The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic:

  'I'll just cleanse and tone, and then give you a base,' says Chloe. 'If you could shut your eyes . . .'

  I close my eyes, and after a few seconds, feel a cool, creamy liquid being massaged into my face. It's the most delicious sensation in the world. I could sit here all day.

  'So,' says Chloe after a while. 'What are you on the show for?'

  'Errm . . . finance,' I say vaguely. 'A piece on finance.'

  To be honest, I'm feeling so relaxed, I can hardly remember what I'm doing here.

  'Oh yeah,' says Chloe, efficiently smoothing foundation over my face. 'They were talking earlier about some financial thing.' She reaches for a palette of eyeshadows, blends a couple of colours together, then picks up a brush. 'So, are you a financial expert, then?'

  'Well,' I say, and give a modest little shrug. 'You know.'

  'Wow,' says Chloe, starting to apply eyeshadow to my eyelids. 'I don't understand the first thing about money.'

  'Me neither!' chimes in a dark-haired girl from across the room. 'My accountant's given up trying to explain it all to me. As he says the word "tax-year", my mind glazes over.'

  I'm about to reply sympathetically, 'Me too!' and launch into a nice girly chat. But just in time I realize that might not sound too good. I am supposed to be a financial expert, after all.

  'It's all quite simple, really,' I say instead, and flash a confident little smile. 'Once you get the hang of the three basic principles.'

  'Really?' says the dark-haired girl, and pauses, hairdrier in hand. 'What are they, then?'

  'Oh,' I say, clearing my throat. 'Erm, well, the first one is . . .' I pause, and rub my nose. God, my mind's completely blank.

  'Sorry, Rebecca,' says Chloe, 'I'm going to have to interrupt.' Thank goodness for that. 'Now, I was thinking a raspberry red for the lips. Is that OK by you?'

  What with all this chatting, I haven't really been paying attention to what she's been doing to my face. But as I look at my reflection properly, I can't quite believe it. My eyes are huge; I've suddenly got amazing cheekbones . . . honestly, I look like a different person. Why on earth don't I wear makeup like this every day?

  'Wow!' I breathe. 'That's fantastic!'

  'It's easier because you're so calm,' observes Chloe, reaching into a black vanity case. 'We get some people in here, really trembling with nerves. Even celebrities. We can hardly do their makeup.'

  'Really?' I say, and lean forward, ready to hear some insider gossip. But Zelda's voice interrupts us.

  'Sorry about that, Rebecca!' she exclaims. 'Right, how are we doing? Makeup looks good. What about hair?'

  'It's nicely cut,' says Chloe, picking up a few strands of my hair and dropping them back down again, just like Nicky Clarke on a makeover. 'I'll just give it a blow-dry for sheen.'

  'Fine,' says Zelda. 'And then we'll get her along to wardrobe.' She glances at something on her clipboard, then sits down on a swivel chair next to me. 'OK, so Rebecca, we need to talk about your item.'

  'Excellent,' I say, matching her businesslike tone. 'Well, I've prepared it all just as you wanted. Really simple and straightforward.'

  'Yup,' says Zelda. 'Well, that's the thing. We had a talk at the meeting yesterday, and you'll be glad to hear, we don't need it too basic, after all.' She smiles. 'You'll be able to get as technical as you like! Graphs . . . figures . . .'

  'Oh right,' I say, taken aback. 'Well . . . good! That's great! Although I might still keep it fairly low—'

  'We want to avoid talking down to the audience. I mean, they're not morons!' Zelda lowers her voice slightly. 'Plus we had some new audience research in yesterday – and apparently 80 per cent feel patronized by some or all of the show's content. Basically, we need to redress that balance. So we've had a complete change of plan for your item!' She beams at me. 'What we thought is, instead of a simple interview, we'd have more of a high-powered debate.'

  'A high-powered debate?' I echo, trying not to sound as alarmed as I feel.

  'Absolutely!' says Zelda. 'What we want is a really heated discussion! Opinions flying, voices raised. That kind of thing.'

  Opinions? But I don't have any opinions.

  'So is that OK?' says Zelda, frowning at me. 'You look a bit—'

  'I'm fine!' I force myself to smile brightly. 'Just . . . looking forward to it! A high-powered debate. Great!' I clear my throat. 'And . . . and who will I be debating with?'

