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by Sophie Kinsella

  “We could never have known these windfalls would happen,” says Janice, and puts her hand comfortingly on his arm. “They keep these things secret right up until the last minute, don’t they, Becky?”

  My throat’s too tight to answer. I can remember exactly now. It was Alicia who first mentioned the takeover. The day before I came down here. And then Philip said something about it in the office. Something about with-profits holders doing well. Except … I wasn’t really listening. I think I was doing my nails at the time.

  “Twenty thousand pounds, they reckon we would have got if we’d stayed,” says Martin gloomily. “Makes you sick to think about it. Still, Janice is right. We couldn’t have known. Nobody knew.”

  Oh God. This is all my fault. It’s all my fault. If I’d just used my brain and thought for once …

  “Oh, Becky, don’t look so upset!” says Janice. “This isn’t your fault! You didn’t know! Nobody knew! None of us could have—”

  “I knew,” I hear myself saying miserably.

  There’s a flabbergasted silence.

  “What?” says Janice faintly.

  “I didn’t know, exactly,” I say, staring at the ground. “But I heard a sort of rumor about it a while ago. I should have said something when you asked me. I should have warned you to wait. But I just … didn’t think. I didn’t remember.” I force myself to look up and meet Martin’s astonished gaze. “I … I’m really sorry. It’s all my fault.”

  There’s silence, during which Janice and Martin glance at each other and I hunch my shoulders, loathing myself. Inside, I can hear the phone ringing, and footsteps as someone goes to answer it.

  “I see,” says Martin eventually. “Well … not to worry. These things happen.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Becky,” says Janice kindly. “It was our decision to switch funds, not yours.”

  “And remember, you’ve been under a lot of pressure yourself recently,” adds Martin, putting a sympathetic hand on my arm. “What with this dreadful stalking business.”

  Now I really feel like dirt. I don’t deserve these people’s kindness. I’ve just lost them £20,000, through being too bloody lazy to keep up with events I’m supposed to know about. I’m a financial journalist, for God’s sake.

  And suddenly, standing there in my parents’ garden on a Monday afternoon, I’m plunged to the lowest ebb of my life. What have I got going for me? Nothing. Not one thing. I can’t control my money, I can’t do my job, and I haven’t got a boyfriend. I’ve hurt my best friend, I’ve lied to my parents—and now I’ve ruined my neighbors.

  “Becky?”

  My father’s voice interrupts us all, and I look up in surprise. He’s striding across the lawn toward us, a perturbed look on his face.

  “Becky, don’t be alarmed,” he says, “but I’ve just had that Derek Smeath chap on the phone.”

  “What?” I say, feeling my face drain in horror.

  “The stalker?” exclaims Janice, and Dad gives a sober nod.

  “Quite an unpleasant fellow, I would say. He was really quite aggressive toward me.”

  “But how does he know Becky’s here?” says Janice.

  “Obviously just taking potluck,” says Dad. “I was very civil, simply told him you weren’t here and that I had no idea where you were.”

  “And … and what did he say?” I say in a strangled voice.

  “Came out with some nonsense about a meeting you’d set up with him.” Dad shakes his head. “The chap’s obviously deluded.”

  “You should change your number,” advises Martin. “Go ex-directory.”

  “But where was he phoning from?” says Janice, her voice rising in alarm. “He could be anywhere!” She starts looking agitatedly around the garden as though expecting him to jump out from behind a bush.

  “Exactly,” says Dad. “So, Becky, I think maybe you should come inside now. You never know with these characters.”

  “OK,” I say numbly. I can’t quite believe this is happening. I look at Dad’s kind, concerned face and suddenly I can barely meet his eye. Oh, why didn’t I tell him and Mum the truth? Why did I let myself get into this situation?

  “You look quite shaken up, dear,” says Janice, and pats me on the shoulder. “You go and have a nice sit down.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I think I will.”

  And Dad leads me off gently toward the house, as though I were some kind of invalid.

  This is all getting out of hand. Now not only do I feel like an utter failure, I don’t feel safe anymore, either. I feel exposed and edgy. I sit on the sofa next to Mum, drinking tea and watching Countdown, and every time there’s a sound outside, I jump.

