WHEN I GET HOME that night, there’s a pile of post in the hall for me—but I ignore it because my package from Fine Frames has arrived! It cost me ￡100 to buy, which is quite expen-sive, but apparently it will give you a return of ￡300 in only a few hours. Inside the package there’s a leaflet full of photographs of people who make fortunes from doing Fine Frames—some of them make a hundred thousand a year! It makes me wonder what I’m doing, being a journalist.
So after supper, I sit down in front ofChanging Rooms and open the kit. Suze is out tonight, so it’s nice and easy to concen-trate.
“Welcome to the best-kept secret in Britain . . .” says the leaflet. “The Fine Frames home-working family! Join other members and earn ￡￡￡ in the comfort of your own home. Our easy-to-follow instructions will aid you as you embark on the biggest money-making enterprise of your life. Perhaps you will use your earnings to buy a car, or a boat—or to treat someone special. And remember—the amount you earn is completely up to you!”
I’m utterly gripped. Why on earth haven’t I done this before? This is afantastic scheme! I’ll work incredibly hard for two weeks, then pay off all my debts, go on holiday, and buy loads of new clothes.
I start ripping at the packaging, and suddenly a pile of fabric strips falls onto the floor. Some are plain, and some are a flowered pattern. It’s a pretty hideous pattern actually—but then, who cares? My job is just to make the frames and collect the money. I reach for the instructions and find them under a load of card-board pieces. And sure enough, they’re incredibly simple. What you have to do is glue wadding onto the cardboard frame, put the fabric over the top for that luxury upholstered effect, then glue braid along the back to hide the join. And that’s it! It’s completely simple and you get ￡2 a frame. There are 150 in the package—so if I do thirty a night for a week I’ll have made three hundred quid just like that in my spare time!
OK, let’s get started. Frame, wadding, glue, fabric, braid.
Oh God. OhGod. Who designed these bloody things? There just isn’t enough fabric to fit over the frame and the wadding. Or at least you have to stretch it really hard—and it’s such flimsy fabric, it rips. I’ve got glue on the carpet, and I’ve bent two of the cardboard frames from pulling them, and the only frame I’ve actually completed looks really wonky. And I’ve been doing it for . . .
I yawn, look at the time, and feel a jolt of shock. It’s eleven-thirty, which means I’ve been working for three hours. In that time I’ve made one dodgy-looking frame which I’m not sure they’ll accept, and ruined two. And I was supposed to be making thirty!
At that moment the door opens and Suze is back.
“Hi!” she says, coming into the sitting room. “Nice evening?”
“Not really,” I begin disgruntledly. “I’ve been making these things . . .”
“Well, never mind,” she says dramatically. “Because guess what? You’ve got a secret admirer.”
“What?” I say, startled.
“Someone really likes you,” she says, taking off her coat. “I heard it tonight. You’ll never guess who!”
Luke Brandonpops into my mind before I can stop it. How ridiculous. And how would Suze have found that out, anyway? Stupid idea. Very stupid. Impossible.
She could have bumped into him at the cinema, whispers my brain. She does know him, after all, doesn’t she? And he could have said . . .
“It’s my cousin!” she says triumphantly. “Tarquin. Hereally likes you.”
Oh for God’s sake.
“He’s got this secret little crush on you,” she continues hap-pily. “In fact, he’s had one ever since he met you!”
“Really?” I say. “Well, I had sort of . . . guessed.” Suze’s eyes light up.
“So you already know about it?”
“Well,” I say, and shrug awkwardly. What can I say? I can’t tell her that her beloved cousin gives me the creeps. So instead I start to pick at the fabric on the photo frame in front of me, and a delighted smile spreads over Suze’s face.
“He’s really keen on you!” she says. “I said he should just ring you and ask you out. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
“Of course not,” I say feebly.
“Wouldn’t that be great?” said Suze. “If you two got married. I could be bridesmaid!”
“Yes,” I say, and force myself to smile brightly. “Lovely.”
What I’ll do, I think, is agree to a date just to be polite—and then cancel at the last moment. And hopefully Tarquin’ll have to go back to Scotland or something, and we can forget all about it.
But to be honest, I could really do without it. Now I’ve got two reasons to dread the phone ringing.
However, to my relief, Saturday arrives and I haven’t heard a word from Tarquin.Or Derek Smeath. Everyone’s finally leaving me alone to get on with my life!