  'A representative from Flagstaff Life,' says Zelda triumphantly. 'Head-to-head with the enemy. It'll make great television!'

  'Zelda!' comes a voice from outside the room. 'Bella again!'

  'Oh, for Christ's sake!' says Zelda, leaping up. 'Rebecca, I'll be back in a sec.'

  'Fine,' I manage. 'See you in a minute.'

  'OK,' says Chloe cheerfully. 'While she's gone, let me put on that lipstick.' She reaches for a long brush and begins to paint in my lips, and I stare at my reflection, trying to keep calm; trying not to panic. But my heart's thumping hard and my throat's so tight, I can't swallow. I've never felt so frightened in all my life.

  I can't talk in a high-powered debate! I just can't do it. I don't have any opinions, I don't have any facts, I don't know anything . . .

  Oh God, why did I ever want to be on television?

  'Rebecca, could you try to keep your lips still?' says Chloe with a puzzled frown. 'They're really shaking.'

  'Sorry,' I whisper, staring at my reflection like a frozen rabbit. She's right, I'm trembling all over. Oh God, this is no good. I've got to calm down. Think Zen. Think happy thoughts.

  In an effort to distract myself, I focus on the reflection in the mirror. In the background I can see Zelda standing in the corridor, talking into a phone with a furious expression on her face.

  'Yup,' I can hear her saying curtly. 'Yup. But the point is, Bella, we pay you a retainer to be available. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?' She looks up, sees someone, and lifts a hand in greeting. 'OK, Bella, I do see that . . .'

  A blond woman and two men appear in the corridor, and Zelda nods to them apologetically. I can't see their faces, but they're all wearing smart overcoats and holding briefcases, and one of the men has a folder bulging with papers. The blond woman's coat is rather nice, I find myself thinking. And she's got a ponyskin Fendi baguette. I wonder who she is.

  'Yup,' Zelda's saying. 'Yup. Well, if you can suggest an alternative phone-in subject . . .'

  She raises her eyebrows at the blond woman, who shrugs and turns away to look at a poster on the wall. And as she does so, my heart nearly stops dead.

  Because I recognize her. It's Alicia. It's Alicia from Brandon Communications, standing five yards away from me.

  I almost want to laugh at the incongruity of it. What's she doing here? What's Alicia Bitch Long-legs doing here, for God's sake?

  One of the men turns round to say something to her – and as I see his face, I think I recognize him, too. He's another one of the Brandon C lot, isn't he? One of those young, eager, baby-faced types.

  But what on earth are they all doing here? What's going on? Surely it can't be—

  They can't all be here because of—

  No. Oh no. Suddenly I feel rather cold.

  'Luke!' comes Zelda's voice from the corridor, and my stomach starts to churn. 'So glad you could make it. We always love having you on the show. You know, I had no idea you represented Flagstaff Life, until Sandy said

  In the mirror, I can see my face draining of colour.

  This isn't happening. Please tell me this isn't happening.

  'The journalist who wrote the piece is already here,' Zelda's saying, 'and I've primed her on what's happening. I think it's going to make really great television, the two of you arguing away!'

  She starts moving down the corridor, and in the mirror I see Alicia and the eager young man begin to follow her. Then the third overcoated man starts to come into view. And although my stomach's churning painfully, I can't stop myself. I slowly turn my head as he passes the door.
>
  I meet Luke Brandon's grave, dark eyes and he meets mine, and for a few still seconds, we just stare at each other. Then abruptly he looks away and strides off down the corridor. And I'm left, gazing helplessly at my painted reflection, feeling sick with panic.

  POINTS FOR TELEVISION INTERVIEW

  SIMPLE AND BASIC FINANCIAL ADVICE

  1. Prefer clock/twenty grand? Obvious.

  2. Flagstaff Life ripped off innocent customers. Beware.

  Ermm . . .

  3. Always be very careful with your money.

  4. Don't put it all in one investment but diversify.

  5. Don't lose it by mistake

  6. Don't

  THINGS YOU CAN BUY WITH £20,000

  1. Nice car eg small BMW

  2. Pearl and diamond necklace from Asprey's plus big diamond ring

  3. 3 couture evening dresses eg from John Galliano

  4. Steinway grand piano

  5. 5 gorgeous leather sofas from the Conran shop

  6. 52 Gucci watches, plus bag

  7. Flowers delivered every month for forty-two years

  8. 55 pedigree labrador puppies

  9. 80 cashmere jumpers

  10. 666 Wonderbras

  11. 454 pots Helena Rubinstein moisturizer

  12. 800 bottles of champagne

  13. 2,860 Fiorentina pizzas

  14. 15,384 tubes of Pringles

  15. 90,909 packets of Polos

  16.