  What if Derek Smeath’s on his way here? How long would it take him to drive here from London? An hour and a half? Two, if the traffic’s bad?

  He wouldn’t do that. He’s a busy man.

  But he might.

  Or send the bailiffs round. Oh God. Threatening men in leather jackets. My stomach is squeezed tight with fear. In fact, I’m beginning to feel as though I genuinely am being stalked.

  As the commercial break begins, Mum reaches for a catalogue full of gardening things. “Look at this lovely birdbath,” she says. “I’m going to get one for the garden.”

  “Great,” I mutter, unable to concentrate.

  “They’ve got some super window boxes, too,” she says. “You could do with some nice window boxes in your flat.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Maybe.”

  “Shall I put you down for a couple? They’re not expensive.”

  “No, it’s OK.”

  “You can pay by check, or VISA …” she says, flipping over the page.

  “No, really, Mum,” I say, my voice sharpening slightly.

  “You could just phone up with your VISA card, and have them delivered—”

  “Mum, stop it!” I cry. “I don’t want them, OK?”

  Mum gives me a surprised, slightly reproving look and turns to the next page of her catalogue. And I gaze back at her, full of a choking panic. My VISA card doesn’t work. My debit card doesn’t work. Nothing works. And she has no idea.

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. I grab for an ancient copy of the Radio Times on the coffee table and begin to leaf through it blindly.

  “It’s a shame about poor Martin and Janice, isn’t it?” says Mum, looking up. “Fancy switching funds two weeks before the takeover! Such bad luck!”

  “I know,” I mumble, staring down at a page of listings. I don’t want to be reminded about Martin and Janice.

  “It seems a terrible coincidence,” says Mum, shaking her head. “That the company should launch this new fund just before the takeover. You know, there must be a lot of people who did exactly what Martin and Janice did, who have lost out. Dreadful, really.” She looks at the television. “Oh look, it’s starting again.”

  The cheery Countdown music begins to play, and a round of applause rattles noisily from the television. But I’m not listening to it, or even paying any attention to the vowels and consonants. I’m thinking about what Mum has just said. A terrible coincidence—but it wasn’t exactly a coincidence, was it? The bank actually wrote to Janice and Martin, suggesting that they switch funds. They even offered an incentive, didn’t they? A carriage clock.

  Suddenly I feel alert. I want to see the letter from Flagstaff Life—and find out exactly how long before the takeover they sent it.

  “‘ENDING,’” says Mum, staring at the screen. “That’s six. Ooh, there’s an S. Can you have ‘ENDINGS’?”

  “I’m just … popping next door,” I say, getting to my feet. “I won’t be a minute.”

  As Martin opens the front door, I see that he and Janice have also been sitting in front of the telly, watching Countdown.

  “Hi,” I say sheepishly. “I was just wondering—could I have a quick chat?”

  “Of course!” says Martin. “Come on in! Would you like a sherry?”

  “Oh,” I say, a
little taken aback. I mean, not that I’m against drinking, obviously—but it isn’t even five o’clock yet. “Well—OK then.”

  “Never too early for a sherry!” says Martin.

  “I’ll have another one, thanks, Martin,” comes Janice’s voice from the sitting room.

  Blow me down. They’re a pair of alcoholics!

  Oh God, perhaps this is my fault too. Perhaps their financial mishap has driven them to seek solace in alcohol and daytime television.

  “I was just wondering,” I say nervously as Martin pours dark brown sherry into a schooner. “Just out of interest, could I have a look at that letter you got from Flagstaff Life, asking you to switch funds? I was wondering when they sent it.”

  “It arrived the very day we saw you,” says Martin. “Why do you want to see it?” He raises his glass. “Your good health.”

  “Cheers,” I say, and take a sip. “I’m just wondering—”

  “Come into the living room,” he interrupts, and ushers me through from the hall. “Here you are, my love,” he adds, and gives Janice her sherry. “Bottoms up!”

  “Sssh,” she replies. “It’s the numbers game! I need to concentrate.”