On the slightly more negative side, I was planning to make 150 frames this week—but so far I’ve only made three, and none of them looks like the one in the picture. One doesn’t have enough wadding in it, one doesn’t quite meet at the corner, and the third has got a smear of glue on the front, which hasn’t come off. I just can’t understand why I’m finding it so difficult. Some people make hundreds of these things every week, without any effort. Mrs. S. of Ruislip even takes her family on a cruise every year on her earnings. How come they can do it and I can’t? It’s really depressing. I mean, I’m supposed to be bright, aren’t I? I’ve got a degree, for God’s sake.
Still, never mind, I tell myself. It’s my new job at Ally Smith today—so at least I’ll be earning some extra money there.
And I’m quite excited about it. Here starts a whole new career in fashion! I spend a long time choosing a cool outfit to wear on my first day—and eventually settle on black trousers from Jigsaw, a little cashmere (well, half cashmere) T-shirt, and a pink wrap-around top, which actually came from Ally Smith.
I’m quite pleased with the way I look, and am expecting Danielle to make some appreciative comment when I arrive at the shop—but she doesn’t even seem to notice. She just says, “Hi. The trousers and T-shirts are in the stock room. Pick out your size and change in the cubicle.”
Oh, right. Now I come to think of it, all the assistants at Ally Smith do wear the same outfits. Almost like a . . . well, a uniform, I suppose. Reluctantly I get changed and look at myself—and, to tell you the truth, I’m disappointed. These gray trousers don’t really flatter me—and the T-shirt’s just plain boring. I’m almost tempted to ask Danielle if I can pick out another outfit to wear—but she seems a bit busy, so I don’t. Maybe next week I’ll have a little word.
But even though I don’t like the outfit, I still feel a frisson of excitement as I come out onto the shop floor. The spotlights are shining brightly; the floor’s all shiny and polished; music’s playing and there’s a sense of anticipation in the air. It’s almost like being a performer. I glance at myself in a mirror and murmur, “How can I help you?” Or maybe it should be “Can I help you?” I’m going to be the most charming shop assistant ever, I decide. People will come here just to be assisted by me, and I’ll have a fantastic rapport with all the customers. And then I’ll appear in theEveningStandard in some quirky column about favorite shops.
No one’s told me what to do yet, so—using my initiative, very good—I walk up to a woman with blond hair, who’s tapping away at the till, and say, “Shall I have a quick go?”
“What?” she says, not looking up.
“I’d better learn how to work the till, hadn’t I? Before all the customers arrive?”
Then the woman does look up and, to my surprise, bursts into laughter.
“On the till? You think you’re going to go straight onto the till?”
“Oh,” I say, blushing a little. “Well, I thought . . .”
“You’re a beginner, darling,” she says. “You’re not going near the till. Go with Kelly. She’ll show you what you’ll be doing today.”
Folding jumpers. Folding bloody jumpers. That’s what I’m here to do. Rush round after customers who have picked up cardigans and left them all crumpled—and fold them back up again. By eleven o’clock I’m absolutely exhausted—and, to be honest, not enjoying myself very much at all. Do you know how depressing it is to fold a cardigan in exactly the right Ally Smith way and put it back on the shelf, all neatly lined up—just to see someone casually pull it down again, look at it, pull a face, and discard it? You want to scream at them, LEAVE IT ALONE IF YOU’RENOT GOING TO BUY IT! I watched one girl even pick up a cardiganidentical to the one she already had on!
And I’m not getting to chat to the customers, either. It’s as if they see through you when you’re a shop assistant. No one’s asked me a single interesting question, like “Does this shirt go with these shoes?” or, “Where can I find a really nice black skirt under ￡60?” I’d love to answer stuff like that. I could really help people! But the only questions I’ve been asked are “Is there a loo?” and, “Where’s the nearest Midland cashpoint?” I haven’t built up a single rapport with anyone.
Oh, it’s depressing. The only thing that keeps me going is an end-of-stock reduced rack at the back of the shop. I keep sidling toward it and looking at a pair of zebra-print jeans, reduced from ￡180 to ￡90. I remember those jeans. I’ve even tried them on. And here they are, out of the blue—reduced. I just can’t keep my eyes off them. They’re even in my size.
