made this?”

“Yes. DuringNeighbours . It was awful, actually. Beth found out about Joey and Skye.”

I’m completely astounded. How come Suze suddenly turns out to be so talented?

“So what do you reckon?” she says, taking the frame back and turning it over in her fingers. “Could I sell these?”

Could she sell these?

“Suze,” I say quite seriously. “You’re going to be a million-aire.”

And we spend the rest of the evening getting very pissed and eating ice cream, as we always do when something good or bad happens to either one of us. We map out Suze’s career as ahigh-flying businesswoman, and get quite hysterical trying to decide if she should wear Chanel or Prada when she goes to meet the queen. Somehow the discussion ends with us trying on each other’s smartest outfits (Suze looks really good in my new Hobbs dress, much better than me), and by the time I get into bed, I’ve forgotten all about Luke Brandon, and Bank of Helsinki, and the rest of my disastrous day.





The next morning, it all comes rushing back to me like a hor-ror movie. I wake up feeling pale and shaky, and desperately wishing I could take a sickie. I don’t want to go to work. I want to stay at home under the duvet, watching daytime telly and being a millionairess entrepreneur with Suze.

But it’s the busiest week of the month, and Philip’ll never believe I’m ill.

So, somehow, I haul myself out of bed and into some clothes and onto the tube. At Lucio’s I buy myself an extralarge cappuc-cino, and a muffin,and a chocolate brownie. I don’t care if I get fat. I just need sugar and caffeine and chocolate, and as much as possible.

Luckily it’s so busy, no one’s talking very much, so I don’t have to bother telling everyone at the office what I did on my day off. Clare’s tapping away at something and there’s a pile of pages on my desk, ready for me to proofread. So after checking my e-mails—none—I scrunch miserably up in my chair, pick up the first one, and start to scan it.

“Market efficiencies dictate that greater risks must accompany greater reward. Fund managers understand the balance sheets and market momentum driving volatile stocks.”

Oh God, this is boring.

“These experts therefore minimize risk in a way that the aver-age investor cannot. For the small-time investor . . .”

“Rebecca?” I look up, to see Philip approaching my desk, holding a piece of paper. He doesn’t look very happy, and for oneterrible moment, I think he’s spoken to Jill Foxton at William Green, has discovered everything, and is about to fire me. But as he gets nearer, I see it’s only some dull-looking press release.

“I want you to go to this instead of me,” he says. “It’s on Friday. I’d go myself, but I’m going to be tied up here with Marketing.”

“Oh,” I say without enthusiasm, and take the piece of paper. “OK. What is it?”

“Personal Finance Fair at Olympia,” he says. “We always cover it.”

Yawn. Yawn yawn yawn . . .

“Barclays are giving a champagne lunchtime reception,” he adds.

“Oh right!” I say, with more interest. “Well, OK. It sounds quite good. What exactly is it—”

I glance down at the paper, and my heart stops as I see the Brandon Communications logo at the top of the page.

“It’s basically just a big fair,” says Philip. “All sectors of personal finance. Talks, stands, events. Just cover whatever sounds inter-esting. I leave it up to you.”

“OK,” I say after a pause. “Fine.”

I mean, what do I care if Luke Brandon might be there? I’ll just ignore him. I’ll show him about as much respect as he showed me. And if he tries to talk to me, I’ll just lift my chin firmly in the air, and turn on my heel, and . . .

“How are the pages going?” says Philip.

“Oh, great,” I say, and pick the top one up again. “Should be finished soon.” He gives a little nod and walks away, and I begin to read again.

“. . . for the small-time investor, the risks attached to such stocks may outweigh the potential for reward.”

Oh God, this is boring. I can’t even bring myself to focus on what the words mean.

“More and more investors are therefore demanding the com-bination of stock-market performance with a high level of security.One option is to invest in a Tracker fund, which automatically ‘tracks’ the top one hundred companies at any time . . .”

Hmm. Actually, that gives me a thought. I reach for my Filofax, flip it open, and dial Elly’s new direct number at Wetherby’s.

“Eleanor Granger,” comes her voice, sounding a bit far-off and echoey. Must be a dodgy line.

