“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 for 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 stock-market performance with a high level of security. One option is to invest in a Tracker fund, which automatically ‘tracks’ the top one hundred 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 humor, 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 anymore. Suddenly I feel a bit small and sad, and I scrunch up even more in my chair. Oh God, I hate today. I hate everything. I want to go hooome.
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 gray cardigan over a short black shirt, and my new Hobbs boots—dark gray 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 anymore.
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 front door, I’ve already forgotten all about them.
The conference is buzzing by the time I get there. I give my name to the press officer at reception and 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, 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. 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 paper knife, 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. I’ve had two free cappuccinos, a pain au chocolat, some apple cider (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’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, beaming. “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 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. Granger, 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? 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 humor in her eyes. Suddenly I find myself remembering Luke saying he wasn’t surprised by Elly joining Wetherby’s.
“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 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.
“Act
ually, 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 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 poli
tely, 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?”
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