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  I turn away and walk back to the platform, where Caspar is sitting down, looking exhausted.

  “Well done,” I say, sitting down next to him. “And thank you so much again. You did a fantastic job.”

  “Not at all!” says Caspar. “I enjoyed it, actually. Bit of a change from early German porcelain.” He gestures to his notes. “I think we raised a fair bit, too.”

  “You did brilliantly!” says Suze, coming to sit down too, and handing Caspar a beer. “Honestly, Bex, you'll be completely out of the woods now.” She gives an admiring sigh. “You know, it just shows, you were right all along. Shopping is an investment. I mean, like, how much did you make on your Denny and George scarf?”

  “Erm . . .” I close my eyes, trying to work it out. “About . . . 60 percent?”

  “Sixty percent return! In less than a year! You see? That's better than the crummy old stock market!” She takes out a cigarette and lights it. “You know, I think I might sell all my stuff, too.”

  “You haven't got any stuff,” I point out. “You decluttered it all.”

  “Oh yeah.” Suze's face falls. “God, why did I do that?”

  I lean back on my elbow and close my eyes. Suddenly, for no real reason, I feel absolutely exhausted.

  “So you're off tomorrow,” says Caspar, taking a swig of beer.

  “I'm off tomorrow,” I echo, staring up at the ceiling. Tomorrow I'm leaving England and flying off to America to live. Leaving everything behind and starting again. Somehow, it just doesn't feel real.

  “Not one of these crack-of-dawn flights, I hope?” he says, glancing at his watch.

  “No, thank God. I'm not flying until about five.”

  “That's good,” says Caspar, nodding. “Gives you plenty of time.”

  “Oh yes.” I sit up and glance at Suze, who grins back. “Plenty of time for just a couple of little things I've got to do.”

  “Becky! We're so glad you changed your mind!” cries Zelda as soon as she sees me. I get up from the sofa where I've been sitting in reception, and give her a quick smile. “Everyone's so thrilled you're coming on! What made you decide?”

  “Oh, I'm not sure,” I say pleasantly. “Just . . . one of those things.”

  “Well, let me take you straight up to makeup . . . we're completely chaotic, as usual, so we've brought your slot forward slightly . . .”

  “No problem,” I say. “The sooner the better.”

  “I have to say, you look very well,” says Zelda, surveying me with a slight air of disappointment. “Have you lost weight?”

  “A little, I suppose.”

  “Ah . . . stress,” she says wisely. “Stress, the silent killer. We're doing a feature on it next week. Now!” she exclaims, bustling me into the makeup room. “This is Becky . . .”

  “Zelda, we know who Becky is,” says Chloe, who's been doing my makeup ever since I first appeared on Morning Coffee. She pulls a face at me in the mirror and I stifle a giggle.

  “Yes, of course you do! Sorry, Becky, I've just got you down in my mind as a guest! Now, Chloe. Don't do too good a job on Becky today. We don't want her looking too glowing and happy, do we?” She lowers her voice. “And use waterproof mascara. In fact, everything waterproof. See you later!”

  Zelda sweeps out of the room, and Chloe shoots her a scornful glance.

  “OK,” she says. “I'm going to make you look as good as you've ever looked in your life. Extra happy and extra glowing.”

  “Thanks, Chloe,” I say, grinning at her, and sit down on a chair.

  “Oh, and please don't tell me you're really going to need waterproof mascara,” she adds, tying a cape around me.

  “No way,” I say firmly. “They'll have to shoot me first.”

  “Then they probably will,” says a girl from across the room, and we all start giggling helplessly.

  “All I can say is, I hope they're paying you well to do this,” says Chloe, as she starts to smooth foundation onto my skin.

  “Yes,” I say. “They are, as it happens. But that's not why I'm doing it.”

  Half an hour later, I'm sitting in the Green Room when Clare Edwards comes walking in. She's wearing a dark green suit that really doesn't do much for her—and is it my imagination, or has someone made her up far too pale? She's going to look really pasty under the lights.

  “Oh,” says Clare, looking discomfited as she sees me. “Hello, Becky.”

