There's a long pause. Derek Smeath looks around for a place to put his coffee cup, takes a white handkerchief out of his pocket and rubs his brow with it. Then he puts it away and gives me a long look.
'You're serious,' he says at last.
'Yes.'
'You'll really make an effort?'
'Yes. And . . .' I bite my lip. 'And I'm very grateful for all the allowances you've made for me. I really am.'
Suddenly I feel almost tearful. I want to be good. I want to get my life in order. I want him to tell me what to do.
'All right,' says Derek Smeath at last. 'Let's see what we can sort out. You come into the office tomorrow, 9.30 sharp and we'll have a little chat.'
'Thanks,' I say, my whole body subsiding in relief. 'Thank you so much. I'll be there. I promise.'
'You'd better be,' he says. 'No more excuses.' Then a faint smile passes over his features. 'By the way,' he adds, gesturing to the set. 'I thought you did very well up there. Spot on with all your advice.'
'Oh,' I say in surprise. 'Well . . . thanks. That's really . . .' I clear my throat. 'How did you get into the studio, anyway? I thought they had quite tight security.'
'They do,' replies Derek Smeath. 'But my daughter works in television.' He smiles fondly. 'She used to work on this very show.'
'Really?' I say incredulously.
God, how amazing. Derek Smeath has got a daughter. He's probably got a whole family, come to that. A wife, and everything. Who would have thought it?
'I'd better go,' he says, and drains his polystyrene cup. 'This was a bit of an unscheduled detour.' He gives me a severe look. 'And I'll see you tomorrow.'
'I'll be there,' I say quickly, as he walks off towards the exit. 'And . . . and thanks. Thanks a lot.'
As he disappears, I sink down onto a nearby chair. I can't quite believe I've just had a pleasant, civilized conversation with Derek Smeath. With Derek Smeath! And he seems quite a sweetheart. He's been so nice and kind to me, and his daughter works in television . . . I mean, who knows, maybe I'll get to know her, too. Maybe I'll become friends with the whole family. Wouldn't that be great? I'll start going to dinner at their house, and his wife will give me a warm hug when I arrive, and I'll help her with the salad and stuff . . .
'Rebecca!' comes a voice from behind me, and I turn round to see Zelda approaching, still clutching her clipboard.
'Hi,' I say happily. 'How's it going?'
'Great,' she says, and pulls up a chair. 'Now, I want to have a little talk.'
'Oh,' I say. 'OK. What about?'
'We thought you did tremendously well today,' says Zelda, crossing one jeaned leg over the other. 'Tremendously well. I've spoken to Emma and Rory and our senior producer' – she pauses for effect – 'and they'd all like to see you back on the show.'
I stare at her in disbelief.
'You mean
'Not every week,' says Zelda. 'But fairly regularly. We thought maybe three times a month. Do you think your work would allow you to do that?'
'I . . . I don't know,' I say dazedly. 'I expect it would.'
'Excellent!' says Zelda. 'We could probably plug your magazine as well, keep them happy.' She scribbles something on a piece of paper and looks up. 'Now, you don't have an agent, do you? So I'll have to talk money directly with you.' She pauses, and looks down at her clipboard. 'What we're offering, per slot, is . . .'
Twenty-Three
I put my key in the lock and slowly open the door of the flat. It feels like about a million years since I was here last, and I feel like a completely different person. I've grown up. Or changed. Or something.
'Hi,' I say cautiously into the silence, and drop my bag onto the floor. 'Is anyone—'
'Bex!' gasps Suze, appearing at the door of the sitting room. She's wearing tight black leggings and holding a half-made denim photograph frame in one hand. 'Oh my God! Where've you been? What have you been doing? I saw you on Morning Coffee and I couldn't believe my eyes! I tried to phone in and speak to you, but they said I had to have a financial problem. So I said, OK, how should I invest half a million? but they said that wasn't really—' She breaks off. 'Bex, where have you been? What happened?'
I don't reply straight away. I'm gazing at the pile of letters addressed to me on the table. White, official-looking envelopes, brown window envelopes, envelopes marked menacingly, 'Final Reminder'. The scariest pile of letters you've ever seen.
Except somehow . . . they don't seem quite so scary any more.
'I was at my parents' house,' I say, looking up. 'And then I was on television.'
