OK, I THINK FIRMLY the next day. The thing is not to get freaked out by how much I happened to spend yesterday. It’s water under the bridge. The point is, today is the beginning of my new frugal life. From now on, I’m just going to spend absolutely nothing. David E. Barton says you should aim to cut your expen-diture by half in the first week, but I reckon I can do much better than that. I mean, not wanting to be rude, but these self-help books are always for people with absolutely zero self-control, aren’t they? And I gave up smoking easily enough. (Except socially, but that doesn’t count.)
I feel quite exhilarated as I make myself a cheese sandwich and wrap it up in tinfoil. I’ve already saved a couple of quid, just by doing that! I haven’t got a flask (must buy one at the week-end), so I can’t take in coffee, but there’s a bottle of Peach Herbal Blast in the fridge so I decide I’ll take that instead. It’ll be health-ier, too.
In fact, it makes you wonder why people buy shop-made sandwiches at all. Look how cheap and easy it is to make your own. And it’s the same with curries. David E. Barton says instead of forking out for expensive takeaway meals you should learnhow to make your own curries and stir-fries, for a fraction of the cost. So that’s what I’m going to do this weekend, after I’ve been to a museum or maybe just walked along the river, enjoying the scenery.
As I walk along to the tube I feel pure and refreshed. Stern, almost. Look at all these people on the street, scurrying around, thinking about nothing but money. Money, money, money. It’s an obsession. But once you relinquish money altogether, it ceases to have any relevance. Already I feel I’m in a completely different mindset. Less materialistic, more philosophical. Morespiritual. As David E. Barton says, we all fail to appreciate each day just how much we already possess. Light, air, freedom, the companionship of friends . . . I mean, these are the things that matter, aren’t they?
It’s almost frightening, the transformation that’s already occurred within me. For example, I walk past the magazine kiosk at the tube station and idly glance over, but I don’t feel the slight-est desire to buy any of the magazines. Magazines are irrelevant in my new life. (Plus I’ve already read most of them.)
So I get on the tube feeling serene and impervious, like a Buddhist monk. When I get off the tube at the other end, I walk straight past the discount shoe shop without even looking, and straight past Lucio’s, too. No cappuccino today. No muffin. No spending at all—just straight to the office.
It’s quite an easy time of the month forSuccessful Saving . We’ve only just put the latest issue of the magazine to bed, which basically means we can laze around for a few days doing nothing, before getting our acts together for the next issue. Of course, we’re meant to be starting on research for next month’s article. In fact, I’m supposed to be making phone calls to a list of stockbrokers today, asking for their investment tips for the next six months. But I already know what they’re all going to say. Jon Burrins will go on about the problems with e-commerce stocks, George Steadman will enthuse about some tiny biotechnology company, and Steve Fox will tell me how he wants to get out of the stockbroking game and start an organic farm.
Somehow the whole morning goes by and I haven’t done anything, just changed the screen saver on my computer to three yellow fish and an octopus, and written out an expense claim form. To be honest, I can’t really concentrate on proper work. I suppose I’m too exhilarated by my new pure self. I keep trying to work out how much I’ll have saved by the end of the month and what I’ll be able to afford in Jigsaw.
At lunchtime I take out my sandwich wrapped in foil—and for the first time that day, I feel a bit depressed. The breads gone all soggy, and some pickle’s leaked out onto the foil, and it really doesn’t look very appetizing at all. What I crave at that moment is Pret à Manger walnut bread and a chocolate brownie.
Don’t think about it, I instruct myself firmly. Think how much money you’re saving. So somehow I force myself to eat my soggy effort, and swig down some Peach Herbal Blast. When I’ve finished, I throw away my foil, screw the top back on the Peach Herbal Blast bottle, and put it in our tiny office fridge. And that’s about. . . five minutes of my lunch break gone.
So what am I supposed to do next? Where am I supposed to go?
I slump miserably at my desk. God, this frugality is hard going. I leaf dispiritedly through a few folders . . . then raise my head and stare out of the window, at all the busy Oxford Street shoppers clutching carrier bags. I want to get out there so desper-ately, I’m actually leaning forward in my chair, like a plant toward the light. I’m craving the bright lights and warm air, the racks of merchandise, even the bleep of the cash registers. But I can’t go. This morning I told myself that I wouldn’t go near the shops all day. Ipromised myself—and I can’t break my own promise.
Then a brilliant thought occurs to me. I need to get a curry recipe for my homemade takeaway, don’t I? David E. Barton says recipe books are a waste of money. He says you should use the recipes printed on the sides of food packets, or take books out of the library. But I’ve got an even better idea. I’ll go into Smiths andcopy out a curry recipe to make on Saturday night. That way, I cango into a shop, but I don’t need to spend any money. Already I’m scrambling to my feet, reaching for my coat. Shops, here I come!
As I walk into Smith’s I feel my whole body expand in relief. There’s a thrill about walking into a shop—any shop—which you can’t beat. It’s partly the anticipation, partly the buzzy, welcoming atmosphere, partly just the lovely newness of everything. Shiny new magazines, shiny new pencils, shiny new protractors. Not that I’ve needed a protractor since I was eleven—but don’t they look nice, all clean and unscratched in their packets? There’s a new range of leopard-print stationery that I haven’t seen before, and for a moment I’m almost tempted to linger. But instead I force myself to stride on past, down to the back of the shop where the books are stacked.
There’s a whole array of Indian recipe books, and I pick up one at random, flicking over the pages and wondering what sort of recipe I should go for. I hadn’t realized quite how complicated this Indian cookery is. Perhaps I should write down a couple, to be on the safe side.
I look around cautiously and take out my notebook and pen. I’m a bit wary, because I know Smith’s doesn’t like you copying down stuff out of their books. The reason I know this is because Suze once got asked to leave the Smith’s in Victoria. She was copying out a page of the street atlas, because she’d forgotten hers—and they told her she had to either buy it or leave. (Which doesn’t make any sense, because they let you read the magazines for free, don’t they?)
So anyway, when I’m sure no one’s looking, I start copying out the recipe for “Tiger Prawn Biriani.” I’m halfway through the list of spices when a girl in WHSmith uniform comes round the corner, so I quickly close the book and walk off a little, pretending I’m browsing. When I think I’m safe, I open it again—but before I can write anything down, an old woman in a blue coat says loudly, “Is that any good, dear?”
“What?” I say.
“The book!” She gestures to the recipe book with her umbrella. “I need a present for my daughter-in-law, and she comes from India. So I thought I’d get a nice Indian recipe book. Is that a good one, would you say?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t read it yet.”
“Oh,” she says, and starts to wander off. And I ought to keep my mouth shut and mind my own business—but I just can’t leave it there, I have to clear my throat and say, “Excuse me—but doesn’t she have lots of Indian recipes already?”
“Who, dear?” says the woman, turning round.
“Your daughter-in-law!” Already I’m regretting this. “If she’s Indian, doesn’t she already know how to cook Indian food?”
“Oh,” says the old woman. She seems completely flummoxed. “Well, what should I get, then?”
Oh God.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe a book on . . . on something else?”
“That’s a good idea!” she says brightly, and comes toward me. “You show me, dear.”
“Well,” I say, looking helplessly around the racks of books. “What’s she interested in? Does she . . . have any particular hobby?”
“She likes the fresh air,” says the woman thoughtfully. “Walk-ing in the countryside.”
“Perfect!” I say in relief. “Why not try the travel section for a walking book?”
I point the woman in the right direction, then hurry off to do my copying. I reach the CD and video section, which is always quite empty, and hide behind a rack of Teletubbies videos. I glance around and check no one’s about, then open the book again. Okay, turn to page 214, “Tiger Prawn Biriani” . . . I start copying again, and I’ve just got to the end of the list of spices, when a stern voice says in my ear, “Excuse me?”
I’m so startled, my pen jerks off my notebook and, to myhorror, makes a blue line, straight across a photograph of perfectly cooked basmati rice. Quickly I shift my hand, almost covering up the mark, and turn round innocently. A man in a white shirt and a name badge is looking at me disapprovingly.
“This isn’t a public library, you know,” he says.
“I’m just browsing,” I say hurriedly, and make to close the book. But the man’s finger comes out of nowhere and lands on the page before I can get it shut. Slowly he opens the book out again and we both stare at my blue Biro line.
“Browsing is one thing,” says the man sternly. “Defacing shop stock is another.”
“It was an accident!” I say. “You startled me!”
“Hmm,” says the man, and gives me a hard stare. “Were you actually intending to buy this book? Or any book?”
There’s a pause—then, rather shamefacedly, I say, “No.”
“I see,” says the man, tightening his lips. “Well, I’m afraid this matter will have to go to the manager. Obviously, we can’t sell this book now, so it’s our loss. If you could come with me and explain to her exactly what you were doing when the defacement occurred . . .”
Is he serious? Isn’t he just going to tell me kindly that it doesn’t matter and would I like a loyalty card? My heart starts to thud in panic. What am I going to do? Obviously, I can’t buy the book, under my new frugal regime. But I don’t want to go and see the manager, either.
“Lynn?” the man’s calling to an assistant at the pen counter. “Could you page Glenys for me, please?”
He reallyis serious. He’s looking all pleased with himself, as though he’s caught a shoplifter. Can they prosecute you for making Biro marks in books? Maybe it counts as vandalism. I’ll have a criminal record. I won’t ever be able to go to America.
“Look, I’ll buy it, okay?” I say breathlessly. “I’ll buy the bloody book.” I wrench it from the man’s grasp and hurry off to the checkout before he can say anything else.
Standing at the next checkout is the old woman in the blue coat, and she calls triumphantly, “I took your advice! I’ve got her one of those traveling books. I think she’ll really like it!”
“Oh good,” I reply, handing my recipe book over to be scanned.
“It’s calledThe Rough Guide to India,” says the old woman, showing me the fat blue paperback. “Have you heard of it?”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, yes, but—‘
“That’s ￡24.99, please,” says the girl at my till.
What? I look at the girl in dismay. Twenty-five quid, just for recipes? Why couldn’t I have picked up some cheap paperback? Damn.Damn. Very reluctantly, I take out my credit card and hand it over. Shopping is one thing, being forced into purchases against your will is something else. I mean, I could have bought some nice underwear with that twenty-five quid.
On the other hand, I think as I walk away, that’s quite a lot of new points on my Club Card. The equivalent to . . . fifty pence! And now I’ll be able to make loads of delicious, exotic curries and save all that wasted takeaway money. Really, I’ve got to think of this book as an investment.
I don’t want to boast, but apart from that one purchase, I do incredibly well over the next couple of days. The only things I buy are a really nice chrome flask to take coffee into the office. (And some coffee beans and an electric grinder.) And some flow-ers and champagne for Suze’s birthday.
But I’m allowed to get those, because, as David E. Barton says, you must treasure your friends. He says the simple act of breaking bread with friends is one of the oldest, most essential parts of human life. “Do not stop giving your friends gifts,” he says. “They need not be extravagant—use your creativity and try making them yourself.”
So I’ve bought Suze a half bottle of champagne instead of a whole one—and instead of buying expensive croissants from thepatisserie, I’m going to make them out of that special dough you get in tubes.
In the evening we’re going out to Terrazza for supper with Suze’s cousins Fenella and Tarquin—and, to be honest, it might be quite an expensive evening. But that’s OK, because it counts as breaking bread with friends. (Except the bread at Terrazza is sun-dried tomato focaccia and costs ￡4.50 a basket.)
Fenella and Tarquin arrive at six o’clock, and as soon as she sees them, Suze starts squealing with excitement. I stay in my bedroom and finish my makeup, putting off the moment of having to go out and say hello. I’m not that keen on Fenella and Tarquin. In fact, to be honest with you, I think they’re a bit weird. For a start, they look weird. They’re both very skinny, but in a pale, bony way, and have the same slightly protruding teeth. Fenella does make a bit of an effort with clothes and makeup, and doesn’t look too bad. But Tarquin, frankly, looks just like a stoat. Or a weasel. Some bony little creature, anyway. They do strange things, too. They ride around on a tandem and wear matching jumpers knitted by their old nanny and have this family language which no one else can understand. Like they call sandwiches “witchies.” And a drink is a “titchy” (except if it’s water, which is “Ho”). Take it from me, it gets irritating after a while.
But Suze loves them. She spent all her childhood summers with them in Scotland and she just can’t see that they’re a bit strange. The worst thing is, she starts talking about witchies and titchies when she’s with them.
Still, there’s nothing I can do about it—they’re here now. I finish brushing on my mascara and stand up, looking at my reflection. I’m pretty pleased with what I see. I’m wearing a really simple black top and black trousers—and, tied loosely round my neck, my gorgeous, gorgeous Denny and George scarf. God, that was a good buy. It looks fantastic.
I linger a bit, then resignedly open my bedroom door.
“Hi, Bex!” says Suze, looking up with bright eyes. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of the corridor, ripping open a present, while Fenella and Tarquin stand nearby, looking on. They’re not wearing matching jumpers today, thank God, but Fenella’s wear-ing a very odd red skirt made out of hairy tweed, and Tarquin’s double-breasted suit looks as if it were tailored during the First World War.
“Hi!” I say, and kiss each of them politely.
“Oh, wow!” cries Suze, as she pulls out a picture in an old gilt frame. “I don’t believe it! I don’tbelieve it!” She’s looking from Tarquin to Fenella with shining eyes, and I look at the picture interestedly over her shoulder. But to be honest, I can’t say I’m impressed. For a start it’s really dingy—all sludgy greens and browns—and for another start, it just shows a horse standing still in a field. I mean, couldn’t it have been jumping over a fence or rearing up or something? Or maybe trotting along in Hyde Park, ridden by a girl in one of those lovelyPride and Prejudice dresses.
“Happy Bad Day!” Tarquin and Fenella chime in unison. (That’s another thing. They call birthdays bad days, ever since . . . Oh God. It really is too boring to explain.)
“It’s absolutely gorgeous!” I say enthusiastically. “Absolutely beautiful!”
“It is, isn’t it?” says Tarquin earnestly. “Just look at those colors.”
“Mmm, lovely,” I say, nodding.
“And the brushwork. It’s exquisite. We were thrilled when we came across it.”
“It’s a really wonderful picture,” I say. “Makes you want to just. . . gallop off over the downs!”
Whatis this drivel I’m coming out with? Why can’t I just be honest and say I don’t like it?
“Do you ride?” says Tarquin, looking up at me in slight surprise.
I’ve ridden once. On my cousin’s horse. And I fell off and vowed never to do it again. But I’m not going to admit that to Mr. Horse of the Year.
“I used to,” I say, and give a modest little smile. “Not very well.”
“I’m sure you’d get back into it,” says Tarquin, gazing at me. “Have you ever hunted?”
Hunted? Little furry foxes? Is he joking?
“Hey,” says Suze, fondly propping the picture against the wall. “Shall we have a titchy before we go?”
“Absolutely!” I say, turning quickly away from Tarquin. “Good idea.”
“Oooh, yes,” says Fenella. “Have you got any champagne?”
“Should have,” says Suze, and goes into the kitchen. At that moment the phone rings and I go to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hello, may I speak to Rebecca Bloomwood?” says a strange woman’s voice.
“Yes,” I say idly. I’m listening to Suze opening and shutting cupboard doors in the kitchen and wondering if we have actually got any champagne, apart from the dregs of the half bottle we drank for breakfast . . . “Speaking.”
“Ms. Bloomwood, this is Erica Parnell from Endwich Bank,” says the voice, and I freeze.
Shit. It’s the bank. Oh God, they sent me that letter, didn’t they, and I never did anything about it.
What am I going to say? Quick, what am I going to say?
“Ms. Bloomwood?” says Erica Parnell.
OK, what I’ll say is, I’m fully aware that my overdraft is slightly larger than it should be, and I’m planning to take reme-dial action within the next few days. Yes, that sounds good. “Remedial action” sounds very good. OK—go.
Firmly I tell myself not to panic—these people are human—and take a big breath. And then, in one seamless, unplanned movement, my hand puts down the receiver.
I stare at the silent phone for a few seconds, not quite able to believe what I’ve just done.What did I do that for? Erica Parnellknew it was me, didn’t she? Any minute, she’ll ring back. She’s probably pressing redial now, and she’ll be really angry . . .
Quickly I take the phone off the hook and hide it under a cushion. Now she can’t get me. I’m safe.
“Who was that?” says Suze, coming into the room.
“No one,” I say, and force a bright smile. I don’t want to spoil Suze’s birthday with my stupid problems. “Just a wrong . . . Listen, let’s not have drinks here. Let’s go out!”
“Oh,” says Suze. “OK!”
“Much more fun,” I gabble, trying to head her away from the phone. “We can go to some really nice bar and have cocktails, and then go on to Terrazza.”
What I’ll do in future, I’m thinking, is screen all my calls. Or answer in a foreign accent. Or, even better, change the number. Go ex-directory.
“What’s going on?” says Fenella, appearing at the door.
“Nothing!” I hear myself say. “We’re going out for a titchy and then on to sups.”
Oh, I don’t believe it. I’m turning into one of them.
As we arrive at Terrazza, I’m feeling a lot calmer. Of course, Erica Parnell will have thought we were cut off by a fault on the line or something. She’ll never have thought I put the phone down on her. I mean, we’re two civilized adults, aren’t we? Adults just don’tdo things like that.
And if I ever meet her, which I hope to God I never do, I’ll just keep very cool and say, “It was odd what happened, that time you phoned me, wasn’t it?” Or even better, I’ll accuseher of putting the phone down onme. (In a jokey way, of course.)
