Chapter 8

OK,SO PERHAPS the Cutting Back didn’t go that well. But it doesn’t matter, because that’s all in the past. That was negative thinking—now I’m seriously into positive thinking. Onward and upward. Growth and prosperity. M.M.M. It’s the obvious solu-tion, when you think about it. And you know what? Suze is absolutely right. Making More Money suits my personality far better than Cutting Back did. I’m already feeling much happier. Just the fact that I don’t have to make any more grotty cheese sandwiches, or go to any more museums, has lifted a huge weight off my soul. And I’m allowed to buy all the cappuccinos I like, and start looking in shop windows again. Oh, the relief! I’ve even chuckedControlling Your Cash in the bin. I never did think it was any good.

The only small thing—tiny niggle—is I’m not quite sure how I’m going to do it. Make More Money, I mean. But now I’ve decided to go ahead with it, something will turn up. I’m sure of it.

When I get into work on Monday, Clare Edwards is already at her desk—surprise—and on the phone.

“Yes,” she’s saying softly. “Well, it’s certainly been a wonderful first year.”

When she sees me, to my surprise, she blushes a faint pink and turns away slightly. “Yes, I understand,” she whispers, scrib-bling in her notepad. “But what about the future?”

God knows why she’s being so secretive. As if I’m interested in her tedious life. I sit down at my desk, briskly flip on my computer, and open my diary. Oh goody, I’ve got a press confer-ence in the City. Even if it is some boring old pensions launch, at least it means a trip out of the office and, with any luck, a nice glass of champagne. Work can be quite fun, sometimes. And Philip isn’t in yet, which means we can sit and gossip for a while.

“So, Clare,” I say, as she puts the phone down, “how was your weekend?”

I look over, expecting to hear the usual thrilling account of what shelf she put up where with her boyfriend—but Clare doesn’t even seem to have heard what I said.

“Clare?” I say puzzledly. She’s staring at me with pink cheeks, as though I’ve caught her stealing pens from the stationery cupboard.

“Listen,” she says in a rush. “That conversation you heard me having just now . . . could you not mention it to Philip?”

I stare at her in bemusement. What’s she talking about? Oh wow—is she having an affair? But then, why should Philip care? He’s her editor, not her—

Oh my God. She’s not having an affair withPhilip, is she?

“Clare, what’s going on!” I say excitedly.

There’s a long pause, as Clare blushes deep red. I can’t believe this. A piece of office scandal at last! And involving Clare Edwards, of all people!

“Oh, come on, Clare,” I whisper. “You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.” I lean forward sympathetically. “I might even be able to help.”

“Yes,” says Clare, rubbing her face. “Yes, that’s true. I could do with a bit of advice. The pressure’s starting to get to me.”

“Start from the beginning,” I say calmly, just like Dear Abby. “When did it all begin?”

“OK, I’ll tell you,” whispers Clare, and looks nervously about. “It was about. . . six months ago.”

“And what happened?”

“It all began on that Scottish press trip,” she says slowly. “I was away from home . . . I said yes without even thinking. I suppose I was flattered, more than anything else.”

“It’s the old story,” I say wisely. God, I’m enjoying this.

“If Philip knew what I was doing, he’d go crazy,” she says despairingly. “But it’s just so easy. I use a different name—and no one knows!”

“You use a different name?” I say, impressed in spite of myself.

“Several,” she says, and gives a bitter little laugh. “You’ve probably seen some of them around.” She exhales sharply. “I know I’m taking a risk—but I can’t stop. To be honest, you get used to the money.”

Money? Is she aprostitute ?

“Clare, what exactly are you—”

“At first it was just a little piece on mortgages inThe Mail ,” she says, as though she hasn’t heard me. “I thought I could handle it. But then I was asked to do a full-length feature on life insurance inTheSunday Times. ThenPension andPortfolio got in on the act. And now it’s about three articles every week. I have to do it all in secret, try to act normally . . .” She breaks off and shakes her head. “Sometimes it gets me down. But I just can’t say no anymore. I’m hooked.”

I do not believe it. She’s talking about work. Work! There I was, thinking she was having a steamy affair, ready to hear all the exciting details—and all the time it was just boring old . . .

Then something she’s just said tweaks at my mind.

“Did you say the money was good?” I say casually.

“Oh yes,” she says. “About three hundred quid a piece. That’s how we could afford our flat.”

Three hundred quid!

Nine hundred quid a week! Bloody hell!