I mean, I know I’m not really supposed to be spending money—but this is a complete one-off. They’re the coolest jeans you’ve ever seen. And ￡90 isnothing for a pair of really good jeans. If you were in Gucci, you’d be paying at least ￡500. Oh God, I want them. Iwant them.
I’m just loitering at the back, eyeing them up for the hun-dredth time, when Danielle comes striding up and I jump guiltily. But all she says is “Can you go onto fitting room duty now? Sarah’ll show you the ropes.”
No more folding jumpers! Thank God!
To my relief, this fitting room lark is a lot more fun. Ally Smith has really nice fitting rooms, with lots of space and indi-vidual cubicles, and my job is to stand at the entrance and check how many items people are taking in with them. It’s really inter-esting to see what people are trying on. One girl’s buyingloads of stuff, and keeps saying how her boyfriend told her to go mad for her birthday, and he would pay.
Huh. Well, it’s all right for some. Still, never mind, at least I’m earning money. It’s eleven-thirty which means I’ve earned . . .￡14.40 so far. Well, that’s not bad, is it? I could get some nice makeup for that.
Except that I’m not going to waste this money on makeup. Of course not—I mean, that’s not why I’m here, is it? I’m going to be really sensible. What I’m going to do is buy the zebra-print jeans—just because they’re a one-off and it would be a crime not to—and then put all the rest toward my bank balance. I just can’twait to put them on. I get a break at two-thirty, so what I’ll do is nip to the reduced rack and take them to the staff room, just to make sure they fit, and . . .
Suddenly my face freezes. Hang on.
Hang on a moment. What’s that girl holding over her arm? She’s holding my zebra-print jeans! She’s coming toward the fitting rooms. Oh my God. She wants to try them on. But they’re mine! I saw them first!
I’m almost giddy with panic. I mean, a normal pair of jeans, I wouldn’t bother about. But these are unique. They’remeant for me. I’ve mentally reorganized my entire wardrobe around them, and have already planned to wear them at least three times next week. I can’t lose them. Not now.
“Hi!” she says brightly as she approaches.
“Hi,” I gulp, trying to stay calm. “Ahm . . . how many items have you got?”
“Four,” she says, showing me the hangers. Behind me are tokens hanging on the wall, marked One, Two, Three, and Four. The girl’s waiting for me to give her a token marked Four and let her in. But I can’t.
I physically cannot let her go in there with my jeans.
“Actually,” I hear myself saying, “you’re only allowed three items.”
“Really?” she says in surprise. “But . . .” She gestures to the tokens.
“I know,” I say. “But they’ve just changed the rules. Sorry about that.” And I flash her a quick smile.
“Oh, OK,” says the girl. “Well, I’ll leave out—”
“These,” I say, and grab the zebra-print jeans.
“No,” she says. “Actually, I think I’ll—”
“We have to take the top item,” I explain hurriedly. “Sorry about that.”
ThankGod for bossy shop assistants and stupid pointless rules. People are so used to them that this girl doesn’t even question me. She just rolls her eyes, grabs the Three token, and pushes her way past into the fitting room, leaving me holding the precious jeans.
OK, now what? From inside the girl’s cubicle, I can hear zips being undone and hangers being clattered. She won’t take long to try on those three things. And then she’ll be out, want-ing the zebra-print jeans. Oh God. What can I do? For a few moments I’m frozen with indecision. Then the sound of a cubicle curtain being rattled back jolts me into action. It’s not her—but it could have been. Quickly I stuff the zebra-print jeans out of sight behind the curtain and stand up again, a bright smile on my face.
Please let the girl find something else she likes, I pray fever-ishly. Please let her forget all about the jeans. Maybe she’s not even that keen on them. Maybe she picked them up on impulse. She didn’t really look like a jeans person to me.
A moment later, Danielle comes striding up, a clipboard in her hands.
“All right?” she says. “Coping, are you?”
“I’m doing fine,” I say. “Really enjoying it.”
“I’m just rostering in breaks,” she says. “If you could manage to last until three, you can have an hour then.”
“Fine,” I say in my positive, employee-of-the-month voice, even though I’m thinkingThree?I’ll be starving!
“Good,” she says, and moves off into the corner to write on her piece of paper, just as a voice says,
“Hi. Can I have those jeans now?”
It’s the girl, back again. How can she have tried on all those other things so quickly? Is she Houdini?