Terrazza is full, buzzing with people and cigarette smoke and chatter, and as we sit down with our huge silver menus I feel myself relax even more. I love eating out. And I reckon I deserve a real treat, after being so frugal over the last few days. It hasn’t been easy, keeping to such a tight regime, but somehow I’vemanaged it. I’m keeping to it so well! On Saturday I’m going to monitor my spending pattern again, and I’m sure it’ll have gone down by at least 70 percent.
“What shall we have to drink?” says Suze. “Tarquin, you choose.”
“Oh, look!” shrieks Fenella. “There’s Eddie Lazenby! I must just say hello.” She leaps to her feet and makes for a balding guy in a blazer, ten tables away. How she spotted him in this throng, I’ve no idea.
“Suze!” cries another voice, and we all look up. A blond girl in a tiny pastel-pink suit is heading toward our table, arms stretched out for a hug. “And Tarkie!”
“Hello, Tory,” says Tarquin, getting to his feet. “How’s Mungo?”
“He’s over there!” says Tory. “You must come and say hello!”
How is it that Fenella and Tarquin spend most of their time in the middle of Perthshire, but the minute they set foot in London, they’re besieged by long-lost friends?
“Eddie says hi,” announces Fenella, returning to the table. “Tory! How are you? How’s Mungo?”
“Oh, he’s fine,” says Tory. “But listen, have you heard? Caspar’s back in town!”
“No!” everyone exclaims, and I’m almost tempted to join in. No one has bothered to introduce me to Tory, but that’s the way it goes. You join the gang by osmosis. One minute you’re a complete stranger, the next you’re shrieking away with the rest of them, going “Did youhear about Venetia and Sebastian?”
“Look, wemust order,” says Suze. “We’ll come and say hello in a minute, Tory.”
“Okay, ciao,” says Tory, and she sashays off.
“Suze!” cries another voice, and a girl in a little black dress comes rushing up. “And Fenny!”
“Milla!” they both cry. “How are you? How’s Benjy?”
Oh God, it just doesn’t stop. Here I am, staring at the menu, pretending to be really interested in the starters but really feel-ing like some utter loser that no one wants to talk to. It’s not fair.Iwant to table-hop, too. I want to bump into old friends I’ve known since babyhood. (Although to be honest, the only person I’ve known that long is Tom from next door, and he’ll be in his limed oak kitchen in Reigate.)
But just in case, I lower my menu and gaze hopefully around the restaurant. Please, God, just once, let there be someone I recognize. It doesn’t have to be anyone I like, or even know that well—just someone I can rush up to and go mwah mwah and shriek, “We must do lunch!” Anyone’ll do. Anyone at all . . .
And then, with a disbelieving thrill, I spot a familiar face, a few tables away! It’s Luke Brandon, sitting at a table with a smartly dressed older man and woman.
Well, he’s not exactly an old friend—but I know him, don’t I? And I so want to table-hop like the others.
“Oh look, there’s Luke!” I shriek (quietly, so he doesn’t hear). “I simplymust go and say hello!”
As the others look at me in surprise, I toss my hair back, leap to my feet, and hurry off, full of a sudden exhilaration. I can do it, too! I’m table-hopping at Terrazza. I’m an It-girl!
It’s only when I get within a few feet of his table that I slow down and wonder what I’m actually going to say to him.
Well . . . I’ll just be polite. Say hello and—ah, genius! I can thank him again for his kind loan of twenty quid.
Shit, I did pay him back, didn’t I?
Yes. Yes, I sent him that nice recycled card with poppies on it and a check. That’s right. Now don’t panic, just be cool and It.
“Hi!” I say as soon as I get within earshot of his table, but the hubbub around us is so loud, he doesn’t hear me. No wonder all Fenella’s friends have got such screechy voices. You need about sixty-five decibels, just to be heard. “Hi!” I try again, louder, but still no response. Luke is talking earnestly to the older man, and the woman’s listening intently. None of them even glances up.
This is getting a bit embarrassing. I’m standing, marooned, being utterly ignored by the person I want to table-hop with. Nobody else ever seems to have this problem. Why isn’t he leap-ing up, shrieking “Have youheard about Foreland Investments?” It’s not fair. What shall I do? Shall I just creep away? Shall I pre-tend I was heading toward the Ladies’?
A waiter barges past me with a tray and I’m pushed helplessly forward, toward Luke’s table—and at that moment, he looks up. He stares at me blankly as though he doesn’t even know who I am, and I feel my stomach give a little flip of dismay. But I’ve got to go through with it now.
“Hi, Luke!” I say brightly. “I just thought I’d say . . . hello!”
“Well, hello,” Luke says eventually. “Mum, Dad, this is Rebecca Bloomwood. Rebecca—my parents.”
Oh God. What have I done? I’ve table-hopped an intimate family gathering. Leave, quick.
“Hello,” I say, and give a feeble smile. “Well, I won’t keep you from . . .”
“So how do you know Luke?” inquires Mrs. Brandon.
“Rebecca is a leading financial journalist,” says Luke, taking a sip of wine. (Is that really what he thinks? Gosh, I must drop that into a conversation with Clare Edwards. And Philip, come to that.)
I grin confidently at Mr. Brandon, feeling like a mover and a shaker. I’m a leading financial journalist hobnobbing with a lead-ing entrepreneur at a leading London restaurant. How cool is that?
“Financial journalist, eh?” grunts Mr. Brandon, and lowers his reading glasses to have a better look at me. “So what doyou think of the chancellor’s announcement?”
I’m never going to table-hop again. Never.
“Well,” I begin confidently, wondering if I could suddenly pretend to spot an old friend across the room.
“Dad, I’m sure Rebecca doesn’t want to talk shop,” says Luke, his lips twitching slightly.
“Quite right!” says Mrs. Brandon, and smiles at me. “That’s a lovely scarf, Rebecca. Is it Denny and George?”
“Yes, it is!” I say brightly, full of relief. “I was so pleased, I got it last week in the sale!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Luke Brandon is staring at me with an odd expression. Why? Why is he look-ing so . . .
Oh fuck. How can I be sostupid ?
“In the sale . . . for my aunt,” I continue, trying to think as quickly as I can. “I bought it for my aunt, as a present. But she . . . died.”
There’s a shocked silence and I look down. I can’t quite believe what I’ve just said.
“Oh dear,” says Mr. Brandon gruffly.
“Aunt Ermintrude died?” says Luke in a strange voice.
“Yes,” I reply, forcing myself to look up. “It was terribly sad.”
“How awful!” says Mrs. Brandon sympathetically.
“She was in hospital, wasn’t she?” says Luke, pouring himself a glass of water. “What was wrong with her?”
For an instant I’m silenced.
“It was . . . her leg,” I hear myself say.
“Her leg?” Mrs. Brandon’s staring at me anxiously. “What was wrong with her leg?”
“It . . . swelled up and got septic,” I say after a pause. “And they had to amputate it and then she died.”
“Christ,” says Mr. Brandon, shaking his head. “Bloody doctors.” He gives me a suddenly fierce look. “Did she go private?”
“Umm . . . I’m not sure,” I say, starting to back away. Why didn’t I just say she gave me the bloody scarf? “Anyway, lovely to see you, Luke. Must dash, my friends will be missing me!”
I give a nonchalant kind of wave without quite looking Luke in the eye and then quickly turn round and walk back to Suze, my legs trembling and my fingers twisted tightly by my sides. God, what a fiasco.
I’ve managed to recompose myself by the time our food arrives. The food! I’ve ordered grilled scallops and as I take my first bite, I nearly swoon. After so many torturous days of cheap,functional food, this is like going to heaven. I feel almost tearful—like a prisoner returning to the real world, or children after the war, when rationing stopped. After my scallops I have steak béar-naise and chips—and when all the others say no thanks to the pudding menu, I order chocolate mousse. Because who knows when I’m next going to be in a restaurant like this? There could be months ahead of cheese sandwiches and homemade coffee in a flask, with nothing to relieve the monotony.
While I’m waiting for my chocolate mousse, Suze and Fenella decide they simply must go and talk to Benjy on the other side of the room. So they leap up, both lighting cigarettes as they do so, and Tarquin stays behind to keep me company. He doesn’t seem quite as into table-hopping as the others. In fact, he’s been pretty quiet all evening. I’ve also noticed that he’s drunk more than any of us. Any moment I’m expecting his head to land on the table.
For a while there’s silence between us. To be honest, Tarquin is so weird, I don’t know how to talk to him. Then, suddenly, he says, “Do you like Wagner?”
“Oh yes,” I say at once. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard any Wagner, but I don’t want to sound uncultured. And I have been to the opera before, though I think that was Mozart.
“ ‘The Liebestod’ fromTristan,” he says, and shakes his head. “ ‘The Liebestod.’ ”
“Mmm,” I say, and nod in what I hope is an intelligent manner. I pour myself some wine, fill his glass up, too, and look around to see where Suze has got to. Typical of her just to disap-pear off and leave me with her drunken cousin.
“Dah-dah-dah-dah, daaaah dah dah . . .”
Oh my God, now he’s singing. Not loudly, but really intensely. And he’s staring into my eyes as though he expects me to join in.
“Dah-dah-dah-dah . . .”
Now he’s closed his eyes and is swaying. This is getting embarrassing.
“Da diddle-idy da-a-da-a daaaah dah . . .”
“Lovely,” I say brightly. “You can’t beat Wagner, can you?”
“Tristan,”he says.“Und Isolde.” He opens his eyes. “You’d make a beautiful Isolde.”
I’d make awhat ? While I’m still staring at him, he lifts my hand to his lips and starts kissing it. For a few seconds I’m too shocked to move.
“Tarquin,” I say as firmly as I can, trying to pull my hand away. “Tarquin, please—” I look up and desperately scan the room for Suze—and, as I do so, meet the eye of Luke Brandon, making his way out of the restaurant. He frowns slightly, lifts his hand in farewell, then disappears out of the door.
“Your skin smells like roses,” murmurs Tarquin against my skin.
“Oh, shut up!” I say crossly, and yank my hand out of his grasp so hard I get a row of teeth marks on my skin. “Just leave me alone!”
I would slap him, but he’d probably take it as a come-on.
Just then, Suze and Fenella arrive back at the table, full of news about Binky and Minky—and Tarquin reverts into silence. And for the rest of the evening, even when we say good-bye, he barely looks at me. Thank God. He must have got the message.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Chapter 5
FRUGALITY. SIMPLICITY. These are my new watchwords. A new, uncluttered, Zen-like life, in which I spend nothing. Spendnothing. I mean, when you think about it, how much money do we all waste every day? No wonder I’m in a little bit of debt. And really, it’s not my fault. I’ve merely been succumbing to the Western drag of materialism—which you have to have the strength of ele-phants to resist. At least, that’s what it says in my new book.
You see, yesterday, when Mum and I went into Waterstone’s to buy her paperback for the week, I sidled off to the self-help section and bought the most wonderful book I’ve ever read. Quite honestly, it’s going to change my life. I’ve got it now, in my bag. It’s calledControlling Your Cash by David E. Barton, and it’s fantastic. What it says is that we can all fritter away money with-out realizing it, and that most of us could easily cut our cash consumption by half in just one week.
In one week!
You just have to do things like make your own sandwiches instead of eating in restaurants and ride a bike to work instead of taking the tube. When you start thinking about it, you can save money everywhere. And as David E. Barton says, there are lots offree pleasures which we forget because we’reso busy spending money, like parks and museums and the simple joy of a country walk.
Come to think of it, why don’t we put information like this inSuccessful Saving ? It’s so much more useful than knowing about some fancy new unit trust which might make a profit or might not. I mean, with this scheme you start making money straight away!
It’s all so easy and straightforward. And the best thing is, you have to start out by going shopping! The book says you should begin by itemizing every single purchase in a single normal spending day and plot it on a graph. It stresses that you should be honest and not suddenly curtail or alter your spending pattern—which is lucky, because it’s Suze’s birthday on Friday and I’ve got to get her a present.
So on Monday morning, I stop off at Lucio’s on the way into work and buy an extralarge cappuccino and a chocolate muffin, just like I usually do. I have to admit I feel a bit sorrowful as I hand over my money, because this is my last-ever cappuccino and my last-ever chocolate muffin. My new frugality starts tomorrow—and cappuccinos aren’t allowed. David E. Barton says if you have a coffee habit you should make it at home and take it into the office in a flask, and if you like eating snacks you should buy cheap cakes from the supermarket. “The coffee merchants are fleecing you for what is little more than hot water and poly-styrene,” he points out—and I suppose he’s right. But I will miss my morning cappuccino. Still, I’ve promised myself I’ll follow the rules of the book—and I will.
As I come out of the coffee shop, clutching my last-ever cup, I realize I don’t actually have a flask for coffee. But that’s OK, I’ll buy one. There are some lovely sleek chrome ones in Habitat. Flasks are actually quite trendy these days. I think Alessi might even do one. Wouldn’t that be cool? Drinking coffee out of an Alessi flask. Much cooler than a take-away cappuccino.
So I’m feeling quite happy as I walk along the street. When Iget to Smiths I pop in and stock up on a few magazines to keep me going—and I also buy a sweet little silver notebook and pen to write down everything I spend. I’m going to be really rigorous about this, because David E. Barton says the very act of noting down purchases should have a curtailing effect. So when I get into work, I start my list.
Cappuccino
￡1.50
Muffin
￡1.00
Notebook
￡3.99
Pen
￡1.20
Magazines
￡6.40
Which makes a grand total so far of . . . ￡14.09.
Gosh. I suppose that’s quite a lot, bearing in mind it’s only nine-forty in the morning.
But the notebook and pen don’t count, do they? They’re like course requirements. I mean, how on earth are you supposed to note down all your purchases without a notebook and pen? So I subtract both of those, and now my total comes to . . . ￡8.90. Which is much better.
Anyway, I’m at work now. I probably won’t spend anything else all day.
But somehow, spending nothing is absolutely impossible. First of all, Guy from Accounts comes round with yet another leaving present to give to. Then I have to go out and get some lunch. I’m very restrained with my sandwich—I choose egg and cress, which is the cheapest one at Boots, and I don’t even like egg and cress.
David E. Barton says that when you make a real effort, particularly in the early stages, you should reward yourself—so I pick up some coconut bath oil from the Natural range as a little treat. Then I notice there are double advantage points on the moisturizer I use.
Ilove advantage points. Aren’t they a wonderful invention? If you spend enough, you can get really good prizes, like a beauty day at a hotel. Last Christmas I was really canny—I let my points build up until I’d accumulated enough to buy my granny’s Christ-mas present. What happened in fact was, I’d already built up 1,653 points—and I needed 1,800 to buy her a heated roller set. So I bought myself a great big bottle of Samsara perfume, and that gave me 150 extra points on my card—and then I got the heated roller set absolutely free! The only thing is, I don’t much like Samsara perfume—but I didn’t realize that until I got home. Still, never mind.
The clever way to use advantage points—as with all special offers—is to spot the opportunity and use it, because it may not come your way again. So I grab three pots of moisturizer and buy them. Double advantage points! I mean, it’s just free money, isn’t it?
Then I have to get Suze’s birthday present. I’ve actually already bought her a set of aromatherapy oils—but the other day I saw this gorgeous pink angora cardigan in Benetton, and I know she’d love it. I can always take the aromatherapy oils back or give them to someone for Christmas.
So I go into Benetton and pick up the pink cardigan. I’m about to pay . . . when I notice they’ve got it in gray as well. The most perfect, soft, dove-gray angora cardigan, with little pearly buttons.
OhGod. You see, the thing is, I’ve been looking for a nice gray cardigan for ages. Honestly, I have. You can ask Suze, my mum, anybody. And the other thing is, I’m not actuallyon my new frugal regime yet, am I? I’m just monitoring myself.
David E. Barton says I should act as naturally as possible. So really, I ought to act on my natural impulses and buy it. It would be false not to. It would ruin the whole point.
It only costs forty-five quid. And I can put it on VISA.
Look at it another way—what’s forty-five quid in the grand scheme of things? I mean, it’s nothing, is it?
So I buy it. The most perfect little cardigan in the world.People will call me the Girl in the Gray Cardigan. I’ll be able to live in it. Really, it’s an investment.
After lunch, I have to go and visit Image Store to choose a front-cover picture for the next issue. This is my absolute favorite job—I can’t understand why Philip always offloads it onto some-one else. It basically means you get to go and sit drinking coffee all afternoon, looking at rows and rows of transparencies.
Because, of course, we don’t have the editorial budget to create our own front covers. God, no. When I first started out in journalism, I thought I’d be able to go to shoots, and meet models, and have a really glamorous time. But we don’t even have a cameraman. All our sorts of magazines use picture libraries like Image Store, and the same images tend to go round and round. There’s a picture of a roaring tiger that’s been on at least three personal finance covers in the last year. Still, the readers don’t mind, do they? They’re not exactly buying the magazines to look at Kate Moss.
The good thing is that Elly’s editor doesn’t like choosing front covers either—and they use Image Store, too. So we always try to work it that we’ll go together and have a good natter over the pics. Even better, Image Store is all the way over in Notting Hill Gate, so you can legitimately take ages getting there and back. Usually I don’t bother going back to the office. Really, it’s the perfect way to spend a weekday afternoon.
I get there before Elly and mutter, “Becky Bloomwood fromSuccessful Saving ,” to the girl at reception, wishing I could say “Becky Bloomwood fromVogue ” or “Becky Bloomwood fromWallStreet Journal.” Then I sit on a squashy black leather chair, flicking through a catalogue of pictures of glossy happy families, until one of the trendy young men who works there comes and leads me to my own illuminated table.