This is the answer. It’s easy. I’ll become a high-flying freelance journalist, just like Clare, and earn nine hundred quid a week. What I have to do is start networking and making contacts at events instead of always sitting at the back with Elly. I must shake hands firmly with all the finance editors of the nationals and wear my name badge prominently instead of putting it straight in my bag, and then phone them up with ideas when I get back to the office. And then I’ll have ￡900 a week. Hah!

So when I arrive at the press conference, I pin my name badge on firmly, take a cup of coffee (no champagne—blast), and head toward Moira Channing of theDaily Herald.

“Hello,” I say, nodding in what I hope is a serious manner. “Becky Bloomwood,Successful Saving .”

“Hello,” she says without interest, and turns back to the other woman in the group. “So we had the second lot of builders back, andreally read them the riot act.”

“Oh, Moira, you poor thing,” says the other woman. I squint at her badge and see that she’s Lavinia Bellimore, freelance. Well, there’s no point impressing her—she’s the competition.

Anyway, she doesn’t give me a second glance. The two chat away about extensions and school fees, completely ignoring me—and after a bit I mutter, “Good to meet you,” and creep away. God, I’d forgotten how unfriendly they are. Still, never mind. I’ll just have to find someone else.

So after a bit I sidle up to a very tall guy on his own, and smile at him.

“Becky Bloomwood,Successful Saving ,” I say.

“Geoffrey Norris, freelance,” he says, and flashes his badge at me. Oh for God’s sake. The place is crawling with freelancers!

“Who do you write for?” I ask politely, thinking at least I might pick up some tips.

“It depends,” he says shiftily. His eyes keep darting backwardand forward, and he’s refusing to meet my eye. “I used to be onMonetary Matters. But they sacked me.”

“Oh dear,” I say.

“They’re bastards over there,” he says, and drains his coffee. “Bastards! Don’t go near them. That’s my advice.”

“OK, I’ll remember that!” I say brightly, edging away. “Actu-ally, I just have to . . .” And I turn, and walk quickly away. Why do I always find myself talking to weirdos?

Just then, a buzzer goes off, and people start to find their seats. Deliberately, I head for the second row, pick up the glossy brochure that’s waiting for me on my seat, and take out my note-book. I wish I wore glasses, then I’d look even more serious. I’m just writing down Sacrum Asset Management Pension Fund Launch in capitals at the top of the page, when a middle-aged man I’ve never seen before plonks himself down next to me. He’s got disheveled brown hair and smells of cigarettes, and is wearing an old-looking jacket over a dark red shirt with no tie. Plus, I suddenly notice, sneakers on his feet.Sneakers to a press confer-ence? He sits down, leans back comfortably, and looks around with twinkling brown eyes.

“It’s a joke, isn’t it?” he murmurs, then meets my eye. “All this gloss. All this show.” He gestures around. “You don’t fall for it, do you?”

Oh God.Another weirdo.

“Absolutely not,” I say politely, and look for his name badge, but I can’t see one.

“Glad to hear it,” says the man, and shakes his head. “Bloody fat cats.” He gestures to the front, where three men in expensive suits are sitting down behind the table. “You won’t findthem surviving on fifty quid a week, will you?”

“Well . . . no,” I say. “More like fifty quid a minute.” The man gives an appreciative laugh.

“That’s a good line. I might use that.” He extends his hand. “Eric Foreman,Daily World.”

“Daily World?”I say, impressed in spite of myself. Gosh,The Daily World. I have to confess a little secret here—I really likeThe Daily World. I know it’s only a tabloid, but it’s so easy to read, especially if you’re on a train. (My arms must be very weak or something, because holdingThe Times makes them ache after a while. And then all the pages get messed up. It’s a nightmare.) And some of the articles in the “Female World” section are actu-ally rather interesting.

But hang on—surely I’ve metThe Daily World ’s personal finance editor. Surely it’s that drippy woman called Marjorie? So who’s this guy?

“I haven’t seen you around before,” I say casually. “Are you new?”

Eric Foreman gives a chuckle. “I’ve been on the paper for ten years. But this finance stuff isn’t usually my scene.” He lowers his voice. “I’m here to stir up a bit of trouble, as it goes. The editor’s brought me on board for a new campaign we’re running, ‘Can We Trust the Money Men?’ ”

He eventalks in a tabloid voice.

“That sounds great,” I say.