“Hi!” I say, ignoring the last bit of what she said. “Any good? That black skirt’s really nice. I think it would really suit you. The way the splits go at the—”
“Not really,” she says, interrupting me, and shoves the lot back at me, all mussed up and off their hangers. “It was really the jeans I wanted. Can I have them?”
I stare at her desperately. Ican’t relinquish my treasured jeans. I just know this girl wouldn’t love them like I would. She’d probably wear them once and chuck them out—or never wear them at all! AndI saw them first.
“What jeans were they?” I say, wrinkling my brow sympatheti-cally. “Blue ones? You can get them over there, next to the—”
“No!” says the girl impatiently. “The zebra-print jeans I had a minute ago.”
“Oh,” I say vaguely. “Oh yes. I’m not sure where they went. Maybe someone else took them.”
“Oh for God’s sake!” she says, looking at me as if I’m an imbecile. “This is ridiculous! I gave them to you about thirty seconds ago! How can you have lost them?”
Shit. She’s really angry. Her voice is getting quite loud, and people are starting to look. Oh,why couldn’t she have liked the black skirt instead?
“Is there a problem?” chimes in a syrupy voice, and I look up in horror. Danielle’s coming over toward us, a sweet-but-menacing look on her face. OK, keep calm, I tell myself firmly. No one can prove anything either way.
“I gave this assistant a pair of jeans to look after because I had four items, which is apparently too many,” the girl begins explaining.
“Four items?” says Danielle. “But you’re allowed four items in the fitting room.” And she turns to look at me with an expression which isn’t very friendly.
“Are you?” I say innocently. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I thought it was three. I’m new,” I add apologetically.
“Ithought it was four!” says the girl. “I mean, you’ve gottokens with bloody ‘Four’ written on them!” She gives an impa-tient sigh. “So anyway, I gave her the jeans, and tried on the other things—and then I came out for the jeans, and they’ve gone.”
“Gone?” says Danielle sharply. “Gone where?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, trying to look as baffled as the next person. “Maybe another customer took them.”
“But you were holding them!” says the girl. “So what—did someone just come up to you and whip them out of your fingers?”
I flinch at the tone of her voice. I would never speak to a shop assistant like that, even if I was cross. Anyway, how can she be so obsessed with a pair of jeans?
“Maybe you could get another pair from the rack,” I say, trying to sound helpful. “Or some capri pants? I bet you’d look really nice in—”
“There isn’t another pair,” she says icily. “They were from the reduced rack. And I don’t like capri pants.”
“Rebecca, think!” says Danielle. “Did you put the jeans down somewhere?”
“I must have done,” I say, twisting my fingers into a knot. “It’s been so busy in here, I must have put them on the rail, and . . . and I suppose another customer must have walked off with them.” I give an apologetic little shrug as though to say “Customers, eh?”
“Wait a minute!” says the girl sharply. “What’s that?”
I follow her gaze and freeze. The zebra-print jeans have rolled out from under the curtain. For a moment we all stare at them.
“Gosh!” I manage at last. “There they are!”
“And what exactly are they doing down there?” asks Danielle.
“I don’t know!” I say. “Maybe they . . .” I swallow, trying to think as quickly as I can. “Maybe . . .”
“Youtook them!” says the girl incredulously. “You bloody took them! You wouldn’t let me try them on, and then you hid them!”
“That’s ridiculous!” I say, trying to sound convincing—but I can feel my cheeks flushing a guilty red.
“You little . . .” The girl breaks off and turns to Danielle. “I want to make an official complaint.”
“Rebecca,” says Danielle. “Into my office, please.”
I jump in fright at her voice and follow her slowly to her office. Around the shop, I can see all the other staff looking at me and nudging each other. How utterly mortifying. Still, it’ll be OK. I’ll just say I’m really sorry and promise not to do it again, and maybe offer to work overtime. Just as long as I don’t get. . .
I don’t believe it. She’s fired me. I haven’t even worked there for a day, and I’ve been kicked out. I was so shocked when she told me, I almost became tearful. I mean, apart from the incident with the zebra-print jeans, I thought I was doing really well. But apparently hiding stuff from customers is one of those automatic-firing things. (Which is really unfair, because she never told me that at the interview.)
As I get changed out of my gray trousers and T-shirt, there’s a heavy feeling in my heart. My retail career is over before it’s even begun. I was only given twenty quid for the hours I’ve done today—and Danielle said that was being generous. And when I asked if I could quickly buy some clothes using my staff discount, she looked at me as if she wanted to hit me.