“I’m Paul,” he says, “and I’ll be looking after you today. Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“Well. . .” I say, and pull out my notebook. We had a meeting about the cover yesterday and eventually decided on “Portfolio Management: Getting the Right Balance.” And before your head falls off with boredom, let me just point out that last month, the cover line was “Deposit Accounts: Put to the Test.”
Why can’t we justonce put self-tanning creams to the test instead? Oh well.
“I’m looking for pictures of scales,” I say, reading off my list. “Or tightropes, unicycles . . .”
“Balancing images,” says Paul. “No problem. Would you like a coffee?”
“Yes, please,” I beam, and relax back in my chair. You see what I mean? It’s so nice here. And I’m beingpaid to sit in this chair, doing nothing at all.
A few moments later, Elly appears with Paul, and I look at her in surprise. She’s looking really smart, in an aubergine-colored suit and high heels.
“So it’s swimmers, boats, and European images,” says Paul to her.
“That’s it,” says Elly, and sinks into the chair beside me.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Something about floating currencies.”
“Very good,” says Elly. “Actually, it’s ‘Europe: Sink or Swim’?” She says it in an incredibly dramatic voice, and Paul and I both start giggling. When he’s walked away, I look her up and down.
“So how come you’re so smart?”
“I always look smart,” she parries. “You know that.” Paul’s already wheeling trolley-loads of transparencies toward us and she looks over at them. “Are these yours or mine?”
She’s avoiding the subject. What’s going on?
“Have you got an interview?” I say, in a sudden flash of genius. She looks at me, flushes, then pulls a sheet of transparen-cies out of the trolley.
“Circus acts,” she says. “People juggling. Is that what you wanted?”
“Elly! Have you got an interview? Tell me!”
There’s silence for a while. Elly stares down at the sheet, then looks up.
“Yes,” she says, and bites her lip. “But—”
“That’s fantastic!” I exclaim, and a couple of smooth-looking girls in the corner look up. “Who for?” I say more quietly. “It’s notCosmo , is it?”
We’re interrupted by Paul, who comes over with a coffee and puts it in front of Elly.
“Swimmers coming up,” he says, then grins and walks off.
“Who’s it for?” I repeat. Elly applies for so many jobs, I lose track.
“It’s Wetherby’s,” she says, and a pink flush creeps over her face.
“Wetherby’s Investments?” She gives a very slight nod, and I frown in bemusement. Why is she applying to Wetherby’s Invest-ments? “Have they got an in-house magazine or something?”
“I’m not applying to be a journalist,” she says in a low voice. “I’m applying to be a fund manager.”
“What?”I say, appalled.
I know friends should be supportive of each other’s life deci-sions and all that. But I’m sorry, afund manager?
“I probably won’t even get it,” she says, and looks away. “It’s no big deal.”
“But . . .”
I’m speechless. How can Elly even be thinking of becoming a fund manager? Fund managers aren’t real people. They’re the characters we laugh at on press trips.
“It’s just an idea,” she says defensively. “Maybe I want to show Carol I can do something else. You know?”
“So it’s like . . . a bargaining tool?” I hazard.
“Yes,” she says, and gives a little shrug. “That’s it. A bargain-ing tool.”
But she doesn’t sound exactly convinced—and she’s not nearly as chatty as usual during the rest of the afternoon. What’s
happened to her? I’m still puzzling over it as I make my way home from Image Store. I walk down to High Street Kensington, cross over the road, and hesitate in front of Marks and Spencer.
The tube is to my right. The shops are to my left.
I mustignore the shops. I must practice frugality, go straight home, and plot my expenditure graph. If I need entertainment, I can watch some nice free television and perhaps make some inex-pensive, nutritious soup.
But there’s nothing good on tonight, at least not untilEastEnders. And I don’t want soup. I really feel as if I need some-thing to cheer me up. And besides—my mind’s working fast—I’ll be giving it all up tomorrow, won’t I? It’s like the beginning of Lent. This is my Shopping Pancake Day. I need to cram it all in before the fast begins.
With a surge of excitement I hurry toward the Barkers Centre. I won’t go mad, I promise myself. Just one little treat to see me through. I’ve already got my cardigan—so not clothes . . . and I bought some new kitten heels the other day—so not that . . . although there are some nice Prada-type shoes in Hobbs . . . Hmm. I’m not sure.
I arrive at the cosmetics department of Barkers and suddenly I know. Makeup! That’s what I need. A new mascara, and maybe a new lipstick. Happily I start to wander around the bright, heady room, dodging sprays of perfume and painting lipsticks onto the back of my hand. I want a really pale lipstick, I decide. Sort of nudey beige/pink, and a lip liner to go with it . . .
At the Clarins counter, my attention is grabbed by a big promotional sign.
BUY TWO SKIN-CARE PRODUCTS, AND RECEIVE FREE BEAUTY BAG, CONTAINING TRIAL-SIZE CLEANSER, TONER, AND MOISTURIZER, AUTUMN BLAZE LIPSTICK, EXTRA STRENGTH MASCARA AND SAMPLE-SIZE EAU DYNAMISANTE. STOCKS LIMITED SO HURRY.
But this is fantastic! Do you know how much Clarins lipstick usually costs? And here they are, giving it away! Excitedly I start rooting through all the skin-care products, trying to decide which two to buy. How about some neck cream? I’ve never used that before. And some of this Revitalizing Moisturizer. And then I’ll get a free lipstick! It’s a complete bargain.
“Hi,” I say to the woman in the white uniform. “I’d like the Neck Cream and the Revitalizing Moisturizer. And the beauty bag,” I add, suddenly petrified that I might be too late; that the limited stocks might have run out.
But they haven’t! Thank God. As my VISA card’s processing, the woman hands me my shiny red beauty bag (which I have to admit is a bit smaller than I was expecting) and I excitedly open it up. And there, sure enough, is my free lipstick!
It’s a kind of browny-red color. A bit weird, actually. But if I mix it up a bit with some of my others and add a bit of lip gloss, it’ll look really good.
By the time I get home, I’m exhausted. I open the door to the flat and Suze comes rushing up, like a puppy.
“What did you get?” she cries.
“Don’t look!” I cry back. “You’re not allowed to look! It’s your present.”
“My present!” Suze gets overexcited about birthdays. Well, to be honest, so do I.
I hurry into my bedroom and hide the Benetton bag in the wardrobe. Then I unpack all the rest of my shopping and get out my little silver notebook to itemize my purchases. David E. Barton says this should be donestraightaway, before items can be forgotten.
“D’you want a drink?” comes Suze’s voice through the door.
“Yes, please!” I shout back, writing in my book, and a moment later she comes in with a glass of wine.
“EastEndersin a minute,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say absently and keep on writing. I’m following the rules of the book exactly, taking out all my receipts and writ-ing them all down, and I’m feeling really pleased with myself. It just shows, as David E. Barton says, that with a bit of application, anyone can gain control of their finances.
Come to think of it, I’ve bought quite a lot of moisturizer today, haven’t I? To be honest, when I was at the Clarins counter, buying my Revitalizing Moisturizer, I forgot about all those pots I’d bought at Boots. Still, never mind. You always need moisturizer. It’s a staple, like bread and milk, and David E. Barton says you should never scrimp on staples. And apart from that, I don’t think I’ve done too badly. Of course I haven’t added it all up yet, but. . .
OK. So here is my final and complete list:
Cappuccino
￡1.50
Muffin
￡1.00
Notebook
￡3.99
Pen
￡1.20
Magazines
￡6.40
Leaving present
￡4.00
Egg and cress sandwich
99p
Coconut bath oil
￡2.55
Boots Moisturizers
￡20.97
Two cardigans
￡90.00
Evening Standard
35p
Clarins Neck Cream
￡14.50
Clarins Moisturizer
￡32.50
Beauty Bag
Free!
Banana smoothie
￡2.00
Carrot cake
￡1.20
And that comes to a grand total of. . . ￡177.96
I stare at this figure in utter shock.
No, I’m sorry, that just can’t be right. Itcan’t be right. I can’t have spent over ￡170 in one day.
I mean, it isn’t even the weekend. I’ve been at work. I wouldn’t have hadtime to spend that much. There has to be something wrong somewhere. Maybe I haven’t added it up right. Or maybe I’ve entered something twice.
My eye runs more carefully down the list and suddenly stops in triumph. “Two cardigans.” I knew it! I only bought. . .
Oh yes. I did buy two, didn’t I? Blast. Oh, this is too depress-ing. I’m going to go and watchEastEnders.
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
5 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Thank you for your check for ￡43.00, received today.
Unfortunately, the check is unsigned. No doubt just an oversight on your part. I am therefore returning it to you and request that you sign it and return to us.
As you are no doubt aware, this payment is already late by eight days.
I look forward to receiving your signed check.
Yours sincerely,
John Hunter
Customer Accounts Manager
? ENDWICH BANK ?
FULHAM BRANCH
3 Fulham Road
London SW6 9JH
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
5 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Thank you for your answer-machine message of Sunday 4 March.
I am sorry to hear that your dog has died.
Nevertheless, I must insist that you make contact with myself or my assistant, Erica Parnell, within the next few days, in order to discuss your situation.
Yours sincerely,
Derek Smeath
Manager
You see, yesterday, when Mum and I went into Waterstone’s to buy her paperback for the week, I sidled off to the self-help section and bought the most wonderful book I’ve ever read. Quite honestly, it’s going to change my life. I’ve got it now, in my bag. It’s calledControlling Your Cash by David E. Barton, and it’s fantastic. What it says is that we can all fritter away money with-out realizing it, and that most of us could easily cut our cash consumption by half in just one week.
In one week!
You just have to do things like make your own sandwiches instead of eating in restaurants and ride a bike to work instead of taking the tube. When you start thinking about it, you can save money everywhere. And as David E. Barton says, there are lots offree pleasures which we forget because we’reso busy spending money, like parks and museums and the simple joy of a country walk.
Come to think of it, why don’t we put information like this inSuccessful Saving ? It’s so much more useful than knowing about some fancy new unit trust which might make a profit or might not. I mean, with this scheme you start making money straight away!
It’s all so easy and straightforward. And the best thing is, you have to start out by going shopping! The book says you should begin by itemizing every single purchase in a single normal spending day and plot it on a graph. It stresses that you should be honest and not suddenly curtail or alter your spending pattern—which is lucky, because it’s Suze’s birthday on Friday and I’ve got to get her a present.
So on Monday morning, I stop off at Lucio’s on the way into work and buy an extralarge cappuccino and a chocolate muffin, just like I usually do. I have to admit I feel a bit sorrowful as I hand over my money, because this is my last-ever cappuccino and my last-ever chocolate muffin. My new frugality starts tomorrow—and cappuccinos aren’t allowed. David E. Barton says if you have a coffee habit you should make it at home and take it into the office in a flask, and if you like eating snacks you should buy cheap cakes from the supermarket. “The coffee merchants are fleecing you for what is little more than hot water and poly-styrene,” he points out—and I suppose he’s right. But I will miss my morning cappuccino. Still, I’ve promised myself I’ll follow the rules of the book—and I will.
As I come out of the coffee shop, clutching my last-ever cup, I realize I don’t actually have a flask for coffee. But that’s OK, I’ll buy one. There are some lovely sleek chrome ones in Habitat. Flasks are actually quite trendy these days. I think Alessi might even do one. Wouldn’t that be cool? Drinking coffee out of an Alessi flask. Much cooler than a take-away cappuccino.
So I’m feeling quite happy as I walk along the street. When Iget to Smiths I pop in and stock up on a few magazines to keep me going—and I also buy a sweet little silver notebook and pen to write down everything I spend. I’m going to be really rigorous about this, because David E. Barton says the very act of noting down purchases should have a curtailing effect. So when I get into work, I start my list.
Cappuccino
￡1.50
Muffin
￡1.00
Notebook
￡3.99
Pen
￡1.20
Magazines
￡6.40
Which makes a grand total so far of . . . ￡14.09.
Gosh. I suppose that’s quite a lot, bearing in mind it’s only nine-forty in the morning.
But the notebook and pen don’t count, do they? They’re like course requirements. I mean, how on earth are you supposed to note down all your purchases without a notebook and pen? So I subtract both of those, and now my total comes to . . . ￡8.90. Which is much better.
Anyway, I’m at work now. I probably won’t spend anything else all day.
But somehow, spending nothing is absolutely impossible. First of all, Guy from Accounts comes round with yet another leaving present to give to. Then I have to go out and get some lunch. I’m very restrained with my sandwich—I choose egg and cress, which is the cheapest one at Boots, and I don’t even like egg and cress.
David E. Barton says that when you make a real effort, particularly in the early stages, you should reward yourself—so I pick up some coconut bath oil from the Natural range as a little treat. Then I notice there are double advantage points on the moisturizer I use.
Ilove advantage points. Aren’t they a wonderful invention? If you spend enough, you can get really good prizes, like a beauty day at a hotel. Last Christmas I was really canny—I let my points build up until I’d accumulated enough to buy my granny’s Christ-mas present. What happened in fact was, I’d already built up 1,653 points—and I needed 1,800 to buy her a heated roller set. So I bought myself a great big bottle of Samsara perfume, and that gave me 150 extra points on my card—and then I got the heated roller set absolutely free! The only thing is, I don’t much like Samsara perfume—but I didn’t realize that until I got home. Still, never mind.
The clever way to use advantage points—as with all special offers—is to spot the opportunity and use it, because it may not come your way again. So I grab three pots of moisturizer and buy them. Double advantage points! I mean, it’s just free money, isn’t it?
Then I have to get Suze’s birthday present. I’ve actually already bought her a set of aromatherapy oils—but the other day I saw this gorgeous pink angora cardigan in Benetton, and I know she’d love it. I can always take the aromatherapy oils back or give them to someone for Christmas.
So I go into Benetton and pick up the pink cardigan. I’m about to pay . . . when I notice they’ve got it in gray as well. The most perfect, soft, dove-gray angora cardigan, with little pearly buttons.
OhGod. You see, the thing is, I’ve been looking for a nice gray cardigan for ages. Honestly, I have. You can ask Suze, my mum, anybody. And the other thing is, I’m not actuallyon my new frugal regime yet, am I? I’m just monitoring myself.
David E. Barton says I should act as naturally as possible. So really, I ought to act on my natural impulses and buy it. It would be false not to. It would ruin the whole point.
It only costs forty-five quid. And I can put it on VISA.
Look at it another way—what’s forty-five quid in the grand scheme of things? I mean, it’s nothing, is it?
So I buy it. The most perfect little cardigan in the world.People will call me the Girl in the Gray Cardigan. I’ll be able to live in it. Really, it’s an investment.
After lunch, I have to go and visit Image Store to choose a front-cover picture for the next issue. This is my absolute favorite job—I can’t understand why Philip always offloads it onto some-one else. It basically means you get to go and sit drinking coffee all afternoon, looking at rows and rows of transparencies.
Because, of course, we don’t have the editorial budget to create our own front covers. God, no. When I first started out in journalism, I thought I’d be able to go to shoots, and meet models, and have a really glamorous time. But we don’t even have a cameraman. All our sorts of magazines use picture libraries like Image Store, and the same images tend to go round and round. There’s a picture of a roaring tiger that’s been on at least three personal finance covers in the last year. Still, the readers don’t mind, do they? They’re not exactly buying the magazines to look at Kate Moss.
The good thing is that Elly’s editor doesn’t like choosing front covers either—and they use Image Store, too. So we always try to work it that we’ll go together and have a good natter over the pics. Even better, Image Store is all the way over in Notting Hill Gate, so you can legitimately take ages getting there and back. Usually I don’t bother going back to the office. Really, it’s the perfect way to spend a weekday afternoon.
I get there before Elly and mutter, “Becky Bloomwood fromSuccessful Saving ,” to the girl at reception, wishing I could say “Becky Bloomwood fromVogue ” or “Becky Bloomwood fromWallStreet Journal.” Then I sit on a squashy black leather chair, flicking through a catalogue of pictures of glossy happy families, until one of the trendy young men who works there comes and leads me to my own illuminated table.
“I’m Paul,” he says, “and I’ll be looking after you today. Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“Well. . .” I say, and pull out my notebook. We had a meeting about the cover yesterday and eventually decided on “Portfolio Management: Getting the Right Balance.” And before your head falls off with boredom, let me just point out that last month, the cover line was “Deposit Accounts: Put to the Test.”
Why can’t we justonce put self-tanning creams to the test instead? Oh well.
“I’m looking for pictures of scales,” I say, reading off my list. “Or tightropes, unicycles . . .”
“Balancing images,” says Paul. “No problem. Would you like a coffee?”
“Yes, please,” I beam, and relax back in my chair. You see what I mean? It’s so nice here. And I’m beingpaid to sit in this chair, doing nothing at all.
A few moments later, Elly appears with Paul, and I look at her in surprise. She’s looking really smart, in an aubergine-colored suit and high heels.
“So it’s swimmers, boats, and European images,” says Paul to her.
“That’s it,” says Elly, and sinks into the chair beside me.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Something about floating currencies.”
“Very good,” says Elly. “Actually, it’s ‘Europe: Sink or Swim’?” She says it in an incredibly dramatic voice, and Paul and I both start giggling. When he’s walked away, I look her up and down.
“So how come you’re so smart?”
“I always look smart,” she parries. “You know that.” Paul’s already wheeling trolley-loads of transparencies toward us and she looks over at them. “Are these yours or mine?”