  “I thought I might do a little investigation into this,” I whisper to Martin as the Countdown clock ticks round. “I feel so bad about it.”

  “Fifty times 4 is 200,” says Janice suddenly. “Six minus 3 is 3, times 7 is 21 and add it on.”

  “Well done, love!” says Martin, and roots about in a carved oak sideboard. “Here’s the letter,” he says. “So—do you want to write an article or something?”

  “Possibly,” I say. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

  “Mind?” He gives a little shrug. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”

  “Sssh!” says Janice. “It’s the Countdown Conundrum.”

  “Right,” I whisper. “Well, I’ll just … I’ll just take this, shall I?”

  “Explicate!” yells Janice. “No, exploited!”

  “And … thanks for the sherry.” I take a huge gulp, shuddering slightly at its sticky sweetness, then put my glass down and tiptoe out of the room.

  Half an hour later, sitting in my bedroom, I’ve read the letter from Flagstaff Life six times and I’m sure there’s something fishy about it. How many investors must have switched funds after receiving this crappy carriage clock offer—and missed out on their windfall? More to the point, how much money must Flagstaff Life have saved? Suddenly I really want to know. There’s a growing indignation in me; a growing determination to find out exactly what’s been going on and, if it’s what I suspect, to expose it. To print the truth and warn others. For the first time in my life, I’m actually interested in a financial story.

  And I don’t just want to write it up for Successful Saving, either. This deserves the widest audience possible. Eric Foreman’s card is still in my purse, with his direct telephone number printed at the top, and I take it out. I go to the phone and quickly punch in the number before I can change my mind.

  “Eric Foreman, Daily World,” comes his voice, booming down the line.

  Am I really doing this?

  “Hi,” I say nervously. “I don’t know if you remember me. Rebecca Bloomwood from Successful Saving. We met at the Sacrum Asset Management press conference.”

  “That’s right, so we did,” he says cheerfully. “How are you, my love?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, and clench my hand tightly around the receiver. “Absolutely fine. Ahm … I was just wondering, are you still running your series on ‘Can We Trust the Money Men?’”

  “We are, as it goes,” says Eric Foreman. “Why?”

  “It’s just …” I swallow. “I think I’ve got a story that might interest you.”

  Seventeen

  I HAVE NEVER before worked so hard on an article. Never.

  Mind you, I’ve never before been asked to write one so quickly. At Successful Saving, we get a whole month to write our articles—and we complain about that. When Eric Foreman said, “Can you do it by tomorrow?” I thought he was joking at first. I jauntily replied, “Of course!” and nearly added, “In fact, I’ll have it with you in five minutes’ time!” Then, just in time, I realized he was serious. Crikey.

  So I’m round at Martin and Janice’s first thing the next morning with a Dictaphone, writing down exactly all the information on their investment and trying to get in lots of heart-wrenching details as advised by Eric.

  “We need human interest,” he told me over the phone. “None of your dull financial reporting here. Make us feel sorry for them. Make us weep. A hardworking, ordinary couple, who thought they could rely on a few savings to see them through their old age. Ripped off by the fat cats. What kind of house do these people live in?”

  “Ahmm … a four-bedroom detached house in Surrey.”

  “Well, for Christ’s sake don’t put that in!” he boomed. “I want honest, poor, and proud. Never demanded a penny off the state, saved to provide for themselves. Trusted a respectable financial institution. And all it did was kick them in the face.” He paused, and it sounded as if he might be picking his teeth. “That kind of thing. Think you can manage it?”

  “I … ahm … yes! Of course!” I stuttered.

  Oh God, I thought as I put down the phone. What have I got myself into?

  But it’s too late to change my mind now. So the next thing is to persuade Janice and Martin that they don’t mind appearing in The Daily World. The trouble is, it’s not exactly The Financial Times, is it? Or even the normal Times. (Still, it could be a lot worse. It could be The Sun—and they’d end up sandwiched between a topless model and a blurred paparazzi shot of Posh Spice.)