'But I phoned your parents! They said they didn't know where you were!'
'I know,' I say, flushing slightly. 'They were . . . protecting me from a stalker.' I look up, to see Suze staring at me in utter incomprehension. Which I suppose is fair enough. 'Anyway,' I add defensively, 'I left you a message on the machine, saying not to worry, I was fine.'
'I know,' wails Suze, 'but that's what they always do in films. And it means the baddies have got you and you've got a gun jammed against your head. Honestly, I thought you were dead! I thought you were, like, cut up into a million pieces somewhere.'
I look at her face again. She isn't kidding. She really was worried. Suddenly I feel awful. I should never have vanished like that. It was completely thoughtless and irresponsible and selfish.
'Oh Suze.' On impulse, I hurry forward and hug her tightly. 'I'm really sorry. I never meant to worry you.'
'It's OK,' says Suze, hugging me back. 'I was worried for a bit – but then I knew you must be all right when I saw you on the telly. You were fantastic, by the way.'
'Really?' I say, a tiny smile flickering round the corners of my mouth. 'Did you really think so?'
'Oh yes!' says Suze. 'Much better than whatshisface. Luke Brandon. God, he's arrogant.'
'Yes,' I say after a tiny pause. 'Yes, I suppose he is. But he was actually quite nice to me afterwards.'
'Really?' says Suze indifferently. 'Well, you were brilliant, anyway. Do you want some coffee?'
'Love some,' I say, and she disappears into the kitchen.
I pick up my letters and bills and begin slowly to leaf through them. Once upon a time, this lot would have sent me into a blind panic. In fact, they would have gone straight into the bin, unread. But you know what? Today I don't feel a flicker of fear. Honestly, how could I have been so silly about my financial affairs? How could I have been so cowardly? This time I'm just going to face up to them properly. I'm going to sit down with my chequebook and my latest bank statements, and sort methodically through the whole mess.
Staring at the clutch of envelopes in my hand, I feel suddenly very grown-up and responsible. Far-sighted and sensible. I'm going to sort my life out and keep my finances in order from now on. I've completely and utterly changed my attitude towards money.
Plus . . .
OK, I wasn't actually going to tell you this. But Morning Coffee are paying me absolute loads. Loads. You won't believe it, but for every single phone-in I do, I'm going to get—
Oh, I'm all embarrassed now. Let's just say it's . . . it's quite a lot. Heehee!
I just can't stop smiling about it. I've been floating along, ever since they told me. So the point is, I'll easily be able to pay all these bills off now. My VISA bill, and my Octagon bill, and the money I owe Suze – and everything! Finally, finally my life is going to be sorted.
'So, why did you just disappear like that?' asks Suze, coming back out of the kitchen and making me jump. 'What was wrong?'
'I don't really know,' I say, with a sigh, putting the letters back down on the hall table. 'I just had to get away and think. I was all confused.'
'Because of Tarquin?' says Suze at once, and I feel myself stiffen apprehensively.
'Partly,' I say after a pause, and swallow. 'Why? Has he . . .'
'I know you're not that keen on Tarkie,' says Suze wistfully, 'but I think he still really likes you. He came round a couple of nights ago, and left
you this letter.'
She gestures to a cream envelope stuck in the mirror. With slightly trembling hands I take it. Oh God, what's he going to say? I hesitate, then rip it open and a ticket falls onto the floor.
'The opera!' says Suze, picking it up. 'Tonight!' She looks up. 'God, it's lucky you came back today, Bex.'
My dear Rebecca. I'm reading incredulously. Forgive my reticence in contacting you before. But the more time passes, the more I realize how much I enjoyed our evening together and how much I would like to repeat it.
I enclose a ticket for Die Meistersinger at the Opera House. I shall be attending in any case and if you were able to join me, I would be delighted.
Yours very sincerely
Tarquin Cleath-Stuart
I stare at the letter, completely confused. What does this mean? That Tarquin didn't see me leafing through his chequebook after all? That he did see – but has decided to forgive me? That he's a complete schizoid?
'Oh Bex, you must go!' says Suze, reading over my shoulder. 'You've got to go. He'll be devastated if you don't. I really think he likes you.'
'I can't go,' I say, thrusting the letter down. 'I've got a business meeting tonight.'
'Well that's OK!' says Suze. 'You can cancel it.'