She’s avoiding the subject. What’s going on?
“Have you got an interview?” I say, in a sudden flash of genius. She looks at me, flushes, then pulls a sheet of transparen-cies out of the trolley.
“Circus acts,” she says. “People juggling. Is that what you wanted?”
“Elly! Have you got an interview? Tell me!”
There’s silence for a while. Elly stares down at the sheet, then looks up.
“Yes,” she says, and bites her lip. “But—”
“That’s fantastic!” I exclaim, and a couple of smooth-looking girls in the corner look up. “Who for?” I say more quietly. “It’s notCosmo , is it?”
We’re interrupted by Paul, who comes over with a coffee and puts it in front of Elly.
“Swimmers coming up,” he says, then grins and walks off.
“Who’s it for?” I repeat. Elly applies for so many jobs, I lose track.
“It’s Wetherby’s,” she says, and a pink flush creeps over her face.
“Wetherby’s Investments?” She gives a very slight nod, and I frown in bemusement. Why is she applying to Wetherby’s Invest-ments? “Have they got an in-house magazine or something?”
“I’m not applying to be a journalist,” she says in a low voice. “I’m applying to be a fund manager.”
“What?”I say, appalled.
I know friends should be supportive of each other’s life deci-sions and all that. But I’m sorry, afund manager?
“I probably won’t even get it,” she says, and looks away. “It’s no big deal.”
“But . . .”
I’m speechless. How can Elly even be thinking of becoming a fund manager? Fund managers aren’t real people. They’re the characters we laugh at on press trips.
“It’s just an idea,” she says defensively. “Maybe I want to show Carol I can do something else. You know?”
“So it’s like . . . a bargaining tool?” I hazard.
“Yes,” she says, and gives a little shrug. “That’s it. A bargain-ing tool.”
But she doesn’t sound exactly convinced—and she’s not nearly as chatty as usual during the rest of the afternoon. What’s
happened to her? I’m still puzzling over it as I make my way home from Image Store. I walk down to High Street Kensington, cross over the road, and hesitate in front of Marks and Spencer.
The tube is to my right. The shops are to my left.
I mustignore the shops. I must practice frugality, go straight home, and plot my expenditure graph. If I need entertainment, I can watch some nice free television and perhaps make some inex-pensive, nutritious soup.
But there’s nothing good on tonight, at least not untilEastEnders. And I don’t want soup. I really feel as if I need some-thing to cheer me up. And besides—my mind’s working fast—I’ll be giving it all up tomorrow, won’t I? It’s like the beginning of Lent. This is my Shopping Pancake Day. I need to cram it all in before the fast begins.
With a surge of excitement I hurry toward the Barkers Centre. I won’t go mad, I promise myself. Just one little treat to see me through. I’ve already got my cardigan—so not clothes . . . and I bought some new kitten heels the other day—so not that . . . although there are some nice Prada-type shoes in Hobbs . . . Hmm. I’m not sure.
I arrive at the cosmetics department of Barkers and suddenly I know. Makeup! That’s what I need. A new mascara, and maybe a new lipstick. Happily I start to wander around the bright, heady room, dodging sprays of perfume and painting lipsticks onto the back of my hand. I want a really pale lipstick, I decide. Sort of nudey beige/pink, and a lip liner to go with it . . .
At the Clarins counter, my attention is grabbed by a big promotional sign.
BUY TWO SKIN-CARE PRODUCTS, AND RECEIVE FREE BEAUTY BAG, CONTAINING TRIAL-SIZE CLEANSER, TONER, AND MOISTURIZER, AUTUMN BLAZE LIPSTICK, EXTRA STRENGTH MASCARA AND SAMPLE-SIZE EAU DYNAMISANTE. STOCKS LIMITED SO HURRY.
But this is fantastic! Do you know how much Clarins lipstick usually costs? And here they are, giving it away! Excitedly I start rooting through all the skin-care products, trying to decide which two to buy. How about some neck cream? I’ve never used that before. And some of this Revitalizing Moisturizer. And then I’ll get a free lipstick! It’s a complete bargain.
“Hi,” I say to the woman in the white uniform. “I’d like the Neck Cream and the Revitalizing Moisturizer. And the beauty bag,” I add, suddenly petrified that I might be too late; that the limited stocks might have run out.
But they haven’t! Thank God. As my VISA card’s processing, the woman hands me my shiny red beauty bag (which I have to admit is a bit smaller than I was expecting) and I excitedly open it up. And there, sure enough, is my free lipstick!
It’s a kind of browny-red color. A bit weird, actually. But if I mix it up a bit with some of my others and add a bit of lip gloss, it’ll look really good.
By the time I get home, I’m exhausted. I open the door to the flat and Suze comes rushing up, like a puppy.
“What did you get?” she cries.
“Don’t look!” I cry back. “You’re not allowed to look! It’s your present.”
“My present!” Suze gets overexcited about birthdays. Well, to be honest, so do I.
I hurry into my bedroom and hide the Benetton bag in the wardrobe. Then I unpack all the rest of my shopping and get out my little silver notebook to itemize my purchases. David E. Barton says this should be donestraightaway, before items can be forgotten.
“D’you want a drink?” comes Suze’s voice through the door.
“Yes, please!” I shout back, writing in my book, and a moment later she comes in with a glass of wine.
“EastEndersin a minute,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say absently and keep on writing. I’m following the rules of the book exactly, taking out all my receipts and writ-ing them all down, and I’m feeling really pleased with myself. It just shows, as David E. Barton says, that with a bit of application, anyone can gain control of their finances.
Come to think of it, I’ve bought quite a lot of moisturizer today, haven’t I? To be honest, when I was at the Clarins counter, buying my Revitalizing Moisturizer, I forgot about all those pots I’d bought at Boots. Still, never mind. You always need moisturizer. It’s a staple, like bread and milk, and David E. Barton says you should never scrimp on staples. And apart from that, I don’t think I’ve done too badly. Of course I haven’t added it all up yet, but. . .
OK. So here is my final and complete list:
Cappuccino
￡1.50
Muffin
￡1.00
Notebook
￡3.99
Pen
￡1.20
Magazines
￡6.40
Leaving present
￡4.00
Egg and cress sandwich
99p
Coconut bath oil
￡2.55
Boots Moisturizers
￡20.97
Two cardigans
￡90.00
Evening Standard
35p
Clarins Neck Cream
￡14.50
Clarins Moisturizer
￡32.50
Beauty Bag
Free!
Banana smoothie
￡2.00
Carrot cake
￡1.20
And that comes to a grand total of. . . ￡177.96
I stare at this figure in utter shock.
No, I’m sorry, that just can’t be right. Itcan’t be right. I can’t have spent over ￡170 in one day.
I mean, it isn’t even the weekend. I’ve been at work. I wouldn’t have hadtime to spend that much. There has to be something wrong somewhere. Maybe I haven’t added it up right. Or maybe I’ve entered something twice.
My eye runs more carefully down the list and suddenly stops in triumph. “Two cardigans.” I knew it! I only bought. . .
Oh yes. I did buy two, didn’t I? Blast. Oh, this is too depress-ing. I’m going to go and watchEastEnders.
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
5 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Thank you for your check for ￡43.00, received today.
Unfortunately, the check is unsigned. No doubt just an oversight on your part. I am therefore returning it to you and request that you sign it and return to us.
As you are no doubt aware, this payment is already late by eight days.
I look forward to receiving your signed check.
Yours sincerely,
John Hunter
Customer Accounts Manager
? ENDWICH BANK ?
FULHAM BRANCH
3 Fulham Road
London SW6 9JH
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
5 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Thank you for your answer-machine message of Sunday 4 March.
I am sorry to hear that your dog has died.
Nevertheless, I must insist that you make contact with myself or my assistant, Erica Parnell, within the next few days, in order to discuss your situation.
Yours sincerely,
Derek Smeath
Manager
Chapter 4
WHEN I ARRIVE at my parents’ house, they are in the mid-dle of an argument. Dad is halfway up a stepladder in the garden, poking at the gutter on the side of the house, and Mum is sitting at the wrought-iron garden table, leafing through a Past Times catalogue. Neither of them even looks up when I walk through the patio doors.
“All I’m saying is that they should set a good example!” Mum is exclaiming. She’s looking good, I think as I sit down. New hair color—pale brown with just a hint of gray—and a very nice red polo-neck jumper. Perhaps I’ll borrow that tomorrow.
“And you think exposing themselves to danger is a good example, is it?” replies Dad, looking down from the ladder. He’s got quite a few more gray hairs, I notice with a slight shock. Mind you, gray hair looks quite distinguished on him. “You think that would solve the problem?”
“Danger!” says Mum derisively. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Graham. Is that the opinion you really have of British society?”
“Hi, Mum,” I say. “Hi, Dad.”
“Becky agrees with me. Don’t you, darling?” says Mum, and points to a page of Past Times, full of 1930s reproduction jewelryand trinket boxes. “Lovely cardigan,” she addssotto voce . “Look at that embroidery!” I follow her gaze and see a long, purple coat-like garment covered in colorful Art Deco swirls. I’d save the page and get it for her birthday—if I didn’t know she’ll probably have bought it herself by next week.
“Of course Becky doesn’t agree with you!” retorts my dad. “It’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.”
“No it’s not!” says Mum indignantly. “Becky, you think it would be a good idea for the royal family to travel by public transport, don’t you, darling?”
“Well . . .” I say cautiously. “I hadn’t really . . .”
“You think the queen should travel to official engagements on the ninety-three bus?” scoffs Dad.
“And why not? Maybe then the ninety-three bus would become more efficient!”
“So,” I say, sitting down next to Mum. “How are things?”
“You realize this country is on the verge of gridlock?” says Mum, as if she hasn’t heard me. “If more people don’t start using public transport, our roads are going to seize up.”
My dad shakes his head.
“And you think the queen traveling on the ninety-three bus would solve the problem. Never mind the security problems, never mind the fact that she’d be able to do far fewer engage-ments . . .”
“I didn’t mean the queen, necessarily,” retorts Mum. “But some of those others. Princess Michael of Kent, for example. She could travel by tube, every so often, couldn’t she? These people need to learn about real life.”
The last time my mum traveled on the tube was about 1983.
“Shall I make some coffee?” I say brightly.
“If you ask me, this gridlock business is utter nonsense,” says my dad. He jumps down from the stepladder and brushes the dirt off his hands. “It’s all propaganda.”
“Propaganda?” exclaims my mum in outrage.
“Right,” I say hurriedly. “Well, I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
I walk back into the house, flick the kettle on in the kitchen, and sit down at the table in a nice patch of sunshine. I’ve already forgotten what my mum and dad are arguing about. They’ll just go round and round in circles and agree it’s all the fault of Tony Blair. Anyway, I’ve got more important things to think about. I’m trying to figure out exactly how much I should give to Philip, my boss, after I win the lottery. I can’t leave him out, of course—but is cash a bit tacky? Would a present be better? Really nice cuff-links, perhaps. Or one of those picnic hampers with all the plates inside. (Clare Edwards, obviously, will get nothing.)
Sitting alone in the sunny kitchen, I feel as though I have a little glowing secret inside me. I’m going to win the lottery. Tonight, my life is going to change. God, I can’t wait. Ten million pounds. Just think, tomorrow I’ll be able to buy anything I want. Anything!
The newspaper’s open in front of me at the property section and I carelessly pick it up to peruse expensive houses. Where shall I live? Chelsea? Notting Hill? Mayfair?Belgravia, I read.Mag-nificentseven-bedroom detached house with staff annex and mature garden. Well, that sounds all right. I could cope with seven bed-rooms in Belgravia. My eye flicks complacently down to the price and stops still with shock. Six point five million pounds. That’s how much they’re asking. Six and a half million.
I feel stunned and slightly angry. Are they serious? I haven’t got anything like ￡6.5 million. I’ve only got about . . . 4 million left. Or was it 5? I stare at the page, feeling cheated. Lottery winners are supposed to be able to buy anything they want—but already I’m feeling poor and inadequate.
I shove the paper aside and reach for a freebie brochure full of gorgeous white duvet covers at ￡100 each. That’s more like it. When I’ve won the lottery I’ll only ever have crisp white duvet covers, I decide. And I’ll have a white cast-iron bed and painted wooden shutters and a fluffy white dressing gown . . .
“So, how’s the world of finance?” Mum’s voice interrupts me and I look up. She’s bustling into the kitchen, still holding herPast Times catalogue. “Have you made the coffee? Chop chop, darling!”
“I was going to,” I say, and make a half move from my chair. But, as always, Mum’s there before me. She reaches for a ceramic storage jar I’ve never seen before and spoons coffee into a new gold cafétière.
Mum’s terrible. She’s always buying new stuff for the kitchen—and she just gives the old stuff to charity shops. New kettles, new toasters . . . We’ve already had three new rubbish bins this year—dark green, then chrome, and now yellow translucent plastic. I mean, what a waste of money.
“That’s a nice skirt!” she says, looking at me as though for the first time. “Where’s that from?”
“DKNY,” I mumble back.
“Very pretty,” she says. “Was it expensive?”
“Not really,” I say. “About fifty quid.”
This is not strictly true. It was nearer 150. But there’s no point telling Mum how much things really cost, because she’d have a coronary. Or, in fact, she’d tell my dad first—and then they’d both have coronaries, and I’d be an orphan.
So what I do is work in two systems simultaneously. Real prices and Mum prices. It’s a bit like when everything in the shop is 20 percent off, and you walk around mentally reducing every-thing. After a while, you get quite practiced.
The only difference is, I operate a sliding-scale system, a bit like income tax. It starts off at 20 percent (if it really cost ￡20,I say it cost ￡16) and rises up to . . . well, to 90 percent if necessary. I once bought a pair of boots that cost ￡200, and I told Mum they were ￡20 in the sale. And she believed me.
“So, are you looking for a flat?” she says, glancing over my shoulder at the property pages.
“No,” I say sulkily, and flick over a page of my brochure. My parents are always on at me to buy a flat. Do they know how much flats cost?
“Apparently, Thomas has bought a very nice little starterhome in Reigate,” she says, nodding toward our next-door neigh-bors. “He commutes.” She says this with an air of satisfaction, as though she’s telling me he’s won the Nobel Peace Prize.
“Well, I can’t afford a flat,” I say.“Or a starter home.”
Not yet, anyway, I think. Not until eight o’clock tonight. Hee hee hee.
“Money troubles?” says Dad, coming into the kitchen. “You know, there are two solutions to money troubles.”
His eyes are twinkling, and I just know he’s about to give me some clever little aphorism. Dad has a saying for every subject under the sun—as well as a wide selection of limericks and truly terrible jokes. Sometimes I like listening to them. Sometimes I don’t.
“C.B.,” says Dad, his eyes twinkling. “Or M.M.M.”
He pauses for effect and I turn the page of my brochure, pre-tending I can’t hear him.
“Cut Back,” says my dad, “or Make More Money. One or the other. Which is it to be, Becky?”
“Oh, both, I expect,” I say airily, and turn another page of my brochure. To be honest, I almost feel sorry for Dad. It’ll be quite a shock for him when his only daughter becomes a multimillion-aire overnight.
After lunch, Mum and I go along to a craft fair in the local primary school. I’m really just going to keep Mum company, and I’m certainly not planning to buy anything—but when we get there, I find a stall full of amazing handmade cards, only ￡1.50 each! So I buy ten. After all, you always need cards, don’t you? There’s also a gorgeous blue ceramic plant holder with little ele-phants going round it—and I’ve been saying for ages we should have more plants in the flat. So I buy that, too. Only fifteen quid. Craft fairs are such a bargain, aren’t they? You go along thinking they’ll be complete rubbish—but you can always findsomething you want.
Mum’s really happy, too, as she’s found a pair of candlesticksfor her collection. She’s got collections of candlesticks, toast racks, pottery jugs, glass animals, embroidered samplers, and thimbles. (Personally, I don’t think the thimbles count as a proper collec-tion, because she got the whole lot, including the cabinet, from an ad at the back of theMailon Sunday magazine. But she never tells anybody that. In fact, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.)
So anyway, we’re both feeling rather pleased with ourselves, and decide to go for a cup of tea. Then, on the way out, we pass one of those really sad stalls which no one is going near; the kind people glance at once, then quickly walk past. The poor guy behind it looks really sorry for himself, so I pause to have a look. And no wonder no one’s stopping. He’s selling weird-shaped wooden bowls, and matching wooden cutlery. What on earth is the point of wooden cutlery?
“That’s nice!” I say brightly, and pick one of the bowls up.
“Hand-crafted applewood,” he says. “Took a week to make.”
Well, it was a waste of a week, if you ask me. It’s shapeless and the wood’s a nasty shade of brown. But as I go to put it back down again, he looks so doleful I feel sorry for him and turn it over to look at the price, thinking if it’s a fiver I’ll buy it. But it’s eighty quid! I show the price to Mum, and she pulls a little face.
“That particular piece was featured inElle Decoration last month,” says the man mournfully, and produces a cutout page. And at his words, I freeze.Elle Decoration! Is he joking?
He’s not joking. There on the page, in full color, is a picture of a room, completely empty except for a suede beanbag, a low table, and a wooden bowl. I stare at it incredulously.
“Was it this exact one?” I ask, trying not to sound too excited. “This exact bowl?” As he nods, my grasp tightens round the bowl. I can’t believe it. I’m holding a piece ofElle Decoration. How cool is that? Now I feel incredibly stylish and trendy—and wish I were wearing white linen trousers and had my hair slicked back like Yasmin Le Bon to match.