  Twenty

  By 11.25 I'm sitting on a brown upholstered chair in the green room. I'm dressed in a midnight-blue Jasper Conran suit, sheer tights and a pair of suede high heels. What with my makeup and blown-dry hair, I've never looked smarter in my life. But I can't relish my appearance. I can't enjoy any of it. All I can think of is the fact that in fifteen minutes, I've got to sit on a sofa and discuss high-powered finance with Luke Brandon on live television.

  The very thought of it makes me feel like crying. Or laughing. I mean, it's like some kind of sick joke. Luke Brandon against me. Luke Brandon, with his genius IQ and bloody photographic memory – against me. He'll walk all over me. He'll massacre me.

  'Darling, have a croissant,' says Elisabeth Plover, who's sitting opposite me, munching a pain au chocolat. 'They're simply sublime. Every bite like a ray of golden Provençal sun.'

  'No thanks,' I say. 'I . . . I'm not really hungry.'

  I don't understand how she can eat. I honestly feel as though I'm about to throw up at any moment. How on earth do people appear on television every day? How does Fiona Phillips do it? No wonder they're all so thin.

  'Coming up!' comes Rory's voice from the television monitor in the corner of the room, and both our heads automatically swivel round to see the screen filled with a picture of a beach at sunset. 'What is it like, to live with a gangster and then, risking everything, betray him? Our next guest has written an explosive novel based on her dark and dangerous background . . .'

  '. . . And we introduce a new series of in-depth discussions,' chimes in Emma. The picture changes to one of pound coins raining onto the floor, and my stomach gives a nasty flip. 'Morning Coffee turns the spotlight on the issue of financial scandal, with two leading industry experts coming head-to-head in debate.'

  Is that me? Oh God, I don't want to be a leading industry expert. I want to go home and have a nice cup of tea.

  'But first!' says Rory cheerily. 'Scott Robertson's getting all fired up in the kitchen.'

  The picture switches abruptly to a man in a chef's hat grinning and brandishing a blow-torch. I stare at him for a few moments, then look down again, clenching my hands tightly in my lap. I can't quite believe that soon it'll be me up on that screen. Sitting on the sofa. Trying to think of something intelligent to say.

  To distract myself, I unscrew my crappy piece of A4 paper for the thousandth time and read through my paltry notes. Maybe it won't be so bad, I find myself thinking hopefully, as my eyes circle the same few sentences again and again. Maybe I'm worrying about nothing. We'll probably keep the whole thing at the level of a casual chat. Keep it simple and friendly. After all . . .

  'Good morning, Rebecca,' comes a voice from the door. Slowly I look up – and as I do so, I feel my heart sink. Luke Brandon is standing in the doorway. He's wearing an immaculate dark suit, his hair is shining, and his face is bronze with makeup. And there isn't an ounce of friendliness in his face. His jaw is tight; his eyes are hard and businesslike. As they meet mine, they don't even flicker.

  For a few moments we gaze at each other without speaking. I can hear my heart beating loudly in my ears; my face feels hot beneath all the makeup. Then, summoning all my inner resources, I force myself to say calmly,

  'Hello, Luke.'

  There's an interested silence as he walks into the room. Even Elisabeth Plover seems intrigued by him.

  'I know that face,' she says, leaning forward. 'I know it. You're an actor, aren't you? Shakespearian, of course. I believe I saw you in Lear three years ago.'

  'I don't think so,' says Luke shortly.

  'You're right!' says Elisabeth, slapping the table. 'It was Hamlet. I remember it well. The desperate pain, the guilt, the final tragedy . . .' She shakes her head solemnly. 'I'll never forget that voice of yours. Every word was like a stab wound.'

  'I'm sorry to hear it,' says Luke eventually, and looks at me. 'Rebecca—'

  'Luke, here are the final figures,' interrupts Alicia, hurrying into the room and handing him a piece of paper. 'Hello, Rebecca,' she adds, giving me a snide look. 'All prepared?'

  'Yes, I am, actually,' I say, crumpling my A4 paper into a ball in my lap. 'Very well prepared.'