“Hi, Elly, it’s Becky,” I say. “Listen, whatever happened to Tracker bars? They’re really yummy, aren’t they? And I haven’t eaten one for . . .”

There’s a scuffly sort of sound on the line, and I gape at the receiver in surprise. In the distance, I can hear Elly, saying “I’m sorry. I’ll just be a . . .”

“Becky!” she hisses down the phone. “I was on speaker-phone! Our head of department was in my office.”

“Oh God!” I say, aghast. “Sorry! Is he still there?”

“No,” says Elly, and sighs. “God knows what he thinks of me now.”

“Oh well,” I say reassuringly. “He’s got a sense of humor, hasn’t he?”

Elly doesn’t reply.

“Oh well,” I say again, less certainly. “Anyway, are you free for a drink at lunchtime?”

“Not really,” she says. “Sorry, Becky, I’ve really got to go.” And she puts the phone down.

No one likes me anymore. Suddenly I feel a bit small and sad, and I scrunch up even more in my chair. Oh God, I hate today. I hate everything. I want to go hooome.





By the time Friday arrives, I have to say I feel a lot more cheerful. This is primarily because:



It’s Friday.
I’m spending all day out of the office.
Elly phoned yesterday and said sorry she was soabrupt, but someone else came into the office just as we were talking.And she’s going to be at the Personal Finance Fair.



Plus:



I have completely put the Luke Brandon incident from my mind. Who cares about him, anyway?



So as I get ready to go, I feel quite bouncy and positive. I put on my new gray cardigan over a short black shirt, and my new Hobbs boots—dark gray suede—and I have to say I look bloody good in them. God, I love new clothes. If everyone could just wear new clothes every day, I reckon depression wouldn’t exist anymore.

As I’m about to leave, a pile of letters comes through the letterbox for me. Several of them look like bills, and one is yet another letter from Endwich Bank. But I have a clever new solution to all these nasty letters: I just put them in my dressing table drawer and close it. It’s the only way to stop getting stressed out about it. And it really does work. As I thrust the drawer shut and head out of the front door, I’ve already forgotten all about them.





The conference is buzzing by the time I get there. I give my name to the press officer at reception and I’m given a big, shiny courtesy carrier bag with the logo of HSBC on the side. Inside this, I find an enormous press pack complete with a photo of all the conference organizers lifting glasses of champagne to each other, a voucher for two drinks at the Sun Alliance Pimm’s Stand, a raffle ticket to win ￡1,000 (invested in the unit trust of my choice), a big lollipop advertising Eastgate Insurance, and my name badge with PRESS stamped across the top. There’s also a white envelope with the ticket to the Barclays Champagne Reception inside, and I put that carefully in my bag. Then I fasten my namebadge prominently on my lapel and start to walk around the arena.

Normally of course, the rule is to throw away your name badge. But the great thing about beingPRESS at one of these events is that people fall over themselves to ply you with free stuff. A lot of it’s just boring old leaflets about savings plans, but some of them are giving out free gifts and snacks, too. So after an hour, I’ve accumulated two pens, a paper knife, a mini box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, a helium balloon with Save & Prosper on the side, and a T-shirt with a cartoon on the front, sponsored by some mobile phone company. I’ve had two free cappuccinos, apain au chocolat, some apple cider (from Somerset Savings), a mini pack of Smarties, and my Pimm’s from Sun Alliance. (I haven’t written a single note in my notebook, or asked a single question—but never mind.)

I’ve seen that some people are carrying quite neat little silver desk clocks, and I wouldn’t mind one of those, so I’m just wan-dering along, trying to work out what direction they’re coming from, when a voice says, “Becky!”

I look up—and it’s Elly! She’s standing at the Wetherby’s display with a couple of guys in suits, waving at me to come over.

“Hi!” I say delightedly. “Howare you?”

“Fine!” she says, beaming. “Really getting along well.” And she does look the part, I have to say. She’s wearing a bright red suit (Karen Millen, no doubt), and some really nice square-toed shoes, and her hair’s tied back. The only thing I don’t go for is the earrings. Why is she suddenly wearing pearl earrings? Maybe it’s just to blend in with the others.