It’s all gone wrong. No job, no money, no discount, just twenty bloody quid. Miserably I start to walk along the street, shoving my hands in my pockets. Twenty bloody quid. What am I supposed to do with—
“Rebecca!” My head jerks up and I find myself looking dazedly at a face which I know I recognize. But who is it? It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s . . .
“Tom!” I exclaim in the nick of time. “Hi there! What a sur-prise!”
Well, blow me down. Tom Webster, up in London. He’s just as tall and gangly as ever—but somehow looking slightly cooler with it than usual. He’s wearing a thin blue sweater over a T-shirtand . . . are those really Armani jeans? This doesn’t make sense. What’s he doing here anyway? Shouldn’t he be in Reigate, grout-ing his Mediterranean tiles or something?
“This is Lucy,” he says proudly, and pulls forward a slim girl with big blue eyes, holding about sixty-five carrier bags. And I don’t believe it. It’s the girl who was buying all that stuff in Ally Smith. The girl whose boyfriend was paying.Surely she didn’t mean . . .
“You’re going out together?” I say stupidly. “You and her?”
“Yes,” says Tom, and grins at me. “Have been for some time now.”
But this doesn’t make any sense. Why haven’t Janice and Martin mentioned Tom’s girlfriend? They’ve mentioned every other bloody thing in his life.
And fancy Tom having a girlfriend!
“Hi,” says Lucy.
“Hi there,” I say. “I’m Rebecca. Next-door neighbor. Child-hood friend. All that.”
“Oh,you’re Rebecca,” she says, and gives a swift glance at Tom.
What does that mean? Have they been talking about me? God, does Tom still fancy me? How embarrassing.
“That’s me!” I say brightly, and give a little laugh.
“You know, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,” says Lucy thoughtfully—and then her eyes crinkle in recognition. “You work at Ally Smith, don’t you?”
“No!” I say, a little too sharply.
“Oh,” she says. “I thought I saw you—”
God, I can’t have it going back to my parents that I work in a shop. They’ll think I’ve been lying about my entire life in London and that secretly I’m broke and living in squalor.
“Research,” I say quickly. “I’m a journalist, actually.”
“Rebecca’s a financial journalist,” says Tom. “Really knows her stuff.”
“Oh, right,” says Lucy, and I give her a supercilious smile.
“Mum and Dad always listen to Rebecca,” says Tom. “Dadwas talking about it just the other day. Said you’d been very help-ful on some financial matter. Switching funds or something.”
I nod vaguely, and give him a special, old-friends smile. Not that I’m jealous, or anything—but I do feel a little twinge seeing Tom smiling down at this Lucy character who, frankly, has very boring hair, even if her clothes are quite nice. Come to think of it, Tom’s wearing quite nice clothes himself. Oh, what’s going on? This is all wrong. Tom belongs in his starter home in Reigate, not prancing around expensive shops looking halfway decent.
“Anyway,” he says. “We must get going.”
“Train to catch?” I say patronizingly. “It must be hard, living so far out.”
“It’s not so bad,” says Lucy. “I commute to Wetherby’s every morning and it only takes forty minutes.”
“You work for Wetherby’s?” I say, aghast. Why am Isurrounded by City high-flyers?
“Yes,” she says. “I’m one of their political advisers.”
What? What does that mean? Is she really brainy, or some-thing? Oh God, this gets worse and worse.
“And we’re not catching our train just yet,” says Tom, smiling down at Lucy. “We’re off to Tiffany first. Choose a little something for Lucy’s birthday next week.” He lifts a hand and starts twist-ing a lock of her hair round his finger.
I can’t cope with this anymore. It’s not fair. Why haven’t I got a boyfriend to buy me stuff in Tiffany’s?
“Well, lovely to see you,” I gabble. “Give my love to your mum and dad. Funny they didn’t mention Lucy,” I can’t resist adding. “I saw them the other day, and they didn’t mention her once.”
I shoot an innocent glance at Lucy. But she and Tom are exchanging looks again.
“They probably didn’t want to—” begins Tom, and stops abruptly.
“What?” I say.
There’s a long, awkward silence. Then Lucy says, “Tom, I’lljust look in this shop window for a second,” and walks off, leav-ing the two of us alone.