'I . . . I can't. It's quite important.'
'Oh,' says Suze, crestfallen. 'But what about poor Tarkie? He'll be sitting there, waiting for you, all excited . . .'
'You go instead,' I suggest. 'You go.'
'Really?' Suze pulls a face and glances down at the ticket. 'I suppose I could. I quite like opera. But honestly . . .' She looks up. 'Who's your business meeting with, anyway?'
'It's . . . it's with Luke Brandon,' I say, trying to sound unconcerned. But it's no good, I can feel myself starting to blush.
'Luke Brandon?' says Suze, puzzled. 'But what—' She stares at me, and her expression slowly changes. 'Oh no. Bex! Don't tell me . . .'
'It's just a business meeting,' I say, avoiding her eye. 'That's all. Two businesspeople meeting up and talking about business. In a . . . in a business situation. That's all.'
And I hurry off to my room.
Business meeting. Clothes for a business meeting. OK, let's have a look.
I pull all my outfits out of the wardrobe and lay them on the bed. Blue suit, black suit, pink suit. Hopeless. Pin-striped suit? Hmmm. Maybe overdoing it. Cream suit . . . too weddingy. Green suit . . . isn't that bad luck or something?
'So what are you going to wear?' says Suze, looking in through my open bedroom door. 'Are you going to buy something new?' Her face lights up. 'Hey, shall we go shopping?'
'Shopping?' I say distractedly. 'Ahm . . . maybe.'
Normally, of course, I'd jump at the chance of a shopping trip. Leap at it. But somehow today . . . Oh, I don't know. I almost feel too tense to go shopping. Too keyed up. I don't think I'd be able to give it my full attention.
'Bex, did you hear me?' says Suze in surprise. 'I said, "Shall we go shopping?"'
'Yes, I know.' I glance up at her, then reach for a black top and look at it critically. 'Actually, I think I'll take a rain-check.'
'You mean . . .' Suze pauses. 'You mean you don't want to go shopping?'
'Exactly.'
There's silence, and I look up, to see Suze staring at me.
'I don't understand,' she says, and she sounds quite upset. 'Why are you being all weird?'
'I'm not being weird!' I give a little shrug. 'I just don't feel like shopping.'
'Oh God, there's something wrong, isn't there?' wails Suze. 'I knew it. Maybe you're really ill.' She hurries into the room and reaches for my head. 'Have you got a temperature? Does anything hurt?'
'No!' I say, laughing. 'Of course not!'
'Have you had a bump on the head?' She wiggles her hand in front of my face. 'How many fingers?'
'Suze, I'm fine,' I say, thrusting her hand aside. 'Honestly. I'm just . . . not in a shopping mood.' I hold a grey suit up against myself. 'What do you think of this?'
'Honestly, Bex, I'm worried about you,' says Suze, shaking her head. 'I think you should get yourself checked out. You're so . . . different. It's frightening.'
'Yes well.' I reach for a white shirt and smile at her. 'Maybe I've changed.'
It takes me all afternoon to decide on an outfit. There's a lot of trying on, and mixing and matching, and suddenly remembering things at the back of my wardrobe (I must wear those purple jeans some time). But eventually I plump for simple and straightforward. My nicest black suit (Jigsaw sale, two years ago), a white T-shirt (M&S) and knee-high black suede boots (Dolce & Gabbana, but I told Mum they were from BHS. Which was a mistake, because then she wanted to get some for herself, and I had to pretend they'd all sold out). I put it all on, screw my hair up into a knot, and stare at myself in the mirror.
'Very nice,' says Suze admiringly from the door. 'Very sexy.'
'Sexy?' I feel a lollop of dismay. 'I'm not going for sexy! I'm going for businesslike.'
'Can't you be both at once?' suggests Suze. 'Businesslike and sexy?'
'I . . . No,' I say after a pause, and look away. 'No, I don't want to.'
I don't want Luke Brandon to think I've dressed up for him, is what I really mean. I don't want to give him the slightest chance to think I've misconstrued what this meeting is about. Not like last time.
With no warning, a surge of fresh humiliation goes through my body as I remember that awful moment in Harvey Nichols. I shake my head hard, trying to clear it; trying to calm my beating heart. Why the hell did I agree to this bloody dinner, anyway?
