Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

Sixteen

I DON’T DECIDE straight away. It takes me about two weeks of pacing around the flat, drinking endless cups of coffee, talking to my parents, Suze, Michael, my old boss Philip, this new television agent Cassandra… basically everyone I can think of. But in the end I know. I know in my heart what I really want to do.

Luke hasn’t called — and to be honest, I shouldn’t think I’ll ever speak to him again. Michael says he’s working about seventeen hours a day — trying simultaneously to salvage Brandon Communications and keep interest open in the States — and is very stressed indeed. Apparently he still hasn’t got over the shock of discovering that Alicia was plotting against him — and that Bank of London was still considering moving with her. The shock of discovering he wasn’t “immune to shit,” as Michael so poetically put it. “That’s the trouble with having the whole world love you,” he said to me the other day. “One day, you wake up and it’s flirting with your best friend instead. And you don’t know what to do. You’re thrown.”

“So — has Luke been thrown by all this?” I asked, twisting my fingers into a knot.

“Thrown?” exclaimed Michael. “He’s been hurled across the paddock and trampled on by a herd of wild boar.”

Several times I’ve picked up the phone with a sudden longing to speak to him. But then I’ve always taken a deep breath and put it down again. That’s his life now. I’ve got to get on with mine. My whole new life.

There’s a sound at the door, and I look round. Suze is standing in the doorway, staring into my empty room.

“Oh, Bex,” she says miserably. “I don’t like it. Put it all back. Make it messy again.”

“At least it’s all feng shui now,” I say, attempting a smile. “It’ll probably bring you loads of luck.”

She comes in and walks across the empty carpet to the window, then turns round.

“It seems smaller,” she says slowly. “It should look bigger without all your clutter, shouldn’t it? But somehow… it doesn’t work like that. It looks like a nasty bare little box.”

There’s silence for a while as I watch a tiny spider climbing up the windowpane.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do with it?” I say at last. “Are you going to get a new flatmate?”

“I don’t think so,” says Suze. “I mean, there’s no rush, is there. Tarkie said why not just have it as my office for a while.”

“Did he?” I turn to look at her with raised eyebrows. “That reminds me. Did I hear Tarquin here again last night? And creeping out this morning?”

“No,” says Suze, looking flustered. “I mean — yes.” She catches my eye and blushes. “But it was completely the last ever time. Ever.”

“You make such a lovely couple,” I say, grinning at her.

“Don’t say that!” she exclaims in horror. “We’re not a couple.”

“OK,” I say, relenting. “Whatever.” I look at my watch. “You know, we ought to be going.”

“Yes. I suppose so. Oh, Bex—”

I look at Suze — and her eyes are suddenly full of tears.

“I know.” I squeeze her hand tightly and for a moment neither of us says anything. Then I reach for my coat. “Come on.”

We walk along to the King George pub at the end of the road. We make our way through the bar and up a flight of wooden stairs to a large private room furnished with red velvet curtains, a bar, and lots of trestle tables set up on both sides. A makeshift platform has been set up at one end, and there are rows of plastic chairs in the middle.

“Hello!” says Tarquin, spotting us as we enter. “Come and have a drink.” He lifts his glass. “The red’s not at all bad.”

“Is the tab all set up behind the bar?” says Suze.

“Absolutely,” says Tarquin. “All organized.”

“Bex — that’s on us,” says Suze, putting her hand on me as I reach for my purse. “A good-bye present.”

“Suze, you don’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” she says firmly. “So did Tarkie.”

“Let me get you some drinks,” says Tarquin — then adds, lowering his voice, “It’s a pretty good turnout, don’t you think?”

As he walks off, Suze and I turn to survey the room. There are tables set out round the room, and people are milling around, looking at neatly folded piles of clothes, shoes, CDs, and assorted bits of bric-a-brac. On one table is a pile of typed, photocopied catalogues, and people are marking them as they wander round.

I can hear a girl in leather jeans saying, “Look at this coat! Ooh, and these Hobbs boots! I’m definitely going to bid for those!” On the other side of the room, two girls are trying pairs of trousers up against themselves while their boyfriends patiently hold their drinks.

“Who are all these people?” I say disbelievingly. “Did you invite them all?”

“Well, I went down my address book,” says Suze. “And Tarquin’s address book. And Fenny’s…”

“Oh well,” I say with a laugh. “That explains it.”

“Hi, Becky!” says a bright voice behind me — and I swivel round to see Fenella’s friend Milla, with a pair of girls I half-recognize. “I’m going to bid for your purple cardigan! And Tory’s going to go for that dress with the fur, and Annabel’s seen about six thousand things she wants! We were just wondering, is there an accessories section?”

“Over there,” says Suze, pointing to the corner of the room.

“Thanks!” says Milla. “See you later!” The three girls trip off into the melee, and I hear one of them saying, “I really need a good belt…”

“Becky!” says Tarquin, suddenly coming up behind me. “Here’s some wine. And let me introduce Caspar, my chum from Christie’s.”

“Oh hello!” I say, turning round to see a guy with floppy blond hair, a blue shirt, and an enormous gold signet ring. “Thank you so much for doing this! I’m really grateful.”

“Not at all, not at all,” says Caspar. “Now, I’ve been through the catalogue and it all seems fairly straightforward. Do you have a list of reserve prices?”

“No,” I say without pausing. “No reserves. Everything must go.”

“Fine.” He smiles at me. “Well, I’ll go and get set up.”

As he walks off I take a sip of my wine. Suze has gone off to look round some of the tables, so I stand alone for a while, watching as the crowd grows. Fenella arrives at the door, and I give her a wave — but she’s immediately swallowed up in a group of shrieking friends.

“Hi, Becky,” comes a hesitant voice behind me. I wheel round in shock, and find myself staring up at Tom Webster.

“Tom!” I exclaim in shock. “What are you doing here? How do you know about this?” He takes a sip from his glass and gives a little grin.

“Suze called your mum, and she told me all about it. She and my mum have put in some orders, actually.” He pulls a list out of his pocket. “Your mum wants your cappuccino maker. If it’s for sale.”

“Oh, it’s for sale,” I say. “I’ll tell the auctioneer to make sure you get it.”

“And my mum wants that pink hat you wore to our wedding.”

“Right. No problem.” At the reminder of his wedding, I feel myself growing slightly warm.

“So — how’s married life?” I say, examining one of my nails.

“Oh… it’s all right,” he says after a pause.

“Is it as blissful as you expected?” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.

“Well, you know…” He stares into his glass, a slightly hunted look in his eye. “It would be unrealistic to expect everything to be perfect straight off. Wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

There’s an awkward silence between us. In the distance I can hear someone saying, “Kate Spade! Look, brand new!”

“