But by the time Friday arrives, I have to say I feel a lot more cheerful. This is primarily because:
1. It's Friday.
2. I'm spending all day out of the office.
3. Elly phoned yesterday and said sorry she was so abrupt, but someone else came into the office just as we were talking. And she's going to be at the Personal Finance Fair.
Plus
4. I have completely put the Luke Brandon incident from my mind. Who cares about him, anyway?
So as I get ready to go, I feel quite bouncy and positive.
I put on my new grey cardigan over a short black shirt, and my new Hobbs boots – dark grey suede – and I have to say, I look bloody good in them. God, I love new clothes. If everyone could just wear new clothes every day, I reckon depression wouldn't exist any more.
As I'm about to leave, a pile of letters comes through the letterbox for me. Several of them look like bills, and one is yet another letter from Endwich Bank. But I have a clever new solution to all these nasty letters: I just put them in my dressing-table drawer and close it. It's the only way to stop getting stressed out about it. And it really does work. As I thrust the drawer shut and head out of the front door, I've already forgotten all about them.
The conference is already buzzing by the time I get there. As I give my name to the press officer at reception, I'm given a big, shiny courtesy carrier bag with the logo of HSBC on the side. Inside this, I find an enormous press pack complete with a photo of all the conference organizers lifting glasses of champagne to each other (yeah right, like we're really going to use that in the magazine), a voucher for two drinks at the Sun Alliance Pimm's Stand, a raffle ticket to win ?1,000 (invested in the unit trust of my choice) a big lollipop advertising Eastgate Insurance, and my name badge with PSS stamped across the top. There's also a white envelope with the ticket to the Barclays champagne reception inside, and I put that carefully in my bag. Then I fasten my name badge prominently on my lapel and start to walk around the arena.
Normally, of course, the rule is to throw away your name badge as soon as you're given it. But the great thing about being PSS at one of these events is that people fall over themselves to ply you with free stuff. A lot of it's just boring old leaflets about savings plans, but some of them are giving out free gifts and snacks, too. So after an hour, I've accumulated two pens, a paperknife, a mini box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, a helium balloon with Save and Prosper on the side, and a T-shirt with a cartoon on the front, sponsored by some mobile phone company. And I've had two free cappuccinos, a pain au chocolat, some scrumpy (from Somerset Savings), a mini pack of Smarties and my Pimm's from Sun Alliance. (I haven't written a single note in my notebook, or asked a single question – but never mind. I can always just copy some stuff out of the press pack.)
I've seen that some people are carrying quite neat little silver desk clocks, and I wouldn't mind one of those, so I'm just wandering along, trying to work out what direction they're coming from, when a voice says, 'Becky!'
I look up – and it's Elly! She's standing at the Wetherby's display with a couple of guys in suits, waving at me to come over.
'Hi!' I say delightedly. 'How are you?'
'Fine!' she says, and beams at me. 'Really getting along well.' And she does look the part, I have to say. She's wearing a bright red suit (Karen Millen, no doubt), and some really nice square-toed shoes, and her hair's been tied back. The only thing I don't go for is the earrings. Why is she suddenly wearing pearl earrings? Maybe it's just to blend in with the others.
'God, I can't believe you're actually one of them!' I say, lowering my voice slightly. 'I'll be interviewing you next!' I tilt my head earnestly, like Martin Bashir on Panorama. '"Ms Davies, could you tell me the aims and principles of Wetherby's Investments?"'
Elly gives a little Laugh – then reaches into a box beside her.
'I'll give you this,' she says, and hands me a brochure.
'Oh thanks,' I say ironically, and stuff it into my bag. I suppose she has to look good in front of her colleagues.
'It's actually quite an exciting time at Wetherby's,' continues Elly. 'You know we're launching a whole new range of funds next month? I think there are five altogether. UK Growth, UK Prospects, European Growth, European Prospects, and…'
Why is she telling me this, exactly?
'Elly…'
'And US Growth!' she finishes triumphantly. There isn't a flicker of humour in her eyes.
'Right,' I say after a pause. 'Well, that sounds… fab!'
'I could arrange for our PR people to give you a call, if you like,' she says. 'Fill you in a bit more.'
