Chapter 20

BY ELEVEN TWENTY-FIVE, I’m sitting on a brown uphol-stered chair in the green room. I’m dressed in a midnight-blue Jasper Conran suit, sheer tights, and a pair of suede high heels. What with my makeup and blown-dry hair, I’ve never looked smarter in my life. But I can’t enjoy any of it. All I can think of is the fact that in fifteen minutes, I’ve got to sit on a sofa and discuss high-powered finance with Luke Brandon on live television.

The very thought of it makes me feel like whimpering. Or laughing wildly. I mean, it’s like some kind of sick joke. Luke Brandon against me. Luke Brandon, with his genius IQ and bloody photographic memory—against me. He’ll walk all over me. He’llmassacre me.

“Darling, have a croissant,” says Elisabeth Plover, who’s sitting opposite me, munching apain au chocolat. “They’re simply sublime. Every bite like a ray of golden Proven?al sun.”

“No thanks,” I say. “I . . . I’m not really hungry.”

I don’t understand how she can eat. I honestly feel as though I’m about to throw up at any moment. How on earth do people appear on television every day? How does Fiona Phillips do it? No wonder they’re all so thin.

“Coming up!” comes Rory’s voice from the television monitor in the corner of the room, and both our heads automatically swivel round to see the screen filled with a picture of the beach at sunset. “What is it like, to live with a gangster and then, risking everything, betray him? Our next guest has written an explosive novel based on her dark and dangerous background . . .”

“. . . And we introduce a new series of in-depth discussions,” chimes in Emma. The picture changes to one of pound coins rain-ing onto the floor, and my stomach gives a nasty flip. “Morning Coffeeturns the spotlight on the issue of financial scandal, with two leading industry experts coming head-to-head in debate.”

Is that me? Oh God, I don’t want to be a leading industry expert. I want to go home and watch reruns ofThe Simpsons .

“But first!” says Rory cheerily. “Scott Robertson’s getting all fired up in the kitchen.”

The picture switches abruptly to a man in a chef’s hat grin-ning and brandishing a blowtorch. I stare at him for a few moments, then look down again, clenching my hands tightly in my lap. I can’t quite believe that in fifteen minutes it’ll be me up on that screen. Sitting on the sofa. Trying to think of something to say.

To distract myself, I unscrew my crappy piece of paper for the thousandth time and read through my paltry notes. Maybe it won’t be so bad, I find myself thinking hopefully, as my eyes circle the same few sentences again and again. Maybe I’m worry-ing about nothing. We’ll probably keep the whole thing at the level of a casual chat. Keep it simple and friendly. After all . . .

“Good morning, Rebecca,” comes a voice from the door. Slowly I look up—and as I do so, my heart sinks. Luke Brandon is standing in the doorway. He’s wearing an immaculate dark suit, his hair is shining, and his face is bronze with makeup. There isn’t an ounce of friendliness in his face. His jaw is tight; his eyes are hard and businesslike. As they meet mine, they don’t even flicker.

For a few moments we gaze at each other without speaking. I can hear my pulse beating loudly in my ears; my face feels hotbeneath all the makeup. Then, summoning all my inner resources, I force myself to say calmly, “Hello, Luke.”

There’s an interested silence as he walks into the room. Even Elisabeth Plover seems intrigued by him.

“I know that face,” she says, leaning forward. “I know it. You’re an actor, aren’t you? Shakespearean, of course. I believe I saw you inLear three years ago.”

“I don’t think so,” says Luke curtly.

“You’re right!” says Elisabeth, slapping the table. “It wasHamlet. I remember it well. The desperate pain, the guilt, the final tragedy . . .” She shakes her head solemnly. “I’ll never forget that voice of yours. Every word was like a stab wound.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” says Luke, and looks at me. “Rebecca—”

“Luke, here are the final figures,” interrupts Alicia, hurrying into the room and handing him a piece of paper. “Hello, Rebecca,” she adds, giving me a snide look. “All prepared?”

“Yes, I am, actually,” I say, crumpling my paper into a ball in my lap. “Very well prepared.”

“Glad to hear it,” says Alicia, raising her eyebrows. “It should be an interesting debate.”

“Yes,” I say defiantly. “Very.”

God, she’s a cow.

“I’ve just had John from Flagstaff on the phone,” adds Alicia to Luke in a lowered voice. “He was very keen that you should mention the new Foresight Savings Series. Obviously, I told him—”

“This is a damage limitation exercise,” says Luke curtly. “Not a bloody plug-fest. He’ll be bloody lucky if he . . .” He glances at me and I look away as though I’m not remotely interested in what he’s talking about. Casually I glance at my watch and feel a leap of fright as I see the time. Ten minutes. Ten minutes to go.