“God, I can’t believe you’re actually one of them!” I say, lowering my voice slightly. “I’ll be interviewing you next!” I tilt my head earnestly, like Martin Bashir onPanorama. “ ‘Ms. Granger, could you tell me the aims and principles of Wetherby’s Investments?’ ”

Elly gives a little laugh, then reaches into a box beside her.

“I’ll give you this,” she says, and hands me a brochure.

“Oh thanks,” I say ironically, and stuff it into my bag. I sup-pose she has to look good in front of her colleagues.

“It’s actually quite an exciting time at Wetherby’s,” continues Elly. “You know we’re launching a whole new range of funds next month? There are five altogether. UK Growth, UK Prospects, European Growth, European Prospects, and . . .”

Why is she telling me this, exactly?

“Elly . . .”

“And US Growth!” she finishes triumphantly. There isn’t a flicker of humor in her eyes. Suddenly I find myself remembering Luke saying he wasn’t surprised by Elly joining Wetherby’s.

“Right,” I say after a pause. “Well, that sounds . . . fab!”

“I could arrange for our PR people to give you a call, if you like,” she says. “Fill you in a bit more.”

What?

“No,” I say hurriedly. “No, it’s OK. So, erm . . . what are you doing afterward? Do you want to go for a drink?”

“No can do,” she says apologetically. “I’m going to look at a flat.”

“Are you moving?” I say in surprise. Elly lives in the coolest flat in Camden, with two guys who are in a band and get her into loads of free gigs and stuff. I can’t think why she’d want to move.

“Actually, I’m buying,” she says. “I’m looking around Streatham, Tooting . . . I just want to get on the first rung of that property ladder.”

“Right,” I say feebly. “Good idea.”

“You should do it yourself, you know, Becky,” she says. “You can’t hang around in a student flat forever. Real life has to begin sometime!” She glances at one of her men in suits, and he gives a little laugh.

It’s not a student flat, I think indignantly. And anyway, who defines “real life”? Who says “real life” is property ladders and hideous pearl earrings? “Shit-boring tedious life,” more like.

“Are you going to the Barclays Champagne Reception?” I say as a last gasp, thinking maybe we can go and have some fun together. But she pulls a little face and shakes her head.

“I might pop in,” she says, “but I’ll be quite tied up here.”

“OK,” I say. “Well, I’ll . . . I’ll see you later.”

I move away from the stand and slowly start walking toward the corner where the Champagne Reception’s being held, feeling slightly dispirited. In spite of myself, a part of me starts wonder-ing if maybe Elly’s right and I’m wrong. Maybe I should be talking about property ladders and growth funds, too. Oh God, I’m miss-ing the gene which makes you grow up and buy a flat in Streatham and start visiting Homebase every weekend. Everyone’s moving on without me, into a world I don’t understand.

But as I get near the entrance to the Champagne Reception, I feel my spirits rising. Whose spiritsdon’t rise at the thought of free champagne? It’s all being held in a huge tent, and there’s a huge banner, and a band playing music, and a girl in a sash at the entrance, handing out Barclays key rings. When she sees my badge, she gives me a wide smile, hands me a white glossy press pack, and says, “Bear with me a moment.” Then she walks off to a little group of people, murmurs in the ear of a man in a suit, and comes back. “Someone will be with you soon,” she says. “In the meantime, let me get you a glass of champagne.”

You see what I mean about beingPRESS ? Everywhere you go, you get special treatment. I accept a glass of champagne, stuff the press pack into my carrier bag, and take a sip. Oh, it’s delicious. Icy cold and sharp and bubbly. Maybe I’ll stay here for a couple of hours, I think, just drinking champagne until there’s none left. They won’t dare chuck me out, I’mPRESS . In fact, maybe I’ll . . .

“Rebecca. Glad you could make it.”

I look up and feel myself freeze. The man in the suit was Luke Brandon. Luke Brandon’s standing in front of me, with an expression I can’t quite read. And suddenly I feel sick. All that stuff I planned about playing it cool and icy isn’t going to work—because just seeing his face, I feel hot with humiliation, all over again.

“Hi,” I mutter, looking down. Why am I even saying hi to him?

“I was hoping you’d come,” he says in a low, serious voice. “I very much wanted to—”

“Yes,” I interrupt. “Well, I . . . I can’t talk, I’ve got to mingle. I’m here to work, you know.”