What?
'No,' I say hurriedly. 'No, it's OK. So, erm… what are you doing afterwards? Do you want to go for a drink?'
'No can do,' she says apologetically. 'I'm going to look at a flat.'
'Are you moving?' I say in surprise. Elly lives in the coolest flat in Camden, with two guys who are in a band and get her into loads of free gigs and stuff. I can't think why she'd want to move.
'Actually, I'm buying,' she says. 'I'm looking around Streatham, Tooting… I just want to get on the first rung of that property ladder.'
'Right,' I say feebly. 'Good idea.'
'You should do it yourself, you know, Becky,' she says. 'You can't hang around in a student flat for ever. Real life has to begin some time!' She glances at one of her men in suits, and he gives a little laugh.
It's not a student flat, I think indignantly. And anyway, who defines 'real life'? Who says 'real life' is property ladders and hideous pearl earrings? 'Shit boring tedious life', more like.
'Are yon going to the Barclays champagne reception?' I say as a last gasp, thinking maybe we can go and get pissed together and have some fun. But she pulls a little face, and shakes her head.
'I might pop in,' she says, 'but I'll be quite tied up here.'
'OK,' I say. 'Well I'll… I'll see you later.'
I move away from the stand, and slowly start walking towards the corner where the champagne reception's being held, feeling slightly dispirited. In spite of myself, a part of me starts wondering if maybe Elly's right and I'm wrong. Maybe I should be talking about property ladders and growth funds, too. Oh God, maybe there's something wrong with me. I'm missing the gene which makes you grow up and buy a flat in Streatham and start visiting Homebase every weekend. Everyone's moving on without me, into a world I don't understand.
But as I get near the entrance to the champagne reception, I feel my spirits rising. Whose spirits don't rise at the thought of free champagne? It's being held in a huge tent, and there's a huge banner, and a band playing music, and a girl in a sash at the entrance, handing out Barclays keyrings. When she sees my badge, she gives me a wide smile, hands me a white glossy press pack, and says, 'Bear with me a moment.' Then she walks off to a little group of people, murmurs in the ear of a man in a suit and comes back. 'Someone will be with you soon, she says. 'In the meantime, let me get you a glass of champagne.'
You see what I mean about being PSS? Everywhere you go, you get special treatment. I accept a glass of champagne, stuff the white press pack into my carrier bag and take a sip. Oh, it's delicious. Icy cold and sharp and bubbly. Maybe I'll stay here for a couple of hours, I think, just drinking champagne until there's none left. They won't dare chuck me out, I'm PSS. In fact, maybe I'll
'Rebecca. Glad you could make it.'
I look up and feel myself freeze. The man in the suit was Luke Brandon. Luke Brandon's standing in front of me, looking straight at me, with an expression I can't quite read. And suddenly I feel sick. All that stuff I planned about playing it cool and icy isn't going to work – because just seeing his face, I feel hot with humiliation, all over again.
'Hi,' I mutter, looking down. Why am I even saying Hi to him?
'I was hoping you'd come,' he says in a low, serious voice. 'I very much wanted to-'
'Yes,' I interrupt. 'Well, I… I can't talk, I've got to mingle. I'm here to wo
rk, you know.'
I'm trying to sound dignified, but there's a wobble in my voice, and I can feel my cheeks slowly turning red as he keeps gazing at me. So I turn away before he can say anything else, and march off towards the other side of the tent. I don't quite know where I'm heading, but I've just got to keep walking until I find someone to talk to.
The trouble is, I can't see anyone I recognize. It's all just groups of bank-type people laughing loudly together and talking about golf. They all seem really tall and broad-shouldered, and I can't even catch anyone's eye. God, this is embarrassing. I feel like a six-year-old at a grown-ups' party. In the corner I spot Moira Channing from the Daily Herald, and she gives me a half-flicker of recognition – but I'm certainly not going to talk to her. OK, just keep walking, I tell myself. Pretend you're on your way somewhere.
Don't panic.
Then I see Luke Brandon on the other side of the tent. His head jerks up as he sees me, and he starts heading towards me. Oh God, quick. Quick. I've got to find somebody to talk to.