  “Hi, Clare,” I say. “Long time no see.”

  “Yes. Well.” She twists her hands into a knot. “I was very sorry to read of your troubles.”

  “Thanks,” I say lightly. “Still—it's an ill wind, eh, Clare?”

  Clare immediately blushes bright red and looks away—and I feel a bit ashamed of myself. It's not her fault I got sacked.

  “Honestly, I'm really pleased you got the job,” I say more kindly. “And I think you're doing it really well.”

  “Right!” says Zelda, hurrying in. “We're ready for you. Now, Becky.” She puts a hand on my arm as we walk out. “I know this is going to be very traumatic for you. We're quite prepared for you to take your time . . . again, if you break down completely, start sobbing, whatever . . . don't worry.”

  “Thanks, Zelda,” I say, and nod seriously. “I'll bear that in mind.”

  We get to the set, and there are Rory and Emma, sitting on the sofas. I glance at a monitor as I walk past, and see that they've blown up that awful picture of me in New York, tinted it red, and headlined it “Becky's Tragic Secret.”

  “Hi, Becky,” says Emma, as I sit down, and pats me sympathetically on the hand. “Are you all right? Would you like a tissue?”

  “Erm . . . no, thanks.” I lower my voice. “But, you know. Perhaps later.”

  “Terrifically brave of you to come and do this,” says Rory, and squints at his notes. “Is it true your parents have disowned you?”

  “Ready in five,” calls Zelda from the floor. “Four . . . three . . .”

  “Welcome back,” says Emma somberly to camera. “Now, we've got a very special guest with us today. Thousands of you will have followed the story of Becky Bloomwood, our former financial expert. Becky was, of course, revealed by The Daily World to be far from financially secure herself.”

  The picture of me shopping appears on the monitor, followed by a series of tabloid headlines, accompanied by the song “Hey Big Spender.”

  “So, Becky,” says Emma, as the music dies away. “Let me begin by saying how extremely sorry and sympathetic we are for you in your plight. In a minute, we'll be asking our new financial expert, Clare Edwards, just what you should have done to prevent this catastrophe. But now—just to put our viewers straight . . . could you tell us exactly how much in debt you are?”

  “I'd be glad to, Emma,” I say, and take a deep breath. “At the present moment, my debt amounts to . . .” I pause, and I can feel the whole studio bracing itself for a shock. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Emma looks at Rory as though to check she's heard correctly. “Nothing?”

  “My overdraft facilities director, John Gavin, will be glad to confirm that this morning, at nine thirty, I paid off my overdraft completely. I've paid off every single debt I had.”

  I allow myself a tiny smile as I remember John Gavin's face this morning, as I handed over wads and wads of cash. I so wanted him to wriggle and squirm and look pissed off. But to give him his due, after the first couple of thousand he started smiling, and beckoning people round to watch. And at the end, he shook my hand really quite warmly—and said now he understood what Derek Smeath meant about me.

  I wonder what old Smeathie can have said?

  “So you see, I'm not really in a plight at all,” I add. “In fact, I've never been better.”

  “Right . . .” says Emma. “I see.” There's a distracted look in her eye—and I know Barry must be yelling something in her earpiece.

  “But even if your money situation is temporarily sorted out, your life must still be in ruins.” S
he leans forward sympathetically again. “You're unemployed . . . shunned by your friends . . .”

  “On the contrary, I'm not unemployed. This afternoon I'm flying to the States, where I have a new career waiting for me. It's a bit of a gamble . . . and it'll certainly be a challenge. But I genuinely think I'll be happy there. And my friends . . .” My voice wobbles a little, and I take a deep breath. “It was my friends who helped me out. It was my friends who stood by me.”

  Oh God, I don't believe it. After all that, I've got bloody tears in my eyes. I blink them back as hard as I can, and smile brightly at Emma.

  “So really, my story isn't one of failure. Yes, I got myself into debt; yes, I was fired. But I did something about it.” I turn to the camera. “And I'd like to say to anyone out there who's got themselves in a mess like I did . . . you can get out of it, too. Take action. Sell all your clothes. Apply for a new job. You can start again, like I'm going to.”

