The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic:

  'What?' I stare at her. 'You . . . made this?'

  'Yes. During Neighbours. It was awful, actually. Beth found out about Joey and Skye.'

  I'm completely gobsmacked. How come Suze suddenly turns out to be so talented?

  'So what do you reckon?' she says, taking the frame back and turning it over in her fingers. 'Could I sell these?'

  Could she sell these?

  'Suze,' I say quite seriously. 'You're going to be a millionaire.'

  And we spend the rest of the evening getting very pissed and mapping out Suze's career as an Anita Roddick-style businesswoman. We get quite hysterical trying to decide if she should wear Chanel or Prada when she goes to meet the Queen – and by the time I get into bed, I've forgotten all about Luke Brandon and Bank of Helsinki and the rest of my disastrous day.

  But the next morning, it all comes rushing back to me like a horror movie. I wake up feeling pale and shaky, and desperately wishing I could take a sickie. I don't want to go to work. I want to stay at home under the duvet, watching daytime telly and being a millionairess entrepreneur with Suze.

  But it's the busiest week of the month, and Philip'll never believe I'm ill.

  So, somehow, I haul myself out of bed and into some clothes and onto the tube. At Lucio's I buy myself an extra large cappuccino, and a muffin, and a chocolate brownie. I don't care if I get fat. I just need sugar and caffeine and chocolate, and as much as possible.

  Luckily it's so busy, no-one's talking very much, so I don't have to bother telling everyone at the office what I did yesterday on my day off. Clare's tapping away at something and there's a pile of page proofs on my desk, ready for me to check. So after checking my e-mails – none – I scrunch miserably up in my chair, pick up the first one and start to read it.

  'Balancing the risks and rewards of stock-market investment can be a dangerous business, especially for the novice investor.'

  Oh God this is boring.

  'While returns may be high in certain sectors of the market, nothing is ever guaranteed – and for the smalltime investor

  'Rebecca?' I look up, to see Philip approaching my desk, holding a piece of paper. He doesn't look very happy, and for one terrible moment I think he's spoken to Jill Foxton at William Green, has discovered everything, and is giving me my P45. But as he gets nearer, I see it's only some dull-looking press release.

  'I want you to go to this instead of me,' he says. 'It's on Friday. I'd go myself, but I'm going to be tied up here with Marketing.'

  'Oh,' I say, without enthusiasm, and take the piece of paper. 'OK. What is it?'

  'Personal Finance Fair at Olympia,' he says. 'We always cover it.'

  Yawn. Yawn yawn yawn . . .

  'Barclays are giving a champagne lunchtime reception,' he adds.

  'Oh right!' I say, with more interest. 'Well, OK. It sounds quite good. What exactly is it . . .'

  I glance down at the paper, and my heart stops as I see the Brandon Communications logo at the top of the page.

  'It's basically just a big fair,' says Philip. 'All sectors of personal finance. Talks, stands, events. Just cover whatever sounds interesting. I leave it up to you.'

  'OK,' I say after a pause. 'Fine.'

  I mean, what do I care if Luke Brandon might be there? I'll just ignore him. I'll show him about as much respect as he showed me. And if he tries to talk to me, I'll just lift my chin firmly in the air, and turn on my heel, and . . .

  'How are the pages going?' says Philip.

  'Oh, great,' I say, and pick the top one up again. 'Should be finished soon.' He gives a little nod and walks away, and I begin to read again.

  '. . . for the small-time investor, the risks attached to such stocks may outweigh the potential of reward.'

  Oh God this is boring. I can't even bring myself to focus on what the words mean.

  'More and more investors are therefore demanding the combination of stockmarket performance with a high level of security. One option is to invest in a Tracker fund, which automatically "tracks" the top 100 companies at any time . . .'

  Hmm. Actually, that gives me a thought. I reach for my Filofax, flip it open and dial Elly's new direct number at Wetherby's.

  'Eleanor Granger,' comes her voice, sounding a bit far-off and echoey. Must be a dodgy line.

  'Hi, Elly, it's Becky,' I say. 'Listen, whatever happened to Tracker bars? They're really yummy, aren't they? And I haven't eaten one for . . .'

  There's a scuffly sort of sound on the line, and I gape at the receiver in surprise. In the distance, I can hear Elly saying, 'I'm sorry. I'll just be a . . .'

  'Becky!' she hisses down the phone. 'I was on speaker phone! Our head of department was in my office.'

  'Oh God!' I say, aghast. 'Sorry! Is he still there?'

  'No,' says Elly, and sighs. 'God knows what he thinks of me now.'

  'Oh well,' I say reassuringly. 'He's got a sense of humour, hasn't he?'

  Elly doesn't reply.

  'Oh well,' I say again, less certainly. 'Anyway, are you free for a drink at lunchtime?'

  'Not really,' she says. 'Sorry, Becky, I've really got to go.' And she puts the phone down.

  No-one likes me any more. Suddenly I feel a bit cold and shivery, and I scrunch up even more in my chair. Oh God, I hate today. I hate everything. I want to go hooome.

  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 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 PRESS 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 PRESS 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 & 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 you 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 PRESS? 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 PRESS. 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 work, 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. r />
  '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 Page.'

  '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.