It just shows I’ve got good taste. Didn’t I pick out this bowl—sorry, this piece—all by myself? Didn’t I spot its quality? Already I can see our sitting room redesigned entirely around it, all pale and minimalist. Eighty quid. That’s nothing for a timeless piece of style like this.
“I’ll have it,” I say determinedly, and reach inside my bag for my checkbook. The thing is, I remind myself, buying cheap is actually a false economy. It’s much better to spend a little more and make a serious purchase that’ll last for a lifetime. And this bowl is quite clearly a classic. Suze is going to be so impressed.
When we get back home, Mum goes straight inside, but I stay in the driveway, carefully transferring my purchases from her car to mine.
“Becky! What a surprise!”
Oh God. It’s Martin Webster from next door, leaning over the fence with a rake in his hand and a huge friendly smile on his face. Martin has this way of always making me feel guilty, I don’t know why.
Actually I do know why. It’s because I know he was always hoping I would grow up and marry Tom, his son. And I haven’t. The history of my relationship with Tom is: he asked me out once when we were both about sixteen and I said no, I was going out with Adam Moore. That was the end of it and thank God for that. To be perfectly honest, I would rather marry Martin himself than marry Tom.
“Hi!” I say overenthusiastically. “How are you?”
“Oh, we’re all doing well,” says Martin. “You heard Tom’s bought a house?”
“Yes,” I say. “In Reigate. Fantastic!”
“It’s got two bedrooms, shower room, reception room, and open-plan kitchen,” he recites. “Limed oak units in the kitchen.”
“Gosh,” I say. “How fab.”
“Tom’s thrilled with it,” says Martin. “Janice!” he adds in a yell. “Come and see who’s here!”
A moment later, Janice appears on the front doorstep, wear-ing her floral apron.
“Becky!” she says. “What a stranger you’ve become! How long is it?”
Now I feel guilty for not visiting my parents more often.
“Well,” I say, trying to give a nonchalant smile. “You know. I’m quite busy with my job and everything.”
“Oh yes,” says Janice, giving an awe-stricken nod. “Your job.”
Somewhere along the line, Janice and Martin have got it into their heads that I’m this high-powered financial whiz kid. I’ve tried telling them that really, I’m not—but the more I deny it, the more high powered they think I am. It’s a catch-22. They now think I’m high poweredand modest.
Still, who cares? It’s actually quite fun, playing a financial genius.
“Yes, actually we’ve been quite busy lately,” I say coolly. “What with the merger of SBG and Rutland.”
“Of course,” breathes Janice.
“You know, that reminds me,” says Martin suddenly. “Becky, wait there. Back in two ticks.” He disappears before I can say any-thing, and I’m left awkwardly with Janice.
“So,” I say inanely. “I hear Tom’s got limed oak units in his kitchen!”
This is literally the only thing I can think of to say. I smile at Janice, and wait for her to reply. But instead, she’s beaming at me delightedly. Her face is all lit up—and suddenly I realize I’ve made a huge mistake. I shouldn’t have mentioned Tom’s bloody starter home. I shouldn’t have mentioned the limed oak units. She’ll think I suddenly fancy Tom, now he’s got a starter home to his name.
“It’s limed oak and Mediterranean tiles,” she says proudly. “It was a choice of Mediterranean or Farmhouse Quarry, and Tom chose Mediterranean.”
For an instant I consider saying I would have chosen Farmhouse Quarry. But that seems a bit mean.
“Lovely,” I say. “And two bedrooms!”
Why can’t I get off the subject of this bloody starter home?
“He wanted two bedrooms,” says Janice. “After all, you never know, do you?” She smiles coyly at me, and ridiculously, I feel myself start to blush. Why am I blushing? This is so stupid. Now she thinks I fancy Tom. She’s picturing us together in the starter home, making supper together in the limed oak kitchen.
I should say something. I should say, “Janice, I don’t fancy Tom. He’s too tall and his breath smells.” But how on earth can I say that?
“Well, do give him my love,” I hear myself saying instead.
“I certainly will,” she says, and pauses. “Does he have your London number?”
Aarrgh!
“I think so,” I lie, smiling brightly. “And he can always get me here if he wants.” Now everything I say sounds like some saucy double entendre. I can just imagine how this conversation will be reported back to Tom. “She was askingall about your starter home. And she asked you to call her!”
Life would be a lot easier if conversations were rewindable and erasable, like videos. Or if you could instruct people to disre-gard what you just said, like in a courtroom.Please strike from the record all references to starter homes and limed oak kitchens.
Luckily, at that moment, Martin reappears, clutching a piece of paper.
“Thought you might cast your eye over this,” he says. “We’ve had this with-profits fund with Flagstaff Life for fifteen years. Now we’re thinking of transferring to their new unit-linked growth fund. What do you think?”
I don’t know. What’s he talking about, anyway? Some kind of savings plan? Please don’t ask me, I want to say. Please ask some-one who knows what they’re talking about. But there’s no way they’ll believe that I’m not a financial genius—so I’ll just have to do the best I can.
I run my eye over the piece of paper in what I hope looks likea knowledgeable fashion and nod several times. It’s a letter mak-ing some kind of special offer if investors switch to this new fund. Sounds reasonable enough.
“The company wrote to us, saying we might want a higher re-turn in our retirement years,” says Martin. “There’s a guaranteed sum, too.”
“And they’ll send us a carriage clock,” chimes in Janice. “Swiss-made.”
“Mmm,” I say, studying the letterhead intently. “Well, I should think that’s quite a good idea.”
Flagstaff Life, I’m thinking. I’m sure I’ve heard something about them recently. Which ones are Flagstaff Life? Oh yes! They’re the ones who threw a champagne party at Soho Soho. That’s right. And Elly got incredibly pissed and told David Salisbury fromThe Times that she loved him. It was a bloody good party, come to think of it. One of the best.
Hmm. But wasn’t there something else? Something I’ve heard recently? I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember . . . but it’s gone. I’ve probably got it wrong, anyway.
“D’you rate them as a company?” says Martin.
“Oh yes,” I say, looking up. “They’re very well regarded among the profession.”
“Well then,” says Martin, looking pleased. “If Becky thinks it’s a good idea . . .”
“Yes, but, I really wouldn’t just listen to me!” I say quickly. “I mean, a financial adviser or someone would know far more . . .”
“Listen to her!” says Martin with a little chuckle. “The finan-cial expert herself.”
“You know, Tom sometimes buys your magazine,” puts in Janice. “Not that he’s got much money now, what with the mort-gage and everything . . . But he says your articles are very good! Tom says—”
“How nice!” I cut in. “Well, look, I really must go. Lovely to see you. And love to Tom!”
And I turn into the house so quickly, I bump my knee on thedoor frame. Then I feel a bit bad, and wish I’d said good-bye nicely. But honestly! If I hear one more word about bloody Tom and his bloody kitchen, I’ll go mad.
By the time I sit down in front of the National Lottery, how-ever, I’ve forgotten all about them. We’ve had a nice supper—chicken Proven?ale from Marks and Spencer, and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio, which I brought. I know the chicken Proven?ale comes from Marks and Spencer because I’ve bought it myself, quite a few times. I recognized the sun-dried tomatoes and the olives, and everything. Mum, of course, still acted like she’d made it from scratch, from her own recipe.
I don’t know why she bothers. It isn’t like anyone would care—especially when it’s just me and Dad. And I mean, it’s pretty obvious that there are never any raw ingredients in our kitchen. There are lots of empty cardboard boxes and lots of fully prepared meals—and nothing in between. But still Mum never ever admits she’s bought a ready-made meal, not even when it’s a pie in a foil container. My dad will eat one of those pies, full of plastic mushrooms and gloopy sauce, and then say, with a per-fectly straight face, “Delicious, my love.” And my mum will smile back, looking all pleased with herself.
But tonight it’s not foil pie, it’s chicken Proven?ale. (To be fair, I suppose it almost does look homemade—except no one would ever cut a red pepper up that small for themselves, would they? People have more important things to do.) So anyway, we’ve eaten it and we’ve drunk a fair amount of the Pinot Grigio, and there’s an apple crumble in the oven—and I’ve suggested, casu-ally, that we all go and watch telly. Because I know from looking at the clock that the National Lottery program has already started. In a matter of minutes, it’s all going to happen. I cannot wait.
Luckily, my parents aren’t the sort who want to make conver-sation about politics or talk about books. We’ve already caught up with all the family news, and I’ve told them how my work’sgoing, and they’ve told me about their holiday in Corsica—so by now, we’re grinding to a bit of a halt. We need the telly on, if only as a conversational sounding board.
So we all troop into the sitting room, and my dad lights the gas flame-effect fire and turns on the telly. And there it is! The National Lottery, in glorious Technicolor. The lights are shining, and Dale Winton is joshing with Tiffany fromEastEnders, and every so often the audience gives an excited whoop. My stomach’s getting tighter and tighter, and my heart’s going thump-thump-thump. Because in a few minutes those balls are going to fall. In a few minutes I’m going to be a millionaire. I justknow I am.
I lean calmly back on the sofa and think what I’ll do when I win. At the very instant that I win, I mean. Do I scream? Do I keep quiet? Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone for twenty-four hours. Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyoneat all.
This new thought transfixes me. I could be a secret winner! I could have all the money and none of the pressure. If people asked me how I could afford so many designer clothes I’d just tell them I was doing lots of freelance work. Yes! And I could trans-form all my friends’ lives anonymously, like a good angel.
I’m just working out how big a house I could manage to buy without everyone twigging, when a voice on the screen alerts me.
“Question to number three.”
What?
“My favorite animal is the flamingo because it’s pink, fluffy, and has long legs.” The girl sitting on the stool excitedly unwinds a pair of long glossy legs, and the audience goes wild. I stare at her dazedly. What’s going on? Why are we watchingBlind Date ?
“Now, this show used to be fun,” says Mum. “But it’s gone downhill.”
“You call this rubbish fun?” retorts my dad incredulously.
“Listen, Dad, actually, could we turn back to—”
“I didn’t say it was funnow. I said—”
“Dad!” I say, trying not to sound too panicky. “Could we just go back to BBC1 for a moment?”
Blind Datedisappears and I sigh with relief. The next moment, an earnest man in a suit fills the screen.
“What the police failed to appreciate,” he says in a nasal voice, “is that the witnesses were not sufficiently—”
“Dad!”
“Where’s the television guide?” he says impatiently. “There’s got to be something better than this.”
“There’s the lottery!” I almost scream. “I want to watch the lottery!”
I know strictly speaking that whether I watch it or not won’t affect my chances of winning—but I don’t want to miss the great moment, do I? You might think I’m a bit mad, but I feel that if I watch it, I can kind of communicate with the balls through the screen. I’ll stare hard at them as they get tossed around and silently urge on my winning numbers. It’s a bit like supporting a team.Team 1 6 9 16 23 44.
Except the numbers never come out in order, do they?
Team 44 1 23 6 9 16. Possibly. OrTeam 23 6 1 . . .
Suddenly there’s a round of applause and Marline McCutcheon’s finished her song. Oh my God. It’s about to happen. My life is about to change.
“The lottery’s become terribly commercialized, hasn’t it?” says my mum, as Dale Winton leads Martine over to the red button. “It’s a shame, really.”
“What do you mean, it’sbecome commercialized?” retorts my dad.
“People used to play the lottery because they wanted to sup-port the charities.”
“No they didn’t! Don’t be ridiculous! No one gives a fig about the charities. This is all about self, self, self.” Dad gestures toward Dale Winton with the remote control and the screen goes dead.
“Dad!” I wail.
“So you think no one cares about the charities?” says my mum into the silence.
“That’s not what I said.”
“Dad! Put it back on!” I screech. “Put-it-back-on!” I’m about to wrestle him for the remote control when he flicks it back on again.
I stare at the screen in utter disbelief. The first ball has already dropped. And it’s 44. My number 44.
“. . . last appeared three weeks ago. And here comes the sec-ond ball . . . And it’s number 1.”
I can’t move. It’s taking place, before my very eyes. I’m actu-ally winning the lottery. I’m winning the bloody lottery!
Now that it’s happening, I feel surprisingly calm about it. It’s as if I’ve known, all my life, that this would happen. Sitting here silently on the sofa, I feel as though I’m in a fly-on-the-wall docu-mentary about myself. “Becky Bloomwood always secretly knew she would win the lottery one day. But on the day it happened, even she couldn’t have predicted . . .”
“And another low one. Number 3.”
What? My mind snaps to and I stare perplexedly at the screen. That can’t be right. They mean 23.
“And number 2, last week’s bonus ball.”
I feel cold all over. What the hell is going on? Whatare these numbers?
“And another low one! Number 4. A popular number—it’s had twelve appearances so far this year. And finally . . . number 5! Well, I never! This is a bit of a first! Now, lining them up in order . . .”
No. This can’t be serious. This has to be a mistake. The win-ning lottery numbers cannot possibly be 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 44. That’s not a lottery combination, it’s a . . . it’s an act of torture.
And I was winning. I waswinning .
“Look at that!” my mum’s saying. “Absolutely incredible! One-two-three-four-five-forty-four.”
“And why should that be incredible?” replies Dad. “It’s as likely as any other combination.”
“It can’t be!”
“Jane, do you knowanything about the laws of probability?”
Quietly I get up and leave the room, as the National Lottery theme tune blares out of the telly. I walk into the kitchen, sit down at the table, and bury my head in my hands. I feel slightly shaky, to tell you the truth. How could I lose? I was living in a big house and going on holiday to Barbados with all my friends, and walking into Agnès b and buying anything I wanted. It felt so real.
And now, instead, I’m sitting in my parents’ kitchen, and I can’t afford to go on holiday and I’ve just spent eighty quid on a wooden bowl I don’t even like.
Miserably, I turn on the kettle, pick up a copy ofWoman’s Journal lying on the counter, and flick through it—but even that doesn’t cheer me up. Everything seems to remind me of money. Maybe my dad’s right, I find myself thinking dolefully. Maybe Cut Back is the answer. Suppose . . . suppose I cut back enough to save sixty quid a week. I’d have ￡6,000 in a hundred weeks.
And suddenly my brain is alert. Six thousand quid. That’s not bad, is it? And if you think about it, it can’t bethat hard to save sixty quid a week. It’s only the same as a couple of meals out. I mean, you’d hardly notice it.
God, yes. That’s what I’ll do. Sixty quid a week, every week. Maybe I’ll even pay it into a special account. That new Lloyds high-yield sixty-day access account with the tiered interest rates. It’ll be fantastic! I’ll be completely on top of my finances—and when I’ve paid off my bills I’ll just keep saving. It’ll become a habit to be frugal. And at the end of every year I’ll splash out on one classic investment like an Armani suit. Or maybe Christian Dior. Something really classy, anyway.
I’ll start on Monday, I think excitedly, spooning chocolate Ovaltine into a cup. What I’ll do is, I just won’t spendanything. All my spare money will mount up, and I’ll be rich. This is going to be so great.
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
2 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Our records suggest that we have not received payment for your latest Octagon Silver Card bill. If you have paid within the last few days, please ignore this letter.
Your outstanding bill is currently ￡235.76.The minimum payment is ￡43.00.You may pay by cash, check, or on the enclosed bank giro credit slip. We look forward to receiving your payment.
Yours sincerely,
John Hunter
Customer Accounts Manager
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
2 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
There’s never been a better time to spend!
For a limited time, we are offering EXTRA POINTS on all purchases over ￡50 made with your Octagon Silver Card*—so take the opportunity now to add more points to your total and take advantage of some of our Pointholders’ Gifts.
Some of the fantastic gifts we are offering include:
An Italian leather bag
1,000 points
A case of pink champagne
2,000 points
Two flights to Paris**
5,000 points
(Your current level is:
35 points)
And remember, during this special offer period, you will gain two points for every ￡5 spent! We look forward to welcoming you soon to take advantage of this unique offer.
Yours sincerely,
Adrian Smith
Customer Services Manager
*excluding purchases at restaurants, pharmacy, newsstand, and hairdresser
**certain restrictions apply—see enclosed leaflet
“All I’m saying is that they should set a good example!” Mum is exclaiming. She’s looking good, I think as I sit down. New hair color—pale brown with just a hint of gray—and a very nice red polo-neck jumper. Perhaps I’ll borrow that tomorrow.
“And you think exposing themselves to danger is a good example, is it?” replies Dad, looking down from the ladder. He’s got quite a few more gray hairs, I notice with a slight shock. Mind you, gray hair looks quite distinguished on him. “You think that would solve the problem?”
“Danger!” says Mum derisively. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Graham. Is that the opinion you really have of British society?”
“Hi, Mum,” I say. “Hi, Dad.”
“Becky agrees with me. Don’t you, darling?” says Mum, and points to a page of Past Times, full of 1930s reproduction jewelryand trinket boxes. “Lovely cardigan,” she addssotto voce . “Look at that embroidery!” I follow her gaze and see a long, purple coat-like garment covered in colorful Art Deco swirls. I’d save the page and get it for her birthday—if I didn’t know she’ll probably have bought it herself by next week.
“Of course Becky doesn’t agree with you!” retorts my dad. “It’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.”
“No it’s not!” says Mum indignantly. “Becky, you think it would be a good idea for the royal family to travel by public transport, don’t you, darling?”
“Well . . .” I say cautiously. “I hadn’t really . . .”
“You think the queen should travel to official engagements on the ninety-three bus?” scoffs Dad.
“And why not? Maybe then the ninety-three bus would become more efficient!”
“So,” I say, sitting down next to Mum. “How are things?”