God, what drama! I’m obviously the third person in their relationship.
“Tom, what’s going on?” I say, and give a little laugh.
But it’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s still hankering after me. And Lucy knows it.
“Oh God,” says Tom, and rubs his face. “Look, Rebecca, this isn’t easy for me. But the thing is, Mum and Dad are aware of your . . . feelings for me. They didn’t want to mention Lucy to you, because they thought you’d be . . .” He exhales sharply. “Disappointed.”
What? Is this some kind of joke? I have never been more dumbfounded in all my life. For a few seconds I can’t even move for astonishment.
“My feelings for you?” I stutter at last. “Are you joking?”
“Look, it’s pretty obvious,” he says, shrugging. “Mum and Dad told me how the other day, you kept on asking how I was, and all about my new house . . .” There’s a slightly pitying look in his eye. Oh my God, I can’t stand this. How can he think . . . “I really like you, Becky,” he adds. “I just don’t. . .”
“I was being polite!” I roar. “I don’tfancy you!”
“Look,” he says. “Let’s just leave it, shall we?”
“But I don’t!” I cry furiously. “I never did fancy you! That’s why I didn’t go out with you when you asked me! When we were both sixteen, remember?”
I break off and look at him triumphantly—to see that his face hasn’t moved a bit. He isn’t listening. Or if he is, he’s thinking that the fact I’ve dragged in our teenage past means I’m obsessed by him. And the more I try to argue the point, the more obsessed he’ll think I am. Oh God, this is horrendous.
“OK,” I say, trying to gather together the remaining shreds of my dignity. “OK, we’re obviously not communicating here, so I’ll just leave you to it.” I glance over at Lucy, who’s looking in a shop window and obviously pretending not to be listening.“Honestly, I’m not after your boyfriend,” I call. “And I never was. Bye.”
And I stride off down the street, a nonchalant smile plastered stiffly across my face.
As I round the corner, however, the smile gradually slips, and I sit heavily down on a bench. I feel humiliated. Of course, the whole thing’s laughable. That Tom Webster should think I’m in love withhim. Just serves me right for being too polite to his parents and feigning interest in his bloody limed oak units. Next time I’ll yawn loudly, or walk away. Or produce a boyfriend of my own.
I know all this. I know I shouldn’t care two hoots what Tom Webster or his girlfriend think. But even so . . . I have to admit, I feel a bit low. Why haven’t I got a boyfriend? There isn’t even anyone I fancy at the moment. The last serious boyfriend I had was Robert Hayman, who sells advertising forPortfolio News, and we split up three months ago. And I didn’t even much like him. He used to call me “Love” and jokingly put his hands over my eyes during the rude bits in films. Even when I told him not to, he still kept doing it. It used to drive memad. Just remembering it now makes me feel all tense and scratchy.
But still, he was a boyfriend, wasn’t he? He was someone to phone up during work, and go to parties with and use as ammunition against creeps. Maybe I shouldn’t have chucked him. Maybe he was all right.
I give a gusty sigh, stand up, and start walking along the street again. All in all, it hasn’t been a great day. I’ve lost a job and been patronized by Tom Webster. And now I haven’t got anything to do tonight. I thought I’d be too knackered after working all day, so I didn’t bother to organize anything.
Still, at least I’ve got twenty quid.
Twenty quid. I’ll buy myself a nice cappuccino and a choco-late brownie. And a couple of magazines.
And maybe something from Accessorize. Or some boots. In fact I reallyneed some new boots—and I’ve seen some really nice ones in Hobbs with square toes and quite a low heel. I’ll go there after my coffee, and look at the dresses, too. God, I deserve a treat, after today. And I need some new tights for work, and a nail file. And maybe a book to read on the tube . . .
By the time I join the queue at Starbucks, I feel happier already.
PGNI FIRST BANK VISA
7 CAMEL SQUARE
LIVERPOOL LI 5NP
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
10 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
PGNI First Bank VISA Card No. 1475839204847586
Thank you for your letter of 6 March.
Your offer of a free subscription toSuccessful Saving magazine is most kind, as is your invitation to dinner at The Ivy. Unfortunately, employees of PGNI First Bank are prohibited from accepting such gifts.
I look forward to receiving your outstanding payment of ￡105.40, as soon as possible.
Yours sincerely,
Peter Johnson
Customer Accounts Executive
No comments:
Post a Comment