“Could be, could be. As long as I can get past all this techni-cal stuff.” He pulls a face. “Never been good at figures.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” I say kindly. “You don’t actually need to know very much. You’ll soon pick up what’s important. Basically, these guys are launching a new pension plan . . .” I glance at the brochure “. . . and the gimmick is, there’s a discount for investors under the age of twenty-five. Which makes sense, of course, because the sooner you start retirement planning, the better.”

“Oh absolutely,” echoes Eric Foreman, a tiny smile at his mouth. “May I ask, do you have a pension?”

“Well . . . no,” I admit. “I don’t at the moment . . . but I’m absolutely intending to, as soon as I decide which one.”

Which is true. As soon as I clear all my debts, I’m going to start a pension plan, and also invest in a long-term equity-basedinvestment fund. I may even put some spare money into emerg-ing markets. I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it?

“Glad to hear it,” says Eric Foreman, grinning. “Very wise of you.” He peers at my name badge. “And you are . . .”

“Rebecca Bloomwood,Successful Saving ,” I say in my best networking manner.

“Glad to meet you, Rebecca,” he says, and fishes in his pocket for a business card.

“Oh, thanks,” I say, hastily reaching into my bag for my own business cards. Yes! I think triumphantly as I hand it over. I’m networking with the national newspapers! I’m swapping business cards!

Just then the microphones all come on with a screech of feedback, and a dark-haired girl at the podium clears her throat. Behind her is a lit-up screen, with the wordsSacrum Asset Management against a sunset.

I remember this girl now. She was really snotty to me at a press briefing last year. But Philip likes her, because she sends him a bottle of champagne every Christmas, so I’ll have to give this new pension plan a nice write-up.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says. “My name is Maria Freeman, and I’m delighted to welcome you all to the launch of the Sacrum Asset Management Pension Series. This is an innovative range of products designed to combine flexibility and security with the powerful performance associated with Sacrum.”

A graph appears on the screen before us, with a wiggly red line rising and falling above a thinner black one.

“As Graph 1 shows,” says Maria Freeman confidently, point-ing to the wiggly red line, “our UK Enterprise Fund has consis-tently outperformed the rest of its particular sector.”

“Hmm,” murmurs Eric Foreman to me, frowning at his brochure. “So, what’s going on here, then? I heard a rumor that Sacrum Asset Management wasn’t doing too well.” He jabs at the graph. “But look at this. Outperforming the sector.”

“Yeah, right,” I murmur back. “And what sector would that be? The Crap Investments Sector? The Lose All Your Money Sector?”

Eric Foreman looks at me and his mouth twists slightly.

“You think they’ve fiddled their figures?” he whispers.

“It’s not exactly fiddling,” I explain. “They just compare them-selves to whoever’s worse than themselves, and then call themselves the winners.” I point to the graph in the brochure. “Look. They haven’t actually specified what this so-called sector is.”

“Well, blow me,” says Eric Foreman, and looks up at the Sacrum team sitting on the platform. “They’re canny bastards, aren’t they?”

Really, this guy has no idea. I feel almost sorry for him.

Maria Freeman is droning on again, and I stifle a yawn. The trouble with sitting near the front is you have to pretend to look interested and be writing notes. “Pensions,” I write, and draw a swirly line underneath. Then I make the line into the stem of a vine and start drawing little bunches of grapes and leaves all the way along.

“In a moment I’ll be introducing Mike Dillon, who heads up the investment team, and he’ll be telling you a little about their methods. In the meantime, if there are any questions . . .”

“Yes,” says Eric Foreman. “I’ve got a question.” I look up from my grapevine, slightly surprised.

“Oh yes?” Maria Freeman smiles sweetly at him. “And you are . . .”

“Eric Foreman,Daily World. I’d like to know, how much do you all get paid?” He gestures with his hand along the table.

“What?” Maria Freeman turns pink, then regains her compo-sure. “Oh, you mean charges. Well, we’ll be dealing with those . . .”

“I don’t mean charges,” says Eric Foreman. “I mean, how-much-do-you-get-paid? You, Mike Dillon.” He jabs at him with his finger. “What are you on? Six figures, is it? And bearing in mind what adisaster the performance of Sacrum Asset Management was last year—shouldn’t you be out on the streets?”

I’m absolutely stunned. I’ve never seen anything like this at a press conference. Never!

There’s a kerfuffle at the table, and then Mike Dillon leans forward toward his microphone.

