“No,” I say hurriedly. “No, it’s OK. So, erm. . what are you doing afterward? 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 forever. Real life has to begin sometime!” 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 have some fun together. 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 toward 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, 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 all 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 key rings. 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 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, 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 flush as he keeps gazing at me. So I turn away before he can say anything else, and march off toward 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-up’s 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 and he starts heading toward 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 toward me and extending 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 paralyzed.
“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 voice.
“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.
“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 insurance.”
“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, actually, now that I’ve relaxed. And Derek Smeath isn’t at all scary in the flesh. In fact, he’s rather cozy 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 canceled 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 F
ulham.”
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. I’m gripping my champagne glass so hard, I think I might break it.
“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. “Ha-ha-ha! It’s a small world. 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 feel a sudden trickle of fear. This man isn’t like a cozy sitcom uncle anymore. He’s like a scary exam monitor, 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 lurgey?”
“What’s this?” says Philip cheerfully.
“How is the leg, by the way?” says Erica sweetly.
“Fine,” I mumble. “Fine, thanks.”
“Good,” says Derek Smeath. “So we’ll say Monday at nine-thirty, 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. He gives me a jokey 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!”
OCTAGON — flair style • vision
Financial Services Department
8th Floor, Tower House
London Road, Winchester SO44 3DR
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood Charge Card Number 7854 4567
Flat 24 Burney Rd.London SW6 8FD
15 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood: FINAL REMINDER Further to my letter of 9 March, there is still an outstanding balance of £235.76 on your Octagon Silver 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 savior; unfortunately this has no bearing on the matter.I look forward to receiving your payment shortly.Yours sincerely,Grant Ellesmore Customer Finance Manager
Thirteen
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 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 expenditures 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. Hmm. 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 way.
Option Three: Don’t go to meeting.
But if I don’t, Derek Smeath will phone Philip and they’ll start talking. Maybe the whole story will come out, and he’ll find out I didn’t actually break my leg. Or have glandular fever. And after that I won’t ever be able to go back into the office. I’ll be unemployed. My life will be over at the age of twenty-five.
Option Four: Go to meeting with check for £1,000.
Perfect. Waltz in, hand over the check, say “Will there be anything else?” and waltz out again.
But how do I get £1,000 before Monday morning? How?
Option Five: Run away.
Which would be very childish and immature. Not worth considering.
I wonder where I could go? Maybe abroad somewhere. Las Vegas. Yes, and I could win a fortune at the casinos. A million pounds or something. Even more, perhaps. And then, yes, then I’d fax Derek Smeath, saying I’m closing my bank account due to his lack of faith in me.
God yes! Wouldn’t that be great? “Dear Mr. Smeath, I was a little surprised at your recent implication that I have insufficient funds to cover my overdraft. As this check for £1.2 million shows, I have ample funds at my disposal, which I will shortly be moving to one of your competitors. Perhaps they will treat me with more respect. p.s., I am copying this letter to your superiors.”
I love this idea so much, I lean back and wallow in it for a while, amending the letter over and over in my head. “Dear Mr. Smeath, as I tried to inform you discreetly at our last encounter, I am in fact a millionairess. If only you had trusted me, things might have been different.”
God, he’ll be sorry, won’t he? He’ll probably phone up and apologize. Try and keep my business and say he hadn’t meant to offend me. But it’ll be too late. Hah! Ha-ha-ha-ha. .
Oh blast. Missed my stop.
When I get home, Suze is sitting on the floor, surrounded by magazines.
“Hi!” she says brightly. “Guess what? I’m going to be in Vogue!”
“What?” I say disbelievingly. “Were you spotted on the streets or something?” Suze has got an excellent figure. She could easily be a model. But still. . Vogue!
“Not me, silly!” she says. “My frames.”
“Your frames are going to be in Vogue?” Now I really am disbelieving.
“In the June issue! I’m going to be in a piece called ‘Just Relax: Designers Who Are Bringing the Fun Back into Interiors.’ It’s co
ol, isn’t it? The only thing is, I’ve only made two frames so far, so I need to make a few more in case people want to buy them.”
“Right,” I say, trying to grasp all this. “So — how come Vogue is doing a piece about you? Did they. . hear about you?” I mean, she only started making frames four days ago!
“No, silly!” she says, and laughs. “I phoned up Lally. Have you met Lally?” I shake my head. “Well, she’s fashion editor of Vogue now, and she spoke to Perdy, who’s the interiors editor, and Perdy phoned me back — and when I told her what my frames were like, she just went wild.”
“Gosh,” I say. “Well done.”
“She told me what to say in my interview, too,” Suze adds, and clears her throat importantly. “I want to create spaces for people to enjoy, not admire. There’s a bit of the child in all of us. Life’s too short for minimalism.”
“Oh right,” I say. “Great!”
“No, wait, there was something else, too.” Suze frowns thoughtfully. “Oh yes, my designs are inspired by the imaginative spirit of Gaudi. I’m going to phone up Charlie now,” she adds happily. “I’m sure he’s something at Tatler.”
“Great,” I say again.
And it is great.
I’m really glad for Suze. Of course I am. If Suze gets in Vogue, I’ll be the proudest person in the world.
But at the same time there’s a part of me that’s thinking, How come everything happens so easily for her? I bet Suze has never had to face a nasty bank manager in her life. And I bet she never will have to, either.
Immediately I feel a huge spasm of guilt. Why can’t I just be glad for Suze and nothing else? Dispiritedly I sink down onto the floor and begin to flip through a magazine.
“By the way,” says Suze, looking up from the phone. “Tarquin rang about an hour ago, to arrange your date.” She grins wickedly. “Are you looking forward to it?”
“Oh,” I say dully. “Of course I am.”
I’d forgotten all about it, to be honest. But it’s OK — I’ll just wait until tomorrow afternoon and say I’ve got period pain. Easy. No one ever questions that, especially men.