'I just want to look as serious and businesslike as possible,' I say, and frown sternly at my reflection.
'I know, then,' says Suze. 'You need some accessories. Some businesswoman-type accessories.'
'Like what? A Filofax?'
'Like . . .' Suze pauses thoughtfully. 'OK, I've got an idea. Wait there—'
I arrive at the Ritz that evening five minutes after our agreed time of 7.30, and as I reach the entrance to the restaurant, I see Luke there already, sitting back looking relaxed and sipping something that looks like a gin and tonic. He's wearing a different suit from the one he was wearing this morning, I can't help noticing, and he's put on a fresh, dark green shirt. He actually looks . . . Well. Quite nice. Quite goodlooking.
Not that businessy, in fact.
And, come to think of it, this restaurant isn't very businessy, either. It's all chandeliers and gold garlands and soft pink chairs, and the most beautiful painted ceiling, all clouds and flowers. The whole place is sparkling with light, and it looks . . .
Well actually, the word that springs to mind is 'romantic'.
Oh God. My heart starts thumping with nerves, and I glance quickly at my reflection in a gilded mirror. I'm wearing the black Jigsaw suit and white T-shirt and black suede boots as originally planned. But now I also have a crisp copy of the Financial Times under one arm, a pair of tortoiseshell glasses (with clear glass) perched on my head, my clunky executive briefcase in one hand and – Suze's pièce de résistance – an AppleMac laptop in the other.
Maybe I overdid it.
I'm about to back away and see if I can quickly deposit the briefcase in the cloakroom (or, to be honest, just put it down on a chair and walk away), when Luke looks up, sees me, and smiles. Damn. So I'm forced to go forward over the plushy carpet, trying to look as relaxed as possible, even though one arm is clamped tightly to my side, to stop the FT falling on the floor.
'Hello,' says Luke as I arrive at the table. He stands up to greet me, and I realize that I can't shake his hand, because I'm holding the laptop. Flustered, I plonk my briefcase on the floor, transfer the laptop to the other side – nearly dropping the FT as I do so – and, with slightly reddened cheeks, hold out my hand.
A flicker of amusement passes over Luke's face and he solemnly shakes my hand. He gestures to a chair, and watches politely as I put the laptop on the tablecloth, all ready for use.
'That's an im
pressive machine,' he says. 'Very . . . high-tech.'
'Yes,' I reply, and give him a brief, cool smile. 'I often use it to take notes at business meetings.'
'Ah,' says Luke, nodding. 'Very organized of you.'
He's obviously waiting for me to switch it on, so experimentally I press the return key. This, according to Suze, should make the screen spring to life. But nothing happens.
Casually, I press the key again – and still nothing. I jab at it, pretending my finger slipped by accident – and still nothing. Shit, this is embarrassing. Why do I ever listen to Suze?
'Is there a problem?' says Luke.
'No!' I say at once, and snap the lid shut. 'No, I've just . . . On second thoughts, I won't use it today.' I reach into my bag for a notebook. 'I'll jot my notes down in here.'
'Good idea,' says Luke mildly. 'Would you like some champagne?'
'Oh,' I say, slightly thrown. 'Well . . . OK.'
'Excellent,' says Luke. 'I hoped you would.'
He glances up, and a beaming waiter scurries forward with a bottle. Gosh, Krug.
But I'm not going to smile, or look pleased or anything. I'm going to stay thoroughly cool and professional. In fact, I'm only going to have one glass, before moving on to still water. I need to keep a clear head, after all.
While the waiter fills my champagne flute, I write down, 'Meeting between Rebecca Bloomwood and Luke Brandon' in my notebook. I look at it appraisingly, then underline it twice. There. That looks very efficient.
'So,' I say, looking up, and raise my glass. 'To business.'
'To business,' echoes Luke and gives a wry smile. 'What little I've got left of it.'
'Really?' I stare at him, puzzled – and then the penny drops. 'You mean – after what you said on Morning Coffee? Has it got you into trouble?'
He nods and I feel a pang of sympathy for him.
I mean, Suze is right – Luke is pretty arrogant. But I actually thought it was really good of him to stick his neck out like that and say publicly what he really thought about Flagstaff Life. And now, if he's going to be ruined as result, well, it just seems all wrong.
The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic: Page 27