  Luckily, however, they’re so bowled over that I’m making all this effort on their behalf, they don’t seem to care which newspaper I’m writing for. And when they hear that a photographer’s coming over at midday to take their picture, you’d think the queen was coming to visit.

  “My hair!” says Janice in dismay, staring into the mirror. “Have I time to get Maureen in to give me a blow-dry?”

  “Not really. And it looks lovely,” I say reassuringly. “Anyway, they want you as natural as possible. Just … honest, ordinary people.” I glance around the living room, trying to pick up poignant details to put into my article.

  An anniversary card from their son stands proudly on the well-polished mantelpiece. But there will be no celebration this year for Martin and Janice Webster.

  “I must phone Phyllis!” says Janice. “She won’t believe it!”

  “You weren’t ever a soldier, or anything?” I say thoughtfully to Martin. “Or a … a fireman? Anything like that. Before you became a travel agent.”

  “Not really, love,” says Martin, wrinkling his brow. “Just the Cadets at school.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, brightening. “That might do.”

  Martin Webster fingers the Cadet badge he was so proud to wear as a youth. His life has been one of hard work and service for others. Now, in his retirement years, he should be enjoying the rewards he deserves.

  But the fat cats have conned him out of his nest egg. The Daily World asks …

  “I’ve photocopied all the documents for you,” says Martin. “All the paperwork. I don’t know if it’ll be any use …”

  “Oh thanks,” I say, taking the pile of pages from him. “I’ll have a good read through these.”

  When honest Martin Webster received a letter from Flagstaff Life, inviting him to switch investment funds, he trusted the money men to know what was best for him.

  Two weeks later he discovered they had tricked him out of a £20,000 windfall.

  “My wife is ill as a result of all this,” he said. “I’m so worried.”

  Hmm.

  “Janice?” I say, looking up casually. “Do you feel all right? Not … unwell, or anything?”

  “A bit nervous, to be honest, dear,” she says, looking round from the mirror. “I’m never very good at having my picture tak
en.”

  “My nerves are shot to pieces,” said Mrs. Webster in a ragged voice. “I’ve never felt so betrayed in all my life.”

  “Well, I think I’ve got enough now,” I say, getting up and switching off my Dictaphone. “I might have to slightly digress from what’s on the tape—just to make the story work. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not!” says Janice. “You write what you like, Becky! We trust you.”

  I look at her soft, friendly face and feel a sudden shot of determination. This time I’ll get it right.

  “So what happens now?” says Martin.

  “I’ll have to go and talk to Flagstaff Life,” I say. “Get them to give their defense.”

  “What defense?” says Martin. “There is no defense for what they did to us!”

  I grin at him. “Exactly.”

  I’m full of happy adrenaline. All I need to do is get a quote from Flagstaff Life, and I can start writing the piece. I haven’t got long: it needs to be finished by two o’clock if it’s going to make tomorrow’s edition. Why has work never seemed so exciting before?

  Briskly I reach for the phone and dial Flagstaff’s number—only to be told by the switchboard operator that all press inquiries are dealt with out of house. She gives me a number, which seems rather familiar, and I frown at it for a moment, then punch it in.

  “Hello,” says a smooth voice. “Brandon Communications.”

  Of course. Suddenly I feel a bit shaky. The word Brandon has hit me right in the stomach like a punch. I’d forgotten all about Luke Brandon. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about the rest of my life. And frankly, I don’t want to be reminded of it.

  But it’s OK—I don’t have to speak to him personally, do I?

  “Hi!” I say. “It’s Rebecca Bloomwood here. Ermm … I just wanted to talk to somebody about Flagstaff Life.”

  “Let me check …” says the voice. “Yes, that’s Luke Brandon’s client. I’ll just put you through to his assistant …” And the voice disappears before I can say anything.

  Oh God.

  I can’t do this. I can’t speak to Luke Brandon. My questions are jotted down on a piece of paper in front of me, but as I stare at them, I’m not reading them. I’m remembering the humiliation I felt that day in Harvey Nichols. That horrible plunge in my stomach, as I heard the patronizing note in his voice and suddenly realized what he thought of me. A nothing. A joke.