  'Glad to hear it,' says Alicia, raising her eyebrows. 'It should be an interesting debate.'

  'Yes,' I say defiantly. 'Very.'

  God she's a cow.

  'I've just had John from Flagstaff on the phone,' adds Alicia to Luke in a lowered voice. 'He was very keen that you should mention the new Foresight Savings Series. Obviously, I told him—'

  'This is a damage limitation exercise,' says Luke curtly. 'Not a bloody plug-fest. He'll be bloody lucky if he . . .' He glances at me and I look away as though I'm not remotely interested in what he's talking about. Casually I glance at my watch and feel a leap of fright as I see the time. Ten minutes. Ten minutes to go.

  'OK,' says Zelda, coming into the room. 'Elisabeth, we're ready for you.'

  'Marvellous,' says Elisabeth, taking a last mouthful of pain au chocolat. 'Now, I do look all right, don't I?' She stands up and a shower of crumbs falls off her skirt.

  'You've got a piece of croissant in your hair,' says Zelda, reaching up and removing it. 'Other than that – what can I say?' She catches my eye and I have a hysterical desire to giggle.

  'Luke!' says the baby-faced guy, rushing in with a mobile phone. 'John Bateson on the line for you. And a couple of packages have arrived . . .'

  'Thanks, Tim,' says Alicia, taking the packages and ripping them open. She pulls out a bunch of papers and begins scanning them quickly, marking things every so often in pencil. Meanwhile, Tim sits down, opens a laptop computer and starts typing.

  'Yes, John, I do see your bloody point,' Luke's saying in a low, tight voice. 'But if you would listen to me for just one moment—'

  'Tim,' says Alicia, looking up. 'Can you quickly check the return on the Flagstaff Premium Pension over the last three, five and ten?'

  'Absolutely,' says Tim, and starts tapping at his computer.

  'Tim,' says Luke, looking up from the phone. 'Can you print out the Flagstaff Foresight draft press release for me asap? Thanks.'

  I can't quite believe what I'm seeing. They've practically set up an office, here in the Morning Coffee green room. An entire office of Brandon Communications staff complete with computers and modems and phones . . . pitted against me and my crumpled piece of A4.

  As I watch Tim's laptop efficiently spewing out pages, and Alicia handing sheets of paper to Luke, a cold feeling starts to creep over
me. I mean, let's face it. I'll never beat this lot, will I? I haven't got a chance. I should just give up now. Tell them I'm ill or something. Run home and hide under my duvet.

  'OK, everyone?' says Zelda, poking her head round the door. 'On in seven minutes.'

  'Fine,' says Luke.

  'Fine,' I echo in a wobbly voice.

  'Oh, and Rebecca, there's a package for you,' says Zelda. She comes into the room and hands me a large, square box. 'I'll be back in a minute.'

  'Thanks, Zelda,' I say in surprise and, with a sudden lift of spirits, begin to rip the box open. I've no idea what it is or who it's from – but it's got to be something helpful, hasn't it? Special last-minute information from Eric Foreman, maybe. A graph, or a series of figures that I can produce at the crucial moment. Or some secret document that Luke doesn't know about.

  Out of the corner of my eye I can see that all the Brandonites have stopped what they're doing, and are watching, too. Well, that'll show them. They're not the only ones to get packages delivered to the green room. They're not the only ones to have resources. Finally I get the sticky tape undone and open the flaps of the box.

  And as everyone watches, a big red helium balloon, with GOOD LUCK emblazoned across it, floats up to the ceiling. There's a card attached to the string, and, without looking anyone in the eye, I rip it open.

  Immediately, I wish I hadn't.

  'Good luck to you, good luck to you, whatever you're about to do,' sings a tinny electronic voice.

  I slam the card shut and feel my cheeks flame red. God, how embarrassing. From the other side of the room I can hear little sniggers, and I look up to see Alicia smirking. She whispers something into Luke's ear, and an amused expression spreads across his face.

  He's laughing at me. They're all laughing at Rebecca Bloomwood and her singing balloon. For a few moments I can't move for mortification. My face is hot; my throat feels tight; I've never felt less like a leading industry expert in my life.

  Then, on the other side of the room, I hear Alicia murmur some malicious little comment and give a snort of laughter – and deep inside me, something snaps. Sod them, I think suddenly. Sod them all. They're probably only jealous, anyway. They wish they had balloons, too.