“If we could get on with the presentation,” he says, “and . . . and leave other questions for later.” He’s looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“Just one more thing,” says Eric Foreman. “What would you say to one of our readers who invested in your Safe Prospects plan and lost ten grand?” He glances briefly at me and winks. “Show them a nice reassuring graph like that one, would you? Tell them you were ‘top of the sector’?”

Oh, this is fantastic! All the Sacrum people look like they want to die.

“A press release on the subject of Safe Prospects was issued at the time,” says Maria and smiles icily at Eric. “However, this press conference is restricted to the subject of the new Pension Series. If you could just wait until the presentation is over . . .”

“Don’t worry,” says Eric Foreman comfortably. “I won’t be staying to hear the bullshit. I reckon I’ve got everything I need already.” He stands up and grins at me. “Good to meet you, Rebecca,” he says quietly. “And thanks for your expertise.” He extends his hand and I shake it, without quite knowing what I’m doing. And then, as everyone is turning in their seats and whispering, he makes his way along the row and out of the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Maria Freeman, two bright spots burning on her cheeks. “Due to this . . . disturbance, we will have a short break before we resume. Please help yourself to tea and coffee. Thank you.” She turns off the microphone, climbs down from the podium, and hurries over to the huddle of Sacrum Asset Management personnel.

“You shouldnever have let him in!” I hear one of them saying.

“I didn’t know who he was!” replies Maria defensively. “He said he was a stringer forThe Wall Street Journal !”

Well, this is more like it! I haven’t seen so much excitement since Alan Derring from theDaily Investor stood up at a Provident Assurance press conference and told everyone he was becoming a woman and wanted us all to call him Andrea.

I head toward the back to get another cup of coffee, and find Elly standing by the coffee table. Excellent. I haven’t seen Elly for ages.

“Hi,” she grins. “I like your new friend. Very entertaining.”

“I know!” I say delightedly. “Isn’t he cool?” I reach for a posh chocolate biscuit wrapped in gold foil, and give my cup to the waitress to be refilled. Then I take another couple of biscuits and pop them in my bag. (No point wasting them.)

Around us there is an excited buzz of conversation; the Sacrum people are still clustered at the front. This is great. We’ll be able to natter for hours.

“So listen,” I say to Elly. “Have you applied for any jobs recently?” I take a sip of coffee. “Because I saw one forNewWoman the other day in theMedia Guardian, and I meant to ring you. It said it was essential to have experience on a consumer title, but I thought you could say—:”

“Becky,” interrupts Elly in an odd voice, “you know which job I’ve been going for.”

“What?” I stare at her. “Not that fund manager job. But that wasn’t serious. That was just a bargaining tool.”

“I took it,” she says, and I gaze at her in shock.

Suddenly a voice comes from the podium, and we both look up.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Maria is saying. “If you would like to resume your seats . . .”

I’m sorry, but I can’t go and sit back down there. Ihave to hear about this.

“Come on,” I say quickly to Elly. “We don’t need to stay. We’ve got our press packs. Let’s go and have lunch.”

There’s a pause—and for an awful moment I think she’s going to say no, shewants to stay and hear about personal pensions. Butthen she grins and takes my arm—and to the obvious dismay of the girl at the door, we waltz out of the room.





There’s a Café Rouge around the corner, and we go straight in and order a bottle of white wine. I’m still in slight shock, to tell you the truth. Elly Granger is going to become a Wetherby’s fund man-ager. She’s deserting me. I won’t have anyone to play with anymore.

And howcan she? She wanted to be beauty editor onMarie-Claire, for God’s sake!

“So, what decided you?” I say cautiously as our wine arrives.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, and sighs. “I just kept thinking, where am I going? You know, I keep applying for all these glam jobs in journalism and never even getting an interview . . .”

“You would have got one eventually,” I say robustly. “I know you would.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe not. And in the meantime, I’m writing about all this boring financial stuff—and I suddenly thought, why not just sod it anddo boring financial stuff? At least I’ll have a proper career.”

“You were in a proper career!”

“No I wasn’t, I was hopeless! I was paddling around with no aim, no game plan, no prospects . . .” Elly breaks off as she sees my face. “I mean, I was quite different from you,” she adds hurriedly. “You’re much more sorted out than I was.”

Sorted out? Is she joking?

“So when do you start?” I say, to change the subject—because to be honest, I feel a bit thrown by all this. I don’t have a game plan, I don’t have prospects. Maybe I’m hopeless, too. Maybe I should rethink my career. Oh God, this is depressing.