Right, how about this couple standing together? The guy's middle-aged, the woman's quite a lot younger, and they don't look as if they know too many people, either. Thank God. Whoever they are, I'll just ask them how they're enjoying the Personal Finance Fair and whether they're finding it useful, and pretend I'm making notes for my article. And when Luke Brandon arrives, I'll be too engrossed in conversation even to notice him. OK, go.
I take a gulp of champagne, approach the man and smile brightly.
'Hi there,' I say. 'Rebecca Bloomwood, Successful Saving.'
'Hello,' he says, turning towards me and extends his hand. 'Derek Smeath from Endwich Bank. And this is my assistant, Erica.'
Oh my God.
I can't speak. I can't shake his hand. I can't run. My whole body's paralysed.
'Hi!' says Erica, giving me a friendly smile. 'I'm Erica Parnell.'
'Yes,' I say, after a huge pause. 'Yes, hi.'
Please don't recognize my name. Please don't recognize my name.
'Are you a journalist, then?' she says, looking at my name badge and frowning. 'Your name seems quite familiar.'
'Yes,' I manage. 'Yes, you… you might have read some of my articles.'
'I expect I have,' she says, and takes an unconcerned sip of champagne. 'We get all the financial mags in the office. Quite good, some of them.'
Slowly the circulation is returning to my body. It's going to be OK, I tell myself. They don't have a clue who I am.
'You journalists have to be expert on everything, I suppose,' says Derek, who has given up trying to shake my hand and is swigging his champagne instead.
'Yes, we do really,' I reply, and risk a smile. 'We get to know all areas of personal finance – from banking to unit trusts to life assurance.'
'And how do you acquire all this knowledge?'
'Oh, we just pick it up along the way,' I say smoothly.
You know what? This is quite fun, now that I've relaxed. You don't know who I am! I feel like chanting. You don't know who I am! And Derek Smeath isn't at all scary in the flesh. In fact he's rather cosy and friendly, like some nice sitcom uncle.
'I've often thought,' says Erica Parnell, 'that they should do a fly-on-the-wall documentary about a bank.' She gives me an expectant look and I nod vigorously.
'Good idea!' I say. 'I think that would be fascinating.'
'You should see some of the characters we get in! People who have absolutely no idea about their finances. Don't we, Derek?'
'You'd be amazed,' says Derek. 'Utterly amazed. The lengths people go to, just to avoid paying off their overdrafts! Or even talking to us!'
'Really?' I say, as though astonished.
'You wouldn't believe it!' says Erica. 'I sometimes wonder-'
'Rebecca!' A voice booms behind me and I turn round in shock to see Philip, clutching a glass of champagne and grinning at me. What's he doing here?
'Hi,' he says. 'Marketing cancelled the meeting, so I thought I'd pop along after all. How's it all going?'
'Oh, great!' I say, and take a gulp of champagne.
'This is Derek, and Erica… this is my editor, Philip
'Endwich Bank, eh?' says Philip, looking at Derek Smeath's name badge. 'You must know Martin Gollinger, then.'
'We're not head office, I'm afraid,' says Derek, giving a little laugh. 'I'm the manager of our Fulham branch.'
'Fulham!' says Philip. 'Trendy Fulham.'
And suddenly a warning bell goes off in my head. Dong-dong-dong! I've got to do something. I've got to say something; change the subject. But it's too late. I'm the spectator on the mountain, watching the trains collide in the valley below.
'Rebecca lives in Fulham,' Philip's saying. 'Who do you bank with, Rebecca? You're probably one of Derek's customers!' He laughs loudly at his own joke, and Derek laughs politely, too.
But I can't laugh. I'm frozen to the spot, watching Erica Parnell's face as it changes. As realization slowly dawns. She meets my eye, and I feel something icy drip down my spine.
'Rebecca Bloomwood,' she says, in quite a different voice. 'I thought I knew that name. Do you live in Burney Road, Rebecca?'
'That's clever!' says Philip. 'How did you know that?' And he takes another swig of champagne.
Shut up, Philip, I think frantically. Shut up.
'So you do?' Her voice is sweet but sharp. Oh God, now Philip's looking at me, waiting for me to answer.