“You realize this country is on the verge of gridlock?” says Mum, as if she hasn’t heard me. “If more people don’t start using public transport, our roads are going to seize up.”
My dad shakes his head.
“And you think the queen traveling on the ninety-three bus would solve the problem. Never mind the security problems, never mind the fact that she’d be able to do far fewer engage-ments . . .”
“I didn’t mean the queen, necessarily,” retorts Mum. “But some of those others. Princess Michael of Kent, for example. She could travel by tube, every so often, couldn’t she? These people need to learn about real life.”
The last time my mum traveled on the tube was about 1983.
“Shall I make some coffee?” I say brightly.
“If you ask me, this gridlock business is utter nonsense,” says my dad. He jumps down from the stepladder and brushes the dirt off his hands. “It’s all propaganda.”
“Propaganda?” exclaims my mum in outrage.
“Right,” I say hurriedly. “Well, I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
I walk back into the house, flick the kettle on in the kitchen, and sit down at the table in a nice patch of sunshine. I’ve already forgotten what my mum and dad are arguing about. They’ll just go round and round in circles and agree it’s all the fault of Tony Blair. Anyway, I’ve got more important things to think about. I’m trying to figure out exactly how much I should give to Philip, my boss, after I win the lottery. I can’t leave him out, of course—but is cash a bit tacky? Would a present be better? Really nice cuff-links, perhaps. Or one of those picnic hampers with all the plates inside. (Clare Edwards, obviously, will get nothing.)
Sitting alone in the sunny kitchen, I feel as though I have a little glowing secret inside me. I’m going to win the lottery. Tonight, my life is going to change. God, I can’t wait. Ten million pounds. Just think, tomorrow I’ll be able to buy anything I want. Anything!
The newspaper’s open in front of me at the property section and I carelessly pick it up to peruse expensive houses. Where shall I live? Chelsea? Notting Hill? Mayfair?Belgravia, I read.Mag-nificentseven-bedroom detached house with staff annex and mature garden. Well, that sounds all right. I could cope with seven bed-rooms in Belgravia. My eye flicks complacently down to the price and stops still with shock. Six point five million pounds. That’s how much they’re asking. Six and a half million.
I feel stunned and slightly angry. Are they serious? I haven’t got anything like ￡6.5 million. I’ve only got about . . . 4 million left. Or was it 5? I stare at the page, feeling cheated. Lottery winners are supposed to be able to buy anything they want—but already I’m feeling poor and inadequate.
I shove the paper aside and reach for a freebie brochure full of gorgeous white duvet covers at ￡100 each. That’s more like it. When I’ve won the lottery I’ll only ever have crisp white duvet covers, I decide. And I’ll have a white cast-iron bed and painted wooden shutters and a fluffy white dressing gown . . .
“So, how’s the world of finance?” Mum’s voice interrupts me and I look up. She’s bustling into the kitchen, still holding herPast Times catalogue. “Have you made the coffee? Chop chop, darling!”
“I was going to,” I say, and make a half move from my chair. But, as always, Mum’s there before me. She reaches for a ceramic storage jar I’ve never seen before and spoons coffee into a new gold cafétière.
Mum’s terrible. She’s always buying new stuff for the kitchen—and she just gives the old stuff to charity shops. New kettles, new toasters . . . We’ve already had three new rubbish bins this year—dark green, then chrome, and now yellow translucent plastic. I mean, what a waste of money.
“That’s a nice skirt!” she says, looking at me as though for the first time. “Where’s that from?”
“DKNY,” I mumble back.
“Very pretty,” she says. “Was it expensive?”
“Not really,” I say. “About fifty quid.”
This is not strictly true. It was nearer 150. But there’s no point telling Mum how much things really cost, because she’d have a coronary. Or, in fact, she’d tell my dad first—and then they’d both have coronaries, and I’d be an orphan.
So what I do is work in two systems simultaneously. Real prices and Mum prices. It’s a bit like when everything in the shop is 20 percent off, and you walk around mentally reducing every-thing. After a while, you get quite practiced.
The only difference is, I operate a sliding-scale system, a bit like income tax. It starts off at 20 percent (if it really cost ￡20,I say it cost ￡16) and rises up to . . . well, to 90 percent if necessary. I once bought a pair of boots that cost ￡200, and I told Mum they were ￡20 in the sale. And she believed me.
“So, are you looking for a flat?” she says, glancing over my shoulder at the property pages.
“No,” I say sulkily, and flick over a page of my brochure. My parents are always on at me to buy a flat. Do they know how much flats cost?
“Apparently, Thomas has bought a very nice little starterhome in Reigate,” she says, nodding toward our next-door neigh-bors. “He commutes.” She says this with an air of satisfaction, as though she’s telling me he’s won the Nobel Peace Prize.
“Well, I can’t afford a flat,” I say.“Or a starter home.”
Not yet, anyway, I think. Not until eight o’clock tonight. Hee hee hee.
“Money troubles?” says Dad, coming into the kitchen. “You know, there are two solutions to money troubles.”
His eyes are twinkling, and I just know he’s about to give me some clever little aphorism. Dad has a saying for every subject under the sun—as well as a wide selection of limericks and truly terrible jokes. Sometimes I like listening to them. Sometimes I don’t.
“C.B.,” says Dad, his eyes twinkling. “Or M.M.M.”
He pauses for effect and I turn the page of my brochure, pre-tending I can’t hear him.
“Cut Back,” says my dad, “or Make More Money. One or the other. Which is it to be, Becky?”
“Oh, both, I expect,” I say airily, and turn another page of my brochure. To be honest, I almost feel sorry for Dad. It’ll be quite a shock for him when his only daughter becomes a multimillion-aire overnight.
After lunch, Mum and I go along to a craft fair in the local primary school. I’m really just going to keep Mum company, and I’m certainly not planning to buy anything—but when we get there, I find a stall full of amazing handmade cards, only ￡1.50 each! So I buy ten. After all, you always need cards, don’t you? There’s also a gorgeous blue ceramic plant holder with little ele-phants going round it—and I’ve been saying for ages we should have more plants in the flat. So I buy that, too. Only fifteen quid. Craft fairs are such a bargain, aren’t they? You go along thinking they’ll be complete rubbish—but you can always findsomething you want.
Mum’s really happy, too, as she’s found a pair of candlesticksfor her collection. She’s got collections of candlesticks, toast racks, pottery jugs, glass animals, embroidered samplers, and thimbles. (Personally, I don’t think the thimbles count as a proper collec-tion, because she got the whole lot, including the cabinet, from an ad at the back of theMailon Sunday magazine. But she never tells anybody that. In fact, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.)
So anyway, we’re both feeling rather pleased with ourselves, and decide to go for a cup of tea. Then, on the way out, we pass one of those really sad stalls which no one is going near; the kind people glance at once, then quickly walk past. The poor guy behind it looks really sorry for himself, so I pause to have a look. And no wonder no one’s stopping. He’s selling weird-shaped wooden bowls, and matching wooden cutlery. What on earth is the point of wooden cutlery?
“That’s nice!” I say brightly, and pick one of the bowls up.
“Hand-crafted applewood,” he says. “Took a week to make.”
Well, it was a waste of a week, if you ask me. It’s shapeless and the wood’s a nasty shade of brown. But as I go to put it back down again, he looks so doleful I feel sorry for him and turn it over to look at the price, thinking if it’s a fiver I’ll buy it. But it’s eighty quid! I show the price to Mum, and she pulls a little face.
“That particular piece was featured inElle Decoration last month,” says the man mournfully, and produces a cutout page. And at his words, I freeze.Elle Decoration! Is he joking?
He’s not joking. There on the page, in full color, is a picture of a room, completely empty except for a suede beanbag, a low table, and a wooden bowl. I stare at it incredulously.
“Was it this exact one?” I ask, trying not to sound too excited. “This exact bowl?” As he nods, my grasp tightens round the bowl. I can’t believe it. I’m holding a piece ofElle Decoration. How cool is that? Now I feel incredibly stylish and trendy—and wish I were wearing white linen trousers and had my hair slicked back like Yasmin Le Bon to match.
It just shows I’ve got good taste. Didn’t I pick out this bowl—sorry, this piece—all by myself? Didn’t I spot its quality? Already I can see our sitting room redesigned entirely around it, all pale and minimalist. Eighty quid. That’s nothing for a timeless piece of style like this.
“I’ll have it,” I say determinedly, and reach inside my bag for my checkbook. The thing is, I remind myself, buying cheap is actually a false economy. It’s much better to spend a little more and make a serious purchase that’ll last for a lifetime. And this bowl is quite clearly a classic. Suze is going to be so impressed.
When we get back home, Mum goes straight inside, but I stay in the driveway, carefully transferring my purchases from her car to mine.
“Becky! What a surprise!”
Oh God. It’s Martin Webster from next door, leaning over the fence with a rake in his hand and a huge friendly smile on his face. Martin has this way of always making me feel guilty, I don’t know why.
Actually I do know why. It’s because I know he was always hoping I would grow up and marry Tom, his son. And I haven’t. The history of my relationship with Tom is: he asked me out once when we were both about sixteen and I said no, I was going out with Adam Moore. That was the end of it and thank God for that. To be perfectly honest, I would rather marry Martin himself than marry Tom.
“Hi!” I say overenthusiastically. “How are you?”
“Oh, we’re all doing well,” says Martin. “You heard Tom’s bought a house?”
“Yes,” I say. “In Reigate. Fantastic!”
“It’s got two bedrooms, shower room, reception room, and open-plan kitchen,” he recites. “Limed oak units in the kitchen.”
“Gosh,” I say. “How fab.”
“Tom’s thrilled with it,” says Martin. “Janice!” he adds in a yell. “Come and see who’s here!”
A moment later, Janice appears on the front doorstep, wear-ing her floral apron.
“Becky!” she says. “What a stranger you’ve become! How long is it?”
Now I feel guilty for not visiting my parents more often.
“Well,” I say, trying to give a nonchalant smile. “You know. I’m quite busy with my job and everything.”
“Oh yes,” says Janice, giving an awe-stricken nod. “Your job.”
Somewhere along the line, Janice and Martin have got it into their heads that I’m this high-powered financial whiz kid. I’ve tried telling them that really, I’m not—but the more I deny it, the more high powered they think I am. It’s a catch-22. They now think I’m high poweredand modest.
Still, who cares? It’s actually quite fun, playing a financial genius.
“Yes, actually we’ve been quite busy lately,” I say coolly. “What with the merger of SBG and Rutland.”
“Of course,” breathes Janice.
“You know, that reminds me,” says Martin suddenly. “Becky, wait there. Back in two ticks.” He disappears before I can say any-thing, and I’m left awkwardly with Janice.
“So,” I say inanely. “I hear Tom’s got limed oak units in his kitchen!”
This is literally the only thing I can think of to say. I smile at Janice, and wait for her to reply. But instead, she’s beaming at me delightedly. Her face is all lit up—and suddenly I realize I’ve made a huge mistake. I shouldn’t have mentioned Tom’s bloody starter home. I shouldn’t have mentioned the limed oak units. She’ll think I suddenly fancy Tom, now he’s got a starter home to his name.
“It’s limed oak and Mediterranean tiles,” she says proudly. “It was a choice of Mediterranean or Farmhouse Quarry, and Tom chose Mediterranean.”
For an instant I consider saying I would have chosen Farmhouse Quarry. But that seems a bit mean.
“Lovely,” I say. “And two bedrooms!”
Why can’t I get off the subject of this bloody starter home?
“He wanted two bedrooms,” says Janice. “After all, you never know, do you?” She smiles coyly at me, and ridiculously, I feel myself start to blush. Why am I blushing? This is so stupid. Now she thinks I fancy Tom. She’s picturing us together in the starter home, making supper together in the limed oak kitchen.
I should say something. I should say, “Janice, I don’t fancy Tom. He’s too tall and his breath smells.” But how on earth can I say that?
“Well, do give him my love,” I hear myself saying instead.
“I certainly will,” she says, and pauses. “Does he have your London number?”
Aarrgh!
“I think so,” I lie, smiling brightly. “And he can always get me here if he wants.” Now everything I say sounds like some saucy double entendre. I can just imagine how this conversation will be reported back to Tom. “She was askingall about your starter home. And she asked you to call her!”
Life would be a lot easier if conversations were rewindable and erasable, like videos. Or if you could instruct people to disre-gard what you just said, like in a courtroom.Please strike from the record all references to starter homes and limed oak kitchens.
Luckily, at that moment, Martin reappears, clutching a piece of paper.
“Thought you might cast your eye over this,” he says. “We’ve had this with-profits fund with Flagstaff Life for fifteen years. Now we’re thinking of transferring to their new unit-linked growth fund. What do you think?”
I don’t know. What’s he talking about, anyway? Some kind of savings plan? Please don’t ask me, I want to say. Please ask some-one who knows what they’re talking about. But there’s no way they’ll believe that I’m not a financial genius—so I’ll just have to do the best I can.
I run my eye over the piece of paper in what I hope looks likea knowledgeable fashion and nod several times. It’s a letter mak-ing some kind of special offer if investors switch to this new fund. Sounds reasonable enough.
“The company wrote to us, saying we might want a higher re-turn in our retirement years,” says Martin. “There’s a guaranteed sum, too.”
“And they’ll send us a carriage clock,” chimes in Janice. “Swiss-made.”
“Mmm,” I say, studying the letterhead intently. “Well, I should think that’s quite a good idea.”
Flagstaff Life, I’m thinking. I’m sure I’ve heard something about them recently. Which ones are Flagstaff Life? Oh yes! They’re the ones who threw a champagne party at Soho Soho. That’s right. And Elly got incredibly pissed and told David Salisbury fromThe Times that she loved him. It was a bloody good party, come to think of it. One of the best.
Hmm. But wasn’t there something else? Something I’ve heard recently? I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember . . . but it’s gone. I’ve probably got it wrong, anyway.
“D’you rate them as a company?” says Martin.
“Oh yes,” I say, looking up. “They’re very well regarded among the profession.”
“Well then,” says Martin, looking pleased. “If Becky thinks it’s a good idea . . .”
“Yes, but, I really wouldn’t just listen to me!” I say quickly. “I mean, a financial adviser or someone would know far more . . .”
“Listen to her!” says Martin with a little chuckle. “The finan-cial expert herself.”
“You know, Tom sometimes buys your magazine,” puts in Janice. “Not that he’s got much money now, what with the mort-gage and everything . . . But he says your articles are very good! Tom says—”
“How nice!” I cut in. “Well, look, I really must go. Lovely to see you. And love to Tom!”
And I turn into the house so quickly, I bump my knee on thedoor frame. Then I feel a bit bad, and wish I’d said good-bye nicely. But honestly! If I hear one more word about bloody Tom and his bloody kitchen, I’ll go mad.
By the time I sit down in front of the National Lottery, how-ever, I’ve forgotten all about them. We’ve had a nice supper—chicken Proven?ale from Marks and Spencer, and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio, which I brought. I know the chicken Proven?ale comes from Marks and Spencer because I’ve bought it myself, quite a few times. I recognized the sun-dried tomatoes and the olives, and everything. Mum, of course, still acted like she’d made it from scratch, from her own recipe.
I don’t know why she bothers. It isn’t like anyone would care—especially when it’s just me and Dad. And I mean, it’s pretty obvious that there are never any raw ingredients in our kitchen. There are lots of empty cardboard boxes and lots of fully prepared meals—and nothing in between. But still Mum never ever admits she’s bought a ready-made meal, not even when it’s a pie in a foil container. My dad will eat one of those pies, full of plastic mushrooms and gloopy sauce, and then say, with a per-fectly straight face, “Delicious, my love.” And my mum will smile back, looking all pleased with herself.
But tonight it’s not foil pie, it’s chicken Proven?ale. (To be fair, I suppose it almost does look homemade—except no one would ever cut a red pepper up that small for themselves, would they? People have more important things to do.) So anyway, we’ve eaten it and we’ve drunk a fair amount of the Pinot Grigio, and there’s an apple crumble in the oven—and I’ve suggested, casu-ally, that we all go and watch telly. Because I know from looking at the clock that the National Lottery program has already started. In a matter of minutes, it’s all going to happen. I cannot wait.
Luckily, my parents aren’t the sort who want to make conver-sation about politics or talk about books. We’ve already caught up with all the family news, and I’ve told them how my work’sgoing, and they’ve told me about their holiday in Corsica—so by now, we’re grinding to a bit of a halt. We need the telly on, if only as a conversational sounding board.
So we all troop into the sitting room, and my dad lights the gas flame-effect fire and turns on the telly. And there it is! The National Lottery, in glorious Technicolor. The lights are shining, and Dale Winton is joshing with Tiffany fromEastEnders, and every so often the audience gives an excited whoop. My stomach’s getting tighter and tighter, and my heart’s going thump-thump-thump. Because in a few minutes those balls are going to fall. In a few minutes I’m going to be a millionaire. I justknow I am.
I lean calmly back on the sofa and think what I’ll do when I win. At the very instant that I win, I mean. Do I scream? Do I keep quiet? Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone for twenty-four hours. Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyoneat all.
This new thought transfixes me. I could be a secret winner! I could have all the money and none of the pressure. If people asked me how I could afford so many designer clothes I’d just tell them I was doing lots of freelance work. Yes! And I could trans-form all my friends’ lives anonymously, like a good angel.
I’m just working out how big a house I could manage to buy without everyone twigging, when a voice on the screen alerts me.
“Question to number three.”
What?