I’m trying to sound dignified, but there’s a wobble in my voice, and I can feel my cheeks flush as he keeps gazing at me. So I turn away before he can say anything else, and march off toward the other side of the tent. I don’t quite know where I’m heading, but I’ve just got to keep walking until I find someone to talk to.

The trouble is, I can’t see anyone I recognize. It’s all just groups of bank-type people laughing loudly together and talking about golf. They all seem really tall and broad-shouldered, and I can’t even catch anyone’s eye. God, this is embarrassing. I feel like a six-year-old at a grown-up’s party. In the corner I spot Moira Channing from theDaily Herald, and she gives me a half flicker of recognition—but I’m certainly not going to talk to her. OK, just keep walking, I tell myself. Pretend you’re on your way some-where. Don’t panic.

Then I see Luke Brandon on the other side of the tent. His head jerks up as he sees me, and and he starts heading toward me. Oh God, quick. Quick. I’vegot to find somebody to talk to.

Right, how about this couple standing together? The guy’s middle-aged, the woman’s quite a lot younger, and they don’t look as if they know too many people, either. Thank God. Who-ever they are, I’ll just ask them how they’re enjoying the Personal Finance Fair and whether they’re finding it useful, and pretend I’m making notes for my article. And when Luke Brandon arrives, I’ll be too engrossed in conversation even to notice him. OK, go.

I take a gulp of champagne, approach the man, and smile brightly.

“Hi there,” I say. “Rebecca Bloomwood,Successful Saving.”

“Hello,” he says, turning toward me and extending his hand. “Derek Smeath from Endwich Bank. And this is my assistant, Erica.”

Oh my God.

I can’t speak. I can’t shake his hand. I can’t run. My whole body’s paralyzed.

“Hi!” says Erica, giving me a friendly smile. “I’m Erica Parnell.”

“Yes,” I say, after a huge pause. “Yes, hi.”

Please don’t recognize my name. Please don’t recognize my voice.

“Are you a journalist, then?” she says, looking at my name badge and frowning. “Your name seems quite familiar.”

“Yes,” I manage. “Yes, you . . . you might have read some of my articles.”

“I expect I have,” she says, and takes an unconcerned sip of champagne. “We get all the financial mags in the office. Quite good, some of them.”

Slowly the circulation is returning to my body. It’s going to be OK, I tell myself. They don’t have a clue.

“You journalists have to be expert on everything, I suppose,” says Derek, who has given up trying to shake my hand and is swigging his champagne instead.

“Yes, we do really,” I reply, and risk a smile. “We get to know all areas of personal finance—from banking to unit trusts to life insurance.”

“And how do you acquire all this knowledge?”

“Oh, we just pick it up along the way,” I say smoothly.

You know what? This is quite fun, actually, now that I’ve relaxed. And Derek Smeath isn’t at all scary in the flesh. In fact, he’s rather cozy and friendly, like some nice sitcom uncle.

“I’ve often thought,” says Erica Parnell, “that they should do a fly-on-the-wall documentary about a bank.” She gives me an expectant look and I nod vigorously.

“Good idea!” I say. “I think that would be fascinating.”

“You shouldsee some of the characters we get in! People who have absolutely no idea about their finances. Don’t we, Derek?”

“You’d be amazed,” says Derek. “Utterly amazed. The lengths people go to, just to avoid paying off their overdrafts! Or even talking to us!”

“Really?” I say, as though astonished.

“You wouldn’t believe it!” says Erica. “I sometimes wonder—”

“Rebecca!” A voice booms behind me and I turn round in shock to see Philip, clutching a glass of champagne and grinning at me. What’she doing here?

“Hi,” he says. “Marketing canceled the meeting, so I thought I’d pop along after all. How’s it all going?”

“Oh, great!” I say, and take a gulp of champagne. “This is Derek, and Erica . . . this is my editor, Philip Page.”

“Endwich Bank, eh?” says Philip, looking at Derek Smeath’s name badge. “You must know Martin Gollinger, then.”

“We’re not head office, I’m afraid,” says Derek, giving a little laugh. “I’m the manager of our Fulham branch.”

“Fulham!” says Philip. “Trendy Fulham.”