'Yes,' I say, in a strangled voice, aware that my cheeks are flaming.
'Derek, have you realized who this is?' says Erica pleasantly. 'This is Rebecca Bloomwood, one of our customers. I think you spoke to her the other day. Remember?' Her voice hardens. 'The one with the dead dog?'
There's silence. I don't dare look at Derek Smeath's face. I don't dare look at anything except the floor.
'Well, there's a coincidence!' says Philip. 'More champagne, anyone?'
'Rebecca Bloomwood,' says Derek Smeath. He sounds quite faint. 'I don't believe it.'
'Yes!' I say, desperately slugging back the last of my champagne. 'Hahaha! It's a village. Well, I must be off and interview some more-'
'Wait!' says Erica, her voice like a dagger. 'We were hoping to have a little meeting with you, Rebecca. Weren't we, Derek?'
'Indeed we were, says Derek Smeath. I look up and meet his gaze – and feel a sudden trickle of fear. This man isn't like a cosy sitcom uncle any more. He's like a scary exam invigilator, who's just caught you cheating.
'That is,' he adds, pointedly, 'assuming your legs are both intact and you aren't suffering from any dreaded lurgy?'
'What's this?' says Philip cheerfully.
'How is the leg, by the way?' says Erica sweetly.
'Fine,' I mumble. 'Fine, thanks.' Stupid bitch.
'Good,' says Derek Smeath. 'So we'll say Monday at 9.30, shall we?' He looks at Philip. 'You don't mind if Rebecca joins us for a quick meeting on Monday morning, do you?'
'Of course not!' says Philip.
'And if she doesn't turn up,' says Derek Smeath, 'we'll know where to find her, won't we?' He gives me a sharp look, and I feel my stomach contract in fright.
'Rebecca'll turn up!' says Philip. 'Or if she doesn't, there'll be trouble!' He gives me a joky grin, lifts his glass and wanders off. Oh God, I think in panic. Don't leave me alone with them.
'Well, I'll look forward to seeing you,' says Derek Smeath. He pauses, and gives me a beady look. 'And if I remember rightly from our telephone conversation the other day, you'll be coming into some funds by then.'
Oh shit. I thought he'd have forgotten about that.
'That's right,' I say after a pause. 'Absolutely. My aunt's money. Well remembered! My aunt left me some money recently,' I explain to Erica Parnell.
Erica Parnell doesn't look impressed.
'Good,' says Derek Smeath. 'Then I'll expect you on Monday.'
'Fine,' I say, and smile even more confidently at him. 'Looking forward to it already!'
***
Financial Services Department
8th floor
Tower House
London Road
3nchester SO44 3DR
Ms Rebecca Blomwood
Charge Card Number 7854 4567
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
20 March 2000
Dear Ms Blomwood
FINAL REMINDER
Further to my letter of 3rd March, there is still an Outstanding balance of ?245.57 on your Octagon Charge Card. Should payment not arrive within the next seven days, your account will be frozen and further action will be taken.
I was glad to hear that you have found the Lord and accepted Jesus Christ as your saviour; unfortunately this has no bearing on the matter.
I look forward to receiving your payment shortly.
Yours sincerely
Grant Ellesmore
Customer Finance Manager
Thirteen
Oh God. This is bad. I mean – I'm not just being paranoid, am I? This is really bad.
As I sit on the tube on my way home, I stare at my reflection – outwardly calm and relaxed. But inside, my mind's scurrying around like a spider, trying to find a way out. Round and round and round, legs flailing, no escape… OK, stop. Stop! Calm down and let's go through the options one more time.
Option One: Go to meeting and tell the truth.
I can't. I just can't. I can't go along on Monday morning and admit that there isn't ?1,000 from my aunt and there never will be. What will they do to me? They'll get all serious, won't they? They'll sit me down and start going through all my expenditure and… Oh God, I feel sick at the thought of it. I can't do it. I can't go.
End of story.
Option Two: Go to meeting and lie.
So – what – tell them the ?1,000 is absolutely on its way, and that further funds will be coming through soon. Hmmm. Possible. The trouble is, I don't think they'll believe me. So they'll still get all serious, sit me down, give me a lecture. No. No way.
The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic Page 16