“My favorite animal is the flamingo because it’s pink, fluffy, and has long legs.” The girl sitting on the stool excitedly unwinds a pair of long glossy legs, and the audience goes wild. I stare at her dazedly. What’s going on? Why are we watchingBlind Date ?
“Now, this show used to be fun,” says Mum. “But it’s gone downhill.”
“You call this rubbish fun?” retorts my dad incredulously.
“Listen, Dad, actually, could we turn back to—”
“I didn’t say it was funnow. I said—”
“Dad!” I say, trying not to sound too panicky. “Could we just go back to BBC1 for a moment?”
Blind Datedisappears and I sigh with relief. The next moment, an earnest man in a suit fills the screen.
“What the police failed to appreciate,” he says in a nasal voice, “is that the witnesses were not sufficiently—”
“Dad!”
“Where’s the television guide?” he says impatiently. “There’s got to be something better than this.”
“There’s the lottery!” I almost scream. “I want to watch the lottery!”
I know strictly speaking that whether I watch it or not won’t affect my chances of winning—but I don’t want to miss the great moment, do I? You might think I’m a bit mad, but I feel that if I watch it, I can kind of communicate with the balls through the screen. I’ll stare hard at them as they get tossed around and silently urge on my winning numbers. It’s a bit like supporting a team.Team 1 6 9 16 23 44.
Except the numbers never come out in order, do they?
Team 44 1 23 6 9 16. Possibly. OrTeam 23 6 1 . . .
Suddenly there’s a round of applause and Marline McCutcheon’s finished her song. Oh my God. It’s about to happen. My life is about to change.
“The lottery’s become terribly commercialized, hasn’t it?” says my mum, as Dale Winton leads Martine over to the red button. “It’s a shame, really.”
“What do you mean, it’sbecome commercialized?” retorts my dad.
“People used to play the lottery because they wanted to sup-port the charities.”
“No they didn’t! Don’t be ridiculous! No one gives a fig about the charities. This is all about self, self, self.” Dad gestures toward Dale Winton with the remote control and the screen goes dead.
“Dad!” I wail.
“So you think no one cares about the charities?” says my mum into the silence.
“That’s not what I said.”
“Dad! Put it back on!” I screech. “Put-it-back-on!” I’m about to wrestle him for the remote control when he flicks it back on again.
I stare at the screen in utter disbelief. The first ball has already dropped. And it’s 44. My number 44.
“. . . last appeared three weeks ago. And here comes the sec-ond ball . . . And it’s number 1.”
I can’t move. It’s taking place, before my very eyes. I’m actu-ally winning the lottery. I’m winning the bloody lottery!
Now that it’s happening, I feel surprisingly calm about it. It’s as if I’ve known, all my life, that this would happen. Sitting here silently on the sofa, I feel as though I’m in a fly-on-the-wall docu-mentary about myself. “Becky Bloomwood always secretly knew she would win the lottery one day. But on the day it happened, even she couldn’t have predicted . . .”
“And another low one. Number 3.”
What? My mind snaps to and I stare perplexedly at the screen. That can’t be right. They mean 23.
“And number 2, last week’s bonus ball.”
I feel cold all over. What the hell is going on? Whatare these numbers?
“And another low one! Number 4. A popular number—it’s had twelve appearances so far this year. And finally . . . number 5! Well, I never! This is a bit of a first! Now, lining them up in order . . .”
No. This can’t be serious. This has to be a mistake. The win-ning lottery numbers cannot possibly be 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 44. That’s not a lottery combination, it’s a . . . it’s an act of torture.
And I was winning. I waswinning .
“Look at that!” my mum’s saying. “Absolutely incredible! One-two-three-four-five-forty-four.”
“And why should that be incredible?” replies Dad. “It’s as likely as any other combination.”
“It can’t be!”
“Jane, do you knowanything about the laws of probability?”
Quietly I get up and leave the room, as the National Lottery theme tune blares out of the telly. I walk into the kitchen, sit down at the table, and bury my head in my hands. I feel slightly shaky, to tell you the truth. How could I lose? I was living in a big house and going on holiday to Barbados with all my friends, and walking into Agnès b and buying anything I wanted. It felt so real.
And now, instead, I’m sitting in my parents’ kitchen, and I can’t afford to go on holiday and I’ve just spent eighty quid on a wooden bowl I don’t even like.
Miserably, I turn on the kettle, pick up a copy ofWoman’s Journal lying on the counter, and flick through it—but even that doesn’t cheer me up. Everything seems to remind me of money. Maybe my dad’s right, I find myself thinking dolefully. Maybe Cut Back is the answer. Suppose . . . suppose I cut back enough to save sixty quid a week. I’d have ￡6,000 in a hundred weeks.
And suddenly my brain is alert. Six thousand quid. That’s not bad, is it? And if you think about it, it can’t bethat hard to save sixty quid a week. It’s only the same as a couple of meals out. I mean, you’d hardly notice it.
God, yes. That’s what I’ll do. Sixty quid a week, every week. Maybe I’ll even pay it into a special account. That new Lloyds high-yield sixty-day access account with the tiered interest rates. It’ll be fantastic! I’ll be completely on top of my finances—and when I’ve paid off my bills I’ll just keep saving. It’ll become a habit to be frugal. And at the end of every year I’ll splash out on one classic investment like an Armani suit. Or maybe Christian Dior. Something really classy, anyway.
I’ll start on Monday, I think excitedly, spooning chocolate Ovaltine into a cup. What I’ll do is, I just won’t spendanything. All my spare money will mount up, and I’ll be rich. This is going to be so great.
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
2 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
Our records suggest that we have not received payment for your latest Octagon Silver Card bill. If you have paid within the last few days, please ignore this letter.
Your outstanding bill is currently ￡235.76.The minimum payment is ￡43.00.You may pay by cash, check, or on the enclosed bank giro credit slip. We look forward to receiving your payment.
Yours sincerely,
John Hunter
Customer Accounts Manager
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
2 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
There’s never been a better time to spend!
For a limited time, we are offering EXTRA POINTS on all purchases over ￡50 made with your Octagon Silver Card*—so take the opportunity now to add more points to your total and take advantage of some of our Pointholders’ Gifts.
Some of the fantastic gifts we are offering include:
An Italian leather bag
1,000 points
A case of pink champagne
2,000 points
Two flights to Paris**
5,000 points
(Your current level is:
35 points)
And remember, during this special offer period, you will gain two points for every ￡5 spent! We look forward to welcoming you soon to take advantage of this unique offer.
Yours sincerely,
Adrian Smith
Customer Services Manager
*excluding purchases at restaurants, pharmacy, newsstand, and hairdresser
**certain restrictions apply—see enclosed leaflet
Monday, October 31, 2011
Chapter 3
I WALK THROUGH THE DOOR of our flat to see Suze, my flatmate, sitting in one of her strange yoga positions, with her eyes closed. Her fair hair is scrunched up in a knot, and she’s wearing black leggings together with the ancient T-shirt she al-ways wears for yoga. It’s the one her dad was wearing when he rowed Oxford to victory, and she says it gives her good vibes.
For a moment I’m silent. I don’t want to disturb her in case yoga is like sleepwalking and you’re not meant to wake people when they’re doing it. But then Suze opens her eyes and looks up—and the first thing she says is “Denny and George! Becky, you’re not serious.”
“Yes,” I say, grinning from ear to ear. “I bought myself a scarf.”
“Show me!” says Suze, unwinding herself from the floor. “Show-me-show-me-show-me!” She comes over and starts tug-ging at the strings of the carrier, like a kid. “I want to see your new scarf! Show me!”
This is why I love sharing a flat with Suze. Julia, my old flat-mate, would have wrinkled her brow and said, “Denny and who?” or, “That’s a lot of money for a scarf.” But Suze completely and utterly understands. If anything, she’s worse than me.
But then, she can afford to be. Although she’s twenty-five, like me, her parents still give her pocket money. It’s called an “allowance” and apparently comes from some family trust—but as far as I can see, it’s pocket money. Her parents also bought her a flat in Fulham as a twenty-first birthday present and she’s been living in it ever since, half working and half dossing about.
She was in PR for a (very) short while, and that’s when I met her, on a press trip to an offshore bank on Guernsey. As a matter of fact, she was working for Brandon Communications. Without being rude—she admits it herself—she was the worst PR girl I’ve ever come across. She completely forgot which bank she was sup-posed to be promoting, and started talking enthusiastically about one of their competitors. The man from the bank looked crosser and crosser, while all the journalists pissed themselves laughing. Suze got in big trouble over that. In fact, that’s when she decided PR wasn’t the career for her. (The other way of putting it is that Luke Brandon gave her the sack as soon as they got back to Lon-don. Another reason not to like him.)
But the two of us had a whale of a time sloshing back wine until the early hours. Actually, Suze had a secret little weep at about two A.M. and said she was hopeless at every job she’d tried and what was she going to do? I said I thought she wasfar too interesting and creative to be one of those snooty Brandon C girls. Which I wasn’t just saying to be nice, it’s completely true. I gave her a big hug and she cried some more, then we both cheered up and ordered another bottle of wine, and tried on all each other’s clothes. I lent Suze my belt with the square silver buckle, which, come to think of it, she’s never given back. And we kept in touch ever since.
Then, when Julia suddenly upped and ran off with the pro-fessor supervising her Ph.D. (she was a dark horse, that one), Suze suggested I move in with her. I’m sure the rent she charges is too low, but I’ve never insisted I pay the full market rate, because I couldn’t afford it. As market rates go, I’m nearer Elephant andCastle than Fulham on my salary. How can normal people afford to live in such hideously expensive places?
“Bex, open it up!” Suze is begging. “Let me see!” She’s grab-bing inside the bag with eager long fingers, and I pull it away quickly before she rips it. This bag is going on the back of my door along with my other prestige carrier bags, to be used in a casual manner when I need to impress. (Thank God they didn’t print special “Sale” bags. Ihate shops that do that. What’s the point of having a posh bag with “Sale” splashed all over it?)
Very slowly, I take the dark green box out of the bag, remove the lid, and unfold the tissue paper. Then, almost reverentially, I lift up the scarf. It’s beautiful. It’s even more beautiful here than it was in the shop. I drape it around my neck and grin stupidly at Suze.
“Oh, Bex,” she murmurs. “It’s gorgeous!”
For a moment we are both silent. It’s as though we’re com-muning with a higher being. The god of shopping.
Then Suze has to go and ruin it all.
“You can wear it to see James this weekend,” she says.
“I can’t,” I say almost crossly, taking it off again. “I’m not see-ing him.”
“How come?”
“I’m not seeing him anymore.” I try to give a nonchalant shrug.
“Really?” Suze’s eyes widen. “Why not? You didn’t tell me!”
“I know.” I look away from her eager gaze. “It’s a bit. . . awk-ward.”
“Did you chuck him? You hadn’t even shagged him!” Suze’s voice is rising in excitement. She’s desperate to know. But am I desperate to tell? For a moment I consider being discreet. Then I think, oh, what the hell?
“I know,” I say. “That was the problem.”
“What do you mean?” Suze leans forward. “Bex, what are you talking about?”
I take a deep breath and turn to face her.
“He didn’t want to.”
“Didn’t fancy you?”
“No. He—” I close my eyes, barely able to believe this myself. “He doesn’t believe in sex before marriage.”
“You’re joking.” I open my eyes to see Suze looking at me in horror—as if she’s just heard the worst profanity known to man-kind. “You are joking, Becky.” She’s actually pleading with me.
“I’m not.” I manage a weak smile. “It was a bit embarrassing, actually. I kind of. . . pounced on him, and he had to fight me off.”
The cringingly awful memory which I had successfully sup-pressed starts to resurface. I’d met James at a party a few weeks back, and this was the crucial third date. We’d been out for a really nice meal, which he’d insisted on paying for, and had gone back to his place, and had ended up kissing on the sofa.
Well, what was Isupposed to think? There he was, there I was—and make no mistake, if his mind was saying no, his body was certainly saying yes, yes, yes. So, being a modern girl, I reached for his trouser zip and began to pull it down. When he reached down and brushed me aside I thought he was playing games, and carried on, even more enthusiastically.
Thinking back, perhaps it took me longer than it should have to guess that he wasn’t playing ball, so to speak. In fact, he actu-ally had to punch me in the face to get me off him—although he was very apologetic about it afterward.
Suze is gazing at me incredulously. Then she breaks into gur-gles of laughter.
“He had to fight you off? Bex, you man-eater!”
“Don’t!” I protest, half laughing, half embarrassed. “He was really sweet about it. He asked, was I prepared to wait for him?”
“And you said, not bloody likely!”
“Sort of.” I look away.
In fact, carried away with the moment, I seem to remember issuing him a bit of a challenge. “Resist me now if you can, James,” I recall saying in a husky voice, gazing at him with what Ithought were limpid, sexual eyes. “But you’ll be knocking at my door within the week.”
Well, it’s been over a week now, and I haven’t heard a peep. Which, if you think about it, is pretty unflattering.
“But that’s hideous!” Suze is saying. “What about sexual com-patibility?”
“Dunno.” I shrug. “I guess he’s willing to take that gamble.”
Suze gives a sudden giggle. “Did you get a look at his . . .”
“No! He wouldn’t let me near it!”
“But could you feel it? Was it tiny?” Suze’s eyes gleam wickedly. “I bet it’s teeny. He’s hoping to kid some poor girl into marrying him and being stuck with a teeny todger all her life. Narrow escape, Bex!” She reaches for her packet of Silk Cut and lights up.
“Stay away!” I say. “I don’t want my scarf smelling of smoke!”
“So whatare you doing this weekend?” she asks, taking a drag. “Will you be OK? Do you want to come down to the country?”
This is how Suze always refers to her family’s second home in Hampshire.The Country. As though her parents own some small, independent nation that nobody else knows about.
“No, ‘s’OK,” I say, morosely picking up the TV guide. “I’m going to Surrey. Visit my parents.”
“Oh well,” says Suze. “Give your mum my love.”
“I will,” I say. “And you give my love to Pepper.”
Pepper is Suze’s horse. She rides him about three times a year, if that, but whenever her parents suggest selling him she gets all hysterical. Apparently he costs ￡15,000 a year to run. Fif-teen thousand pounds. And what does he do for his money? Just stands in a stable and eats apples. I wouldn’t mind being a horse.
“Oh yeah, that reminds me,” says Suze. “The council tax bill came in. It’s three hundred each.”
“Three hundred pounds?” I look at her in dismay. “What, straight away?”
“Yeah. Actually, it’s late. Just write me a check or something.”
“Fine,” I say airily. “Three hundred quid coming up.”
I reach for my bag and write a check out straight away. Suze is so generous about the rent, I always pay my share of the bills, and sometimes add a bit extra. But still, I’m feeling cold as I hand it over. Three hundred pounds gone, just like that. And I’ve still got that bloody VISA bill to think of. Not a great month.
“Oh, and someone called,” adds Suze, and squints at a piece of paper. “Erica Parsnip. Is that right?”
“EricaParsnip ?” Sometimes I think Suze’s mind has been expanded just a little too often.
“Parnell. Erica Parnell from Endwich Bank. Can you call her.”
I stare at Suze, frozen in horror.
“She called here? She called this number?”
“Yes. This afternoon.”
“Oh shit.” My heart starts to thump. “What did you say? Did you say I’ve got glandular fever?”
“What?” It’s Suze’s turn to stare. “Of course I didn’t say you’ve got bloody glandular fever!”
“Did she ask about my leg? Anything about my health at all?”
“No! She just said where were you? And I said you were at work—”
“Suze!” I wail in dismay.
“Well, what was Isupposed to say?”
“You were supposed to say I was in bed with glandular fever and a broken leg!”
“Well, thanks for the warning!” Suze gazes at me, eyes nar-rowed, and crosses her legs back into the lotus position. Suze has got the longest, thinnest, wiriest legs I’ve ever known. When she’s wearing black leggings she looks just like a spider. “What’s the big deal, anyway?” she says. “Are you overdrawn?”
Am I overdrawn?
I smile back as reassuringly as I can. If Suze had any ideaof my real situation, she’d need more than yoga to calm her down.
“Just a tad.” I give a careless shrug. “But I’m sure it’ll work itself out. No need to worry!”
There’s silence, and I look up to see Suze tearing up my check. For a moment I’m completely silenced, then I stutter, “Suze! Don’t be stupid!”
“Pay me back when you’re in the black,” she says firmly.
“Thanks, Suze,” I say in a suddenly thickened voice—and as I give her a big hug I can feel tears jumping into my eyes. Suze has got to be the best friend I’ve ever had.
But there’s a tense feeling in my stomach, which stays with me all evening and is still there when I wake up the next morn-ing. A feeling I can’t even shift by thinking about my Denny and George scarf. I lie in bed staring up at the ceiling and, for the first time in months, calculate how much I owe to everybody. The bank, VISA, my Harvey Nichols card, my Debenhams card, my Fenwicks card . . . And now Suze, too.
It’s about. . . let’s think . . . it’s about ￡6,000.
A cold feeling creeps over me as I contemplate this figure. How on earth am I going to find ￡6,000? I could save ￡6 a week for a thousand weeks. Or ￡12 a week for five hundred weeks. Or . . . or ￡60 a week for a hundred weeks. That’s more like it. But how the hell am I going to find ￡60 a week?
Or I could bone up on lots of general knowledge and go on a game show. Or invent something really clever. Or I could . . . win the lottery. At the thought, a lovely warm glow creeps over me, and I close my eyes and snuggle back down into bed. The lottery is by far the best solution.