  There's silence around the studio. Then suddenly, from behind one of the cameras, there's the sound of clapping. I look over in shock—and it's Dave, the cameraman. He grins at me and mouths “Well done.” Suddenly Gareth the floor manager joins in . . . and someone else . . . and now the whole studio is applauding, apart from Emma and Rory, who are looking rather nonplussed—and Zelda, who's talking frantically into her mouthpiece.

  “Well!” says Emma, over the sound of the applause. “Um . . . We're taking a short break now—but join us in a few moments to hear more on our lead story today: Becky's . . . Tragic . . . umm . . .” She hesitates, listening to her earpiece. “. . . or rather, Becky's . . . um, Triumphant . . . um . . .”

  The signature tune blares out of a loudspeaker and she glances at the producer's box in irritation. “I wish he'd make up his bloody mind!”

  “See you,” I say, and get up. “I'm off now.”

  “Off?” says Emma. “You can't go yet!”

  “Yes, I can.” I reach toward my microphone, and Eddie the sound guy rushes forward to unclip it.

  “Well said,” he mutters as he unthreads it from my jacket. “Don't take their shit.” He grins at me. “Barry's going ballistic up there.”

  “Hey, Becky!” Zelda's head jerks up in horror. “Where are you going?”

  “I've said what I came to say. Now I've got a plane to catch.”

  “You can't leave now! We haven't finished!”

  “I've finished,” I say, and reach for my bag.

  “But the phone lines are all red!” says Zelda, hurrying toward me. “The switchboard's jammed! The callers are all saying . . .” She stares at me as though she's never seen me before. “I mean, we had no idea. Who would ever have thought . . .”

  “I've got to go, Zelda.”

  “Wait! Becky!” says Zelda as I reach the door of the studio. “We . . . Barry and I . . . we were having a quick little chat just now. And we were wondering whether . . .”

  “Zelda,” I interrupt gently. “It's too late. I'm going.”

  It's nearly three by the time I arrive at Heathrow Airport. I'm still a little flushed from the farewell lunch I had in the pub with Suze, Tarquin, and my parents. To be honest, there's a small part of me that feels like bursting into tears and running back to them all. But at the same time, I've never felt so confident in my life. I've never been so sure I'm doing the right thing.

  There's a promotional stand in the center of the terminus, giving away free newspapers, and as I pass it, I reach for a Financial Times. Just for old times' sake. Plus, if I'm carrying the FT, I might get upgraded. I'm just folding it up to place it neatly under my arm, when I notice a name which makes me stop dead.

  Brandon in bid to save company. Page 27.

  With slightly shaky fingers, I unfold the paper, find the page, and read the story.

  Financial PR entrepreneur Luke Brandon is fighting to keep his investors on board after severe loss of confidence following the recent defection of several senior employees. Morale is said to be low at the formerly groundbreaking PR agency, with rumors of an uncertain future for the company causing staff to break ranks. In crisis meetings to be held today, Brandon will be seeking to persuade backers to approve his radical restructuring plans, which are said to involve . . .

  I read to the end of the piece, and gaze for a few seconds at Luke's picture. He looks as confident as ever—but I remember Michael's remark about him being hurled across the paddock. His world's crashed around him, just like mine did. And chances are, his mum won't be on the phone telling him not to worry.

  For a moment I feel a twinge of pity for him. I almost want to call him up and tell him things'll get better. But there's no point. He's busy with his life—and I'm busy with mine. So I fold the paper up again, and resolutely walk forward to the check-in desk.

  “Anything to check?” says the check-in girl, smiling at me.

  “No,” I say. “I'm traveling light. Just me and my bag.” I casually lift my FT to a more prominent position. “I don't suppose there's any chance of an upgrade?”

  “Not today, sorry.” She pulls a sympathetic face. “But I can put you by the emergency exit. Plenty of legroom there. If I could just weigh your bag, please?”

  “Sure.”

  And I'm just bending down to put my little case on the belt, when a familiar voice behind me exclaims, “Wait!”

  I feel a lurch inside as though I've just dropped twenty feet. I turn disbelievingly—and it's him.