“Next week,” says Elly, and takes a swig of wine. “I’m going to be based at the Silk Street office.”

“Oh right,” I say miserably.

“And I’ve had to buy loads of new clothes,” she adds, and pulls a little face. “They’re all really smart at Wetherby’s.”

New clothes?Newclothes? Right, now I really am jealous.

“I went into Karen Millen and practically bought it out,” she says, eating a marinated olive. “Spent about a thousand quid.”

“Blimey,” I say, feeling slightly awe-stricken. “A thousand quid, all at once?”

“Well, I had to,” she says apologetically. “And anyway, I’ll be earning more now.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” she says, and gives a little laugh. “Lots more.”

“Like . . . how much?” I ask, feeling tweaks of curiosity.

“I’m starting off on forty grand,” she says, and gives a careless shrug. “After that, who knows? What they said is . . .”

And she starts talking about careerstructures and ladders and bonuses. But I can’t hear a word, I’m too shell-shocked.

Forty grand?

Fortygrand?But I only earn—

Actually, should I be telling you how much I earn? Isn’t it one of those things like religion, you’re not supposed to mention in polite company? Or maybe we’re all allowed to talk about money these days. Suze would know.

Oh well, sod it. You know everything else, don’t you? The truth is, I earn ￡21,000. And I thought that was a lot! I remem-ber really well, when I moved jobs, I jumped from ￡18,000 to ￡21,000, and I thought I’d made the big time. I was so excited about it, I used to write endless lists of what I would buy with all that extra money.

But now it sounds like nothing. I should be earning forty grand, like Elly, and buying all my clothes at Karen Millen. Oh, it’s not fair. My life’s a complete disaster.





As I’m walking back to the office, I feel pretty morose. Maybe I should give up journalism and become a fund manager, too. Or a merchant banker. They earn a pretty good whack, don’t they? Maybe I could join Goldman Sachs or somewhere. They earnabout a million a year, don’t they? God, that would be good. I wonder how you get a job like that.

But on the other hand . . . do I really want to be a banker? I wouldn’t mind the clothes-from-Karen-Millen part of it. In fact, I think I’d do that really well. But I’m not so sure about the rest. The getting-up-early-and-working-hideously-hard part. Not that I’m lazy or anything—but I quite like the fact that I can go and spend the afternoon at Image Store, or flick through the papers pretending to be doing research, and no one gives me a hard time. It doesn’t sound as if Elly will be doing much of that in her new job. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be anything remotely fun or creative about it. And aren’t bankers rather humorless? Their press conferences certainly are—so imagineworking with them. It all sounds quite scary.

Hmm. If only there were some way that I could get all the nice clothes—but not have to do the dreary work. One but not the other. If only there were a way . . . My eyes are automatically flicking into all the shop windows as I pass, checking out the displays—and suddenly I stop in my tracks.

This is a sign from God. It has to be.

I’m standing outside Ally Smith—which has some gorgeous full-length coats in the window—and there’s a handwritten sign in the glass pane of the door. “Wanted. Saturday sales assistants. Inquire within.”

I almost feel faint as I stare at the sign. It’s as though lightning has struck, or something. Why onearth haven’t I thought of this before? It’s pure genius. I’ll get a Saturday job! I’ll work in a clothes shop! That way, I’ll make loads of extra moneyand I’ll get a discount on all the clothes! And let’s face it, working in a shop has got to be more fun than becoming a fund manager, hasn’t it? I can choose all my own clothes as I help the customers. I’ll actu-ally be gettingpaid to go shopping!

This is bloody fantastic, I think, striding into the shop with a friendly smile on my face. Iknew something good was going to happen today. I just had a feeling about it.





Half an hour later, I come out with an even bigger smile on my face. I’ve got a job! I’ve got a Saturday job! I’m going to work from eight-thirty to five-thirty every Saturday, and get ￡4.80 an hour, and 10 percent off all the clothes! And after three months, it goes up to 20 percent! All my money troubles are over.

Thank God it was a quiet afternoon. They let me fill in the application form on the spot, and Danielle, the manager, gave me an interview straight away. At first, she looked a bit dubious—especially when I said I had a full-time job as a financial journalist and was doing this to get extra money and clothes. “It’ll be hard work,” she kept saying. “You do realize that? It’ll be very hard work.” But I think what changed her mind was when we started talking about the stock. I love Ally Smith—so of course I knew the price of every single item in the shop and whether they have anything similar in Jigsaw or French Connection. Eventually Danielle gave me a funny look and said, “Well, you obviously like clothes.” And then she gave me the job! I can’t wait. I start this Saturday. Isn’t it great?