I wouldn’t aim to win the jackpot of course—that’scompletely unlikely. But one of those minor prizes. There seem to be heaps of those going around. Say, ￡100,000. That would do. I could pay off all my debts, buy a car, buy a flat . . .
Actually, better make it ￡200,000. Or a quarter of a million.
Or, even better, one of those shared jackpots. “The five win-ners will each receive ￡1.3 million.” (I love the way they say that: “One point three.” As if that extra ￡300,000 is a tiny, insignifi-cant amount. As if you wouldn’t notice whether it was there or not.)
One point three million should see me straight. And it’s not being greedy, is it, to want to share your jackpot? Please, God, I think, let me win the lottery and I promise to share nicely.
And so, on the way down to my parents’ house I stop off at a petrol station to buy a couple of lottery tickets. Choosing the numbers takes about half an hour. I know 44 always does well, and 42. But what about the rest? I write out a few series of num-bers on a piece of paper and squint at them, trying to imagine them on the telly.
1 6 9 16 23 44
No! Terrible! What am I thinking of? One never comes up, for a start. And 6 and 9 look wrong, too.
3 14 21 25 36 44
That’s a bit better. I fill in the numbers on the ticket.
5 11 18 27 28 42
I’m quite impressed by this one. It looks like a winner. I can just imagine Moira Stewart reading it out on the news. “One ticket-holder, believed to live in southwest London, has won an estimated jackpot of ￡10 million.”
For a moment, I feel faint. What’ll I do with ￡10 million? Where will I start?
Well, a huge party to begin with. Somewhere smart but cool, with loads of champagne and dancing and a taxi service so no one has to drive. And going-home presents, like really nice bub-ble bath or something. (Does Calvin Klein do bubble bath?)
Then I’ll buy houses for all my family and friends, of course. I lean against the lottery stand and close my eyes to concen-trate. Suppose I buy twenty houses at ￡250,000 each. That’ll leave me . . . 5 million. Plus about ￡50,000 on the party.
So that’s ￡4,950,000. Oh, and I need ￡6,000 to pay off all my credit cards and overdraft. Plus ￡300 for Suze. Call it ￡7,000. So that leaves . . . ￡4,943,000.
Obviously, I’ll do loads for charity. In fact, I’ll probably set up a charitable foundation. I’ll support all those unfashionable chari-ties that get ignored, like skin diseases and home helps for the elderly. And I’ll send a great big check to my old English teacher, Mrs. James, so she can restock the school library. Perhaps they’ll even rename it after me. The Bloomwood Library.
Oh, and ￡300 for that swirly coat in Whistles, which I must buy before they’re all snapped up. So how much does that leave? Four million, nine hundred and forty-three thousand, minus—
“Excuse me.” A voice interrupts me and I look up dazedly. The woman behind is trying to get at the pen.
“Sorry,” I say, and politely make way. But the interruption has made me lose track of my calculations. Was it 4 million or 5 mil-lion?
Then, as I see the woman looking at my bit of paper covered in scribbled numbers, an awful thought strikes me. What if one of my rejected sets of numbers actually comes up? What if1 6 9 16 23 44 comes up tonight and I haven’t entered it? All my life, I’d never forgive myself.
I quickly fill in tickets for all the combinations of num-bers written on my bit of paper. That’s nine tickets in all. Nine quid—quite a lot of money, really. I almost feel bad aboutspending it. But then, that’s nine times as many chances of win-ning, isn’t it?
And I now have a very good feeling about1 6 9 16 23 44 . Why has that particular set of numbers leapt into my mind and stayed there? Maybe someone, somewhere, is trying to tell me something.
For a moment I’m silent. I don’t want to disturb her in case yoga is like sleepwalking and you’re not meant to wake people when they’re doing it. But then Suze opens her eyes and looks up—and the first thing she says is “Denny and George! Becky, you’re not serious.”
“Yes,” I say, grinning from ear to ear. “I bought myself a scarf.”
“Show me!” says Suze, unwinding herself from the floor. “Show-me-show-me-show-me!” She comes over and starts tug-ging at the strings of the carrier, like a kid. “I want to see your new scarf! Show me!”
This is why I love sharing a flat with Suze. Julia, my old flat-mate, would have wrinkled her brow and said, “Denny and who?” or, “That’s a lot of money for a scarf.” But Suze completely and utterly understands. If anything, she’s worse than me.
But then, she can afford to be. Although she’s twenty-five, like me, her parents still give her pocket money. It’s called an “allowance” and apparently comes from some family trust—but as far as I can see, it’s pocket money. Her parents also bought her a flat in Fulham as a twenty-first birthday present and she’s been living in it ever since, half working and half dossing about.
She was in PR for a (very) short while, and that’s when I met her, on a press trip to an offshore bank on Guernsey. As a matter of fact, she was working for Brandon Communications. Without being rude—she admits it herself—she was the worst PR girl I’ve ever come across. She completely forgot which bank she was sup-posed to be promoting, and started talking enthusiastically about one of their competitors. The man from the bank looked crosser and crosser, while all the journalists pissed themselves laughing. Suze got in big trouble over that. In fact, that’s when she decided PR wasn’t the career for her. (The other way of putting it is that Luke Brandon gave her the sack as soon as they got back to Lon-don. Another reason not to like him.)
But the two of us had a whale of a time sloshing back wine until the early hours. Actually, Suze had a secret little weep at about two A.M. and said she was hopeless at every job she’d tried and what was she going to do? I said I thought she wasfar too interesting and creative to be one of those snooty Brandon C girls. Which I wasn’t just saying to be nice, it’s completely true. I gave her a big hug and she cried some more, then we both cheered up and ordered another bottle of wine, and tried on all each other’s clothes. I lent Suze my belt with the square silver buckle, which, come to think of it, she’s never given back. And we kept in touch ever since.
Then, when Julia suddenly upped and ran off with the pro-fessor supervising her Ph.D. (she was a dark horse, that one), Suze suggested I move in with her. I’m sure the rent she charges is too low, but I’ve never insisted I pay the full market rate, because I couldn’t afford it. As market rates go, I’m nearer Elephant andCastle than Fulham on my salary. How can normal people afford to live in such hideously expensive places?
“Bex, open it up!” Suze is begging. “Let me see!” She’s grab-bing inside the bag with eager long fingers, and I pull it away quickly before she rips it. This bag is going on the back of my door along with my other prestige carrier bags, to be used in a casual manner when I need to impress. (Thank God they didn’t print special “Sale” bags. Ihate shops that do that. What’s the point of having a posh bag with “Sale” splashed all over it?)
Very slowly, I take the dark green box out of the bag, remove the lid, and unfold the tissue paper. Then, almost reverentially, I lift up the scarf. It’s beautiful. It’s even more beautiful here than it was in the shop. I drape it around my neck and grin stupidly at Suze.
“Oh, Bex,” she murmurs. “It’s gorgeous!”
For a moment we are both silent. It’s as though we’re com-muning with a higher being. The god of shopping.
Then Suze has to go and ruin it all.
“You can wear it to see James this weekend,” she says.
“I can’t,” I say almost crossly, taking it off again. “I’m not see-ing him.”
“How come?”
“I’m not seeing him anymore.” I try to give a nonchalant shrug.
“Really?” Suze’s eyes widen. “Why not? You didn’t tell me!”
“I know.” I look away from her eager gaze. “It’s a bit. . . awk-ward.”
“Did you chuck him? You hadn’t even shagged him!” Suze’s voice is rising in excitement. She’s desperate to know. But am I desperate to tell? For a moment I consider being discreet. Then I think, oh, what the hell?
“I know,” I say. “That was the problem.”
“What do you mean?” Suze leans forward. “Bex, what are you talking about?”
I take a deep breath and turn to face her.
“He didn’t want to.”
“Didn’t fancy you?”
“No. He—” I close my eyes, barely able to believe this myself. “He doesn’t believe in sex before marriage.”
“You’re joking.” I open my eyes to see Suze looking at me in horror—as if she’s just heard the worst profanity known to man-kind. “You are joking, Becky.” She’s actually pleading with me.
“I’m not.” I manage a weak smile. “It was a bit embarrassing, actually. I kind of. . . pounced on him, and he had to fight me off.”
The cringingly awful memory which I had successfully sup-pressed starts to resurface. I’d met James at a party a few weeks back, and this was the crucial third date. We’d been out for a really nice meal, which he’d insisted on paying for, and had gone back to his place, and had ended up kissing on the sofa.
Well, what was Isupposed to think? There he was, there I was—and make no mistake, if his mind was saying no, his body was certainly saying yes, yes, yes. So, being a modern girl, I reached for his trouser zip and began to pull it down. When he reached down and brushed me aside I thought he was playing games, and carried on, even more enthusiastically.
Thinking back, perhaps it took me longer than it should have to guess that he wasn’t playing ball, so to speak. In fact, he actu-ally had to punch me in the face to get me off him—although he was very apologetic about it afterward.
Suze is gazing at me incredulously. Then she breaks into gur-gles of laughter.
“He had to fight you off? Bex, you man-eater!”
“Don’t!” I protest, half laughing, half embarrassed. “He was really sweet about it. He asked, was I prepared to wait for him?”
“And you said, not bloody likely!”
“Sort of.” I look away.
In fact, carried away with the moment, I seem to remember issuing him a bit of a challenge. “Resist me now if you can, James,” I recall saying in a husky voice, gazing at him with what Ithought were limpid, sexual eyes. “But you’ll be knocking at my door within the week.”
Well, it’s been over a week now, and I haven’t heard a peep. Which, if you think about it, is pretty unflattering.
“But that’s hideous!” Suze is saying. “What about sexual com-patibility?”
“Dunno.” I shrug. “I guess he’s willing to take that gamble.”
Suze gives a sudden giggle. “Did you get a look at his . . .”
“No! He wouldn’t let me near it!”
“But could you feel it? Was it tiny?” Suze’s eyes gleam wickedly. “I bet it’s teeny. He’s hoping to kid some poor girl into marrying him and being stuck with a teeny todger all her life. Narrow escape, Bex!” She reaches for her packet of Silk Cut and lights up.
“Stay away!” I say. “I don’t want my scarf smelling of smoke!”
“So whatare you doing this weekend?” she asks, taking a drag. “Will you be OK? Do you want to come down to the country?”
This is how Suze always refers to her family’s second home in Hampshire.The Country. As though her parents own some small, independent nation that nobody else knows about.
“No, ‘s’OK,” I say, morosely picking up the TV guide. “I’m going to Surrey. Visit my parents.”
“Oh well,” says Suze. “Give your mum my love.”
“I will,” I say. “And you give my love to Pepper.”
Pepper is Suze’s horse. She rides him about three times a year, if that, but whenever her parents suggest selling him she gets all hysterical. Apparently he costs ￡15,000 a year to run. Fif-teen thousand pounds. And what does he do for his money? Just stands in a stable and eats apples. I wouldn’t mind being a horse.
“Oh yeah, that reminds me,” says Suze. “The council tax bill came in. It’s three hundred each.”
“Three hundred pounds?” I look at her in dismay. “What, straight away?”
“Yeah. Actually, it’s late. Just write me a check or something.”
“Fine,” I say airily. “Three hundred quid coming up.”
I reach for my bag and write a check out straight away. Suze is so generous about the rent, I always pay my share of the bills, and sometimes add a bit extra. But still, I’m feeling cold as I hand it over. Three hundred pounds gone, just like that. And I’ve still got that bloody VISA bill to think of. Not a great month.
“Oh, and someone called,” adds Suze, and squints at a piece of paper. “Erica Parsnip. Is that right?”
“EricaParsnip ?” Sometimes I think Suze’s mind has been expanded just a little too often.
“Parnell. Erica Parnell from Endwich Bank. Can you call her.”
I stare at Suze, frozen in horror.
“She called here? She called this number?”
“Yes. This afternoon.”
“Oh shit.” My heart starts to thump. “What did you say? Did you say I’ve got glandular fever?”
“What?” It’s Suze’s turn to stare. “Of course I didn’t say you’ve got bloody glandular fever!”
“Did she ask about my leg? Anything about my health at all?”
“No! She just said where were you? And I said you were at work—”
“Suze!” I wail in dismay.
“Well, what was Isupposed to say?”
“You were supposed to say I was in bed with glandular fever and a broken leg!”
“Well, thanks for the warning!” Suze gazes at me, eyes nar-rowed, and crosses her legs back into the lotus position. Suze has got the longest, thinnest, wiriest legs I’ve ever known. When she’s wearing black leggings she looks just like a spider. “What’s the big deal, anyway?” she says. “Are you overdrawn?”
Am I overdrawn?
I smile back as reassuringly as I can. If Suze had any ideaof my real situation, she’d need more than yoga to calm her down.
“Just a tad.” I give a careless shrug. “But I’m sure it’ll work itself out. No need to worry!”
There’s silence, and I look up to see Suze tearing up my check. For a moment I’m completely silenced, then I stutter, “Suze! Don’t be stupid!”
“Pay me back when you’re in the black,” she says firmly.
“Thanks, Suze,” I say in a suddenly thickened voice—and as I give her a big hug I can feel tears jumping into my eyes. Suze has got to be the best friend I’ve ever had.
But there’s a tense feeling in my stomach, which stays with me all evening and is still there when I wake up the next morn-ing. A feeling I can’t even shift by thinking about my Denny and George scarf. I lie in bed staring up at the ceiling and, for the first time in months, calculate how much I owe to everybody. The bank, VISA, my Harvey Nichols card, my Debenhams card, my Fenwicks card . . . And now Suze, too.
It’s about. . . let’s think . . . it’s about ￡6,000.
A cold feeling creeps over me as I contemplate this figure. How on earth am I going to find ￡6,000? I could save ￡6 a week for a thousand weeks. Or ￡12 a week for five hundred weeks. Or . . . or ￡60 a week for a hundred weeks. That’s more like it. But how the hell am I going to find ￡60 a week?
Or I could bone up on lots of general knowledge and go on a game show. Or invent something really clever. Or I could . . . win the lottery. At the thought, a lovely warm glow creeps over me, and I close my eyes and snuggle back down into bed. The lottery is by far the best solution.
I wouldn’t aim to win the jackpot of course—that’scompletely unlikely. But one of those minor prizes. There seem to be heaps of those going around. Say, ￡100,000. That would do. I could pay off all my debts, buy a car, buy a flat . . .
Actually, better make it ￡200,000. Or a quarter of a million.
Or, even better, one of those shared jackpots. “The five win-ners will each receive ￡1.3 million.” (I love the way they say that: “One point three.” As if that extra ￡300,000 is a tiny, insignifi-cant amount. As if you wouldn’t notice whether it was there or not.)
One point three million should see me straight. And it’s not being greedy, is it, to want to share your jackpot? Please, God, I think, let me win the lottery and I promise to share nicely.
And so, on the way down to my parents’ house I stop off at a petrol station to buy a couple of lottery tickets. Choosing the numbers takes about half an hour. I know 44 always does well, and 42. But what about the rest? I write out a few series of num-bers on a piece of paper and squint at them, trying to imagine them on the telly.
1 6 9 16 23 44
No! Terrible! What am I thinking of? One never comes up, for a start. And 6 and 9 look wrong, too.
3 14 21 25 36 44
That’s a bit better. I fill in the numbers on the ticket.
5 11 18 27 28 42
I’m quite impressed by this one. It looks like a winner. I can just imagine Moira Stewart reading it out on the news. “One ticket-holder, believed to live in southwest London, has won an estimated jackpot of ￡10 million.”
For a moment, I feel faint. What’ll I do with ￡10 million? Where will I start?
Well, a huge party to begin with. Somewhere smart but cool, with loads of champagne and dancing and a taxi service so no one has to drive. And going-home presents, like really nice bub-ble bath or something. (Does Calvin Klein do bubble bath?)
Then I’ll buy houses for all my family and friends, of course. I lean against the lottery stand and close my eyes to concen-trate. Suppose I buy twenty houses at ￡250,000 each. That’ll leave me . . . 5 million. Plus about ￡50,000 on the party.
So that’s ￡4,950,000. Oh, and I need ￡6,000 to pay off all my credit cards and overdraft. Plus ￡300 for Suze. Call it ￡7,000. So that leaves . . . ￡4,943,000.
Obviously, I’ll do loads for charity. In fact, I’ll probably set up a charitable foundation. I’ll support all those unfashionable chari-ties that get ignored, like skin diseases and home helps for the elderly. And I’ll send a great big check to my old English teacher, Mrs. James, so she can restock the school library. Perhaps they’ll even rename it after me. The Bloomwood Library.
Oh, and ￡300 for that swirly coat in Whistles, which I must buy before they’re all snapped up. So how much does that leave? Four million, nine hundred and forty-three thousand, minus—
“Excuse me.” A voice interrupts me and I look up dazedly. The woman behind is trying to get at the pen.
“Sorry,” I say, and politely make way. But the interruption has made me lose track of my calculations. Was it 4 million or 5 mil-lion?
Then, as I see the woman looking at my bit of paper covered in scribbled numbers, an awful thought strikes me. What if one of my rejected sets of numbers actually comes up? What if1 6 9 16 23 44 comes up tonight and I haven’t entered it? All my life, I’d never forgive myself.
I quickly fill in tickets for all the combinations of num-bers written on my bit of paper. That’s nine tickets in all. Nine quid—quite a lot of money, really. I almost feel bad aboutspending it. But then, that’s nine times as many chances of win-ning, isn’t it?
And I now have a very good feeling about1 6 9 16 23 44 . Why has that particular set of numbers leapt into my mind and stayed there? Maybe someone, somewhere, is trying to tell me something.
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