  It's Luke, striding across the concourse toward the check-in desk. He's dressed as smartly as ever, but his face is pale and haggard. From the shadows under his eyes he looks as though he's been existing on a diet of late nights and coffee.

  “Where the fuck are you going?” he demands as he gets nearer. “Are you moving to Washington?”

  “What are you doing here?” I retort shakily. “Aren't you at some crisis meeting with your investors?”

  “I was. Until Mel came in to hand round tea, and told me she'd seen you on the television this morning. So I called Suze and got the flight number out of her—”

  “You just left your meeting?” I stare at him. “What, right in the middle?”

  “She told me you're leaving the country.” His dark eyes search my face. “Is that right?”

  “Yes,” I say, and clutch my little suitcase more tightly. “Yes, I am.”

  “Just like that? Without even telling me?”

  “Yes, just like that,” I say, plonking my case on the belt. “Just like you came back to Britain without even telling me.” There's an edge to my voice, and Luke flinches.

  “Becky—”

  “Window or aisle seat?” interrupts the check-in girl.

  “Window, please.”

  “Becky—”

  His mobile phone gives a shrill ring, and he switches it off irritably. “Becky . . . I want to talk.”

  “Now you want to talk?” I echo disbelievingly. “Great. Perfect timing. Just as I'm checking in.” I hit the FT with the back of my hand. “And what about this crisis meeting?”

  “It can wait.”

  “The future of your company can wait?” I raise my eyebrows. “Isn't that a little . . . irresponsible, Luke?”

  “My company wouldn't have a fucking future if it weren't for you,” he exclaims, almost angrily, and in spite of myself I feel a tingling all over my body. “I've just been on the phone to Michael. He told me what you did. How you cottoned on to Alicia. How you warned him, how you sussed the whole thing.” He shakes his head. “I had no idea. Jesus, if it hadn't been for you, Becky . . .”

  “He shouldn't have told you,” I mutter furiously. “I told him not to. He promised.”

  “Well, he did tell me! And now . . .” Luke breaks off. “And now I don't know what to say,” he says more quietly. “ ‘Thank you' doesn't even come close.”

  We stare at each other in silence for a few moments.

  “You don't have to say anything,” I say at last, looking away. “I only did it because I can't stand Alicia. No o
ther reason.”

  “So . . . I've put you on row thirty-two,” says the check-in girl brightly. “Boarding should be at four thirty . . .” She takes one further look at my passport and her expression changes. “Hey! You're the one off Morning Coffee, aren't you?”

  “I used to be,” I say with a polite smile.

  “Oh right,” she says puzzledly. As she hands over my passport and boarding card, her eye runs over my FT, and stops at Luke's photograph. She looks up at Luke, and down again.

  “Hang on. Are you him?” she says, jabbing at the picture.

  “I used to be,” says Luke after a pause. “Come on, Becky. Let me buy you a drink, at least.”

  We sit down at a little table with glasses of Pernod. I can see the light on Luke's phone lighting up every five seconds, indicating that someone's trying to call him. But he doesn't even seem to notice.

  “I wanted to ring you,” he says, staring into his drink. “Every single day, I wanted to ring. But . . . it's been so crazy since I got back. And what you said about me not having time for a real relationship? That really stuck with me. Plus . . .” He breaks off into silence.

  “Plus what?” I say at last.

  “I wasn't sure,” he says, and looks up with frank brown eyes. “The truth is, I didn't know whether we could make it work. It seemed in New York that we suddenly split apart, and started going in different directions. It was as though we didn't understand each other anymore.”

  I should be able to hear this without reacting. But for some reason the back of my throat feels tight all over again.

  “So—what happened?” I say, forcing myself to sound matter-of-fact. “Why are you here? The day when all your investors have flown in to see you.”

  “Not ideal. I'll give you that.” A flicker of amusement passes briefly across his face. “But how was I to know you were planning to skip the country? Michael's been a secretive bastard. And when I heard you were leaving . . .” He meets my eyes. “I suddenly realized.”

  “Realized . . . what?” I manage.

  “That I'd been a fucking . . . stupid . . .”