“OK,” says Zelda, coming into the room. “Elisabeth, we’re ready for you.”

“Marvelous,” says Elisabeth, taking a last mouthful ofpain auchocolat. “Now, I dolook all right, don’t I?” She stands up and a shower of crumbs falls off her skirt.

“You’ve got a piece of croissant in your hair,” says Zelda, reaching up and removing it. “Other than that—what can I say?” She catches my eye and I have a hysterical desire to giggle.

“Luke!” says the baby-faced guy rushing in with a mobile phone. “John Bateson on the line for you. And a couple of pack-ages have arrived . . .”

“Thanks, Tim,” says Alicia, taking the packages and ripping them open. She pulls out a bunch of papers and begins scanning them quickly, marking things every so often in pencil. Mean-while, Tim sits down, opens a laptop computer, and starts typing.

“Yes, John, I do see your bloody point,” Luke’s saying in a low, tight voice. “But if you had just kept me better informed—”

“Tim,” says Alicia, looking up. “Can you quickly check the return on the Flagstaff Premium Pension over the last three, five, and ten?”

“Absolutely,” says Tim, and starts tapping at his computer.

“Tim,” says Luke, looking up from the phone. “Can you print out the Flagstaff Foresight press release draft for me ASAP? Thanks.”

I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. They’ve practically set up an office, here in theMorning Coffee green room. An entire office of Brandon Communications staff complete with computers and modems and phones . . . pitted against me and my crumpled piece of notebook paper.

As I watch Tim’s laptop efficiently spewing out pages, and Alicia handing sheets of paper to Luke, a resigned feeling starts to creep over me. I mean, let’s face it. I’ll never beat this lot, will I? I haven’t got a chance. I should just give up now. Tell them I’m ill or something. Run home and hide under my duvet.

“OK, everyone?” says Zelda,poking her head round the door. “On in seven minutes.”

“Fine,” says Luke.

“Fine,” I echo in a wobbly voice.

“Oh, and Rebecca, there’s a package for you,” says Zelda. She comes into the room and hands me a large, square box. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Thanks, Zelda,” I say in surprise, and, with a sudden lift of spirits, begin to rip the box open. I’ve no idea what it is or who it’s from—but it’s got to be something helpful, hasn’t it? Special last-minute information from Eric Foreman, maybe. A graph, or a series of figures that I can produce at the crucial moment. Or some secret document that Luke doesn’t know about.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see that all the Brandonites have stopped what they’re doing and are watching, too. Well, that’ll show them. They’re not the only ones to get packages delivered to the green room. They’re not the only ones to have resources. Finally I get the sticky tape undone and open the flaps of the box.

And as everyone watches, a big red helium balloon, with “GOOD LUCK” emblazoned across it, floats up to the ceiling. There’s a card attached to the string, and, without looking anyone in the eye, I rip it open.

Immediately I wish I hadn’t.

“Good luck to you, good luck to you, whatever you’re about to do,”sings a tinny electronic voice.

I slam the card shut and feel a surge of embarrassment. From the other side of the room I can hear little sniggers going on, and I look up to see Alicia smirking. She whispers something into Luke’s ear, and an amused expression spreads across his face.

He’s laughing at me. They’re all laughing at Rebecca Bloomwood and her singing balloon. For a few moments I can’t move for mortification. My chest is rising and falling swiftly; I’ve never felt less like a leading industry expert in my life.

Then, on the other side of the room, I hear Alicia murmur some malicious little comment and give a snort of laughter. Deep inside me, something snaps. Sod them, I think suddenly. Sodthem all. They’re probably only jealous, anyway. They wish they had balloons, too.

Defiantly I open the card again to read the message.

“No matter if it’s rain or shine, we all know that you’ll be fine,”sings the card’s tinny voice at once.“Hold your head up, keep it high —all that matters is you try.”

To Becky,I read.With love and thanks for all your wonderful help. We’re so proud to know you. From your friends Janice and Martin.

I stare down at the card, reading the words over and over, and feel my eyes grow hot with tears. Janice and Martinhave been good friends over the years. They’ve always been kind to me, even when I gave them such disastrous advice. I owe this to them. And I’m bloody well not going to let them down.

I blink a few times, take a deep breath, and look up to see Luke Brandon gazing at me, his eyes dark and expressionless.

“Friends,” I say coolly. “Sending me their good wishes.”

Carefully I place the card on the coffee table, making sure it stays open so it’ll keep singing, then pull my balloon down from the ceiling and tie it to the back of my chair.

“OK,” comes Zelda’s voice from the door. “Luke and Rebecca. Are you ready?”

“Couldn’t be readier,” I say calmly, and walk past Luke to the door.