As I arrive back at the office I feel exhilarated with my success. I look around—and suddenly this mundane office life seems far too boring and limited for a creative spirit like mine. I don’t belong here, among fusty piles of press releases and grimly tapping computers. I belong out there, among the bright spot-lights and cashmere cardigans of Ally Smith. Maybe I’ll go into retail full time, I think, as I sit back down at my desk. Maybe I’ll start my own chain of designer stores! I’ll be one of those people featured in articles about incredibly successful entrepreneurs. “Becky Bloomwood was working as a financial journalist when she devised the innovative concept of Bloomwood Stores. Now a successful chain around the country, the idea came to her one day as she . . .”

The phone rings and I pick it up.

“Yes?” I say absently. “Rebecca Bloomwood here.” I nearly add, “of Bloomwood Stores,” but maybe that’s a tad premature.

“Ms. Bloomwood, this is Derek Smeath from Endwich Bank.”

What?I’m so shocked, I drop the phone onto my desk with a clatter and have to scrabble around to pick it up. All the while, my heart’s thumping like a rabbit. How does Derek Smeath know where I work? How did he get my number?

“Are you OK?” says Clare Edwards curiously.

“Yes,” I gulp. “Yes, fine.”

And now she’s looking at me. Now I can’t just put the phone down and pretend it was a wrong number. I’ve got to talk to him. OK, what I’ll do is be really brisk and cheerful and try and get rid of him as quickly as possible.

“Hi!” I say into the phone. “Sorry about that! The thing is, I was just a bit busy with something else. You know how it is!”

“Ms. Bloomwood, I’ve written you several letters,” says Derek Smeath. “And to none of them have I had a satisfactory response.”

Oh, he sounds really cross. This is horrible. Why did he have to come along and spoil my day?

“I’ve been very busy, I’m afraid,” I say. “My . . . my aunt was very ill. I had to go and be with her.”

“I see,” he says. “Nevertheless—”

“And then she died,” I add.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says Derek Smeath. He doesn’tsound sorry. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that your current account stands at a balance of—”

Has this man got no heart? As he starts talking about balances and overdrafts and agreements, I deliberately tune out so I don’t hear anything that will upset me. I’m staring at the fake wood-grain on my desk, wondering if I could pretend to drop the receiver accidentally back down onto the phone. This is awful. What am I going to do?What am I going to do?

“And if the situation is not resolved,” he’s saying sternly, “I’m afraid I will be forced to—”

“It’s OK,” I hear myself interrupting. “It’s OK, because . . . I’m coming into some money soon.” Even as I say the words, I feel my cheeks flame guiltily. But I mean, what else am I supposed to do?

“Oh yes?”

“Yes,” I say, and swallow. “The thing is, my . . . my aunt left me some money in her will.”

Which is kind of almost true. I mean, obviously Aunt Ermintrude would have left me some money. After all, I was her favorite niece, wasn’t I? Did anyone else buy her Denny and George scarves? “I’ll get it in a couple of weeks,” I add for good measure. “A thousand pounds.”

Then I realize I should have made it ten thousand—that would have really impressed him. Oh well, too late now.

“You’re saying that in two weeks’ time you’ll be paying a check for a thousand pounds into your account,” says Derek Smeath.

“Erm . . . yes,” I say after a pause. “I suppose I am.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “I’ve made a note of our conver-sation, Ms. Bloomwood, and I’ll be expecting the arrival of a thousand pounds into your account on Monday 26 March.”

“Good,” I say boldly. “Is that it?”

“For the moment. Good-bye, Ms. Bloomwood.”

“Good-bye,” I say, and put the phone down.

Got rid of him. Thank God.

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



9 March 2000



Dear Ms. Bloomwood:



Thank you for your prompt return of a signed check for ￡43.



Unfortunately, although this check is signed, it appears to be dated 14 February 2200. No doubt just an oversight on your part.



Octagon Shops cannot accept postdated checks as payment, and I am therefore returning it to you with the request that you return to us a signed check, dated with the date of signature.



Alternatively you can pay by cash or on the enclosed bank giro credit slip. A leaflet is enclosed for your information.



I look forward to receiving your payment.



Yours sincerely,



John Hunter

Customer Accounts Manager