And suddenly a warning bell goes off in my head. Dong-dong-dong! I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to say something; change the subject. But it’s too late. I’m the spectator on the mountain, watching the trains collide in the valley below.

“Rebecca lives in Fulham,” Philip’s saying. “Who do you bank with, Rebecca? You’re probably one of Derek’s customers!” He laughs loudly at his own joke, and Derek laughs politely, too.

But I can’t laugh. I’m frozen to the spot, watching Erica Parnell’s face as it changes. As realization slowly dawns. She meets my eye, and I feel something icy drip down my spine.

“Rebecca Bloomwood,” she says, in quite a different voice. “Ithought I knew that name. Do you live in Burney Road, Rebecca?”

“That’s clever!” says Philip. “How did you know that?” And he takes another swig of champagne.

Shut up, Philip, I think frantically. Shutup.

“So you do?” Her voice is sweet but sharp. Oh God, now Philip’s looking at me, waiting for me to answer.

“Yes,” I say in a strangled voice. I’m gripping my champagne glass so hard, I think I might break it.

“Derek, have you realized who this is?” says Erica pleasantly. “This is Rebecca Bloomwood, one of our customers. I think you spoke to her the other day. Remember?” Her voice hardens. “The one with the dead dog?”

There’s silence. I don’t dare look at Derek Smeath’s face. I don’t dare look at anything except the floor.

“Well, there’s a coincidence!” says Philip. “More champagne, anyone?”

“Rebecca Bloomwood,” says Derek Smeath. He sounds quite faint. “I don’t believe it.”

“Yes!” I say, desperately slugging back the last of my cham-pagne. “Ha-ha-ha! It’s a small world. Well, I must be off and inter-view some more . . .”

“Wait!” says Erica, her voice like a dagger. “We were hoping to have a little meeting with you, Rebecca. Weren’t we, Derek?”

“Indeed we were,” says Derek Smeath. I feel a sudden trickle of fear. This man isn’t like a cozy sitcom uncle anymore. He’s like a scary exam monitor, who’s just caught you cheating. “That is,” he adds pointedly, “assuming your legs are both intact and you aren’t suffering from any dreaded lurgey?”

“What’s this?” says Philip cheerfully.

“How is the leg, by the way?” says Erica sweetly.

“Fine,” I mumble. “Fine, thanks.”

“Good,” says Derek Smeath. “So we’ll say Monday at nine-thirty, shall we?” He looks at Philip. “You don’t mind if Rebecca joins us for a quick meeting on Monday morning, do you?”

“Of course not!” says Philip.

“And if she doesn’t turn up,” says Derek Smeath, “we’ll know where to find her, won’t we?” He gives me a sharp look, and I feel my stomach contract in fright.

“Rebecca’ll turn up!” says Philip. He gives me a jokey grin, lifts his glass, and wanders off. Oh God, I think in panic. Don’t leave me alone with them.

“Well, I’ll look forward to seeing you,” says Derek Smeath. He pauses, and gives me a beady look. “And if I remember rightly from our telephone conversation the other day, you’ll be coming into some funds by then.”

Oh shit. I thought he’d have forgotten about that.

“That’s right,” I say after a pause. “Absolutely. My aunt’s money. Well remembered! My aunt left me some money recently,” I explain to Erica Parnell.

Erica Parnell doesn’t look impressed.

“Good,” says Derek Smeath. “Then I’ll expect you on Monday.”

“Fine,” I say, and smile even more confidently at him. “Look-ing forward to it already!”

OCTAGON *flair. . .style. . .vision



FINANCIAL SERVICES DEPARTMENT

5TH FLOOR TOWER HOUSE

LONDON ROAD WINCHESTER S0 44 3DR



Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood Charge Card Number 7854 4567

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd.

London SW6 8FD



15 March 2000



Dear Ms. Bloomwood:



FINAL REMINDER



Further to my letter of 9 March, there is still an outstanding balance of ￡235.76 on your Octagon Silver Card. Should payment not arrive within the next seven days, your account will be frozen and further action will be taken.



I was glad to hear that you have found the Lord and accepted Jesus Christ as your savior; unfortunately this has no bearing on the matter.



I look forward to receiving your payment shortly.



Yours sincerely,



Grant Ellesmore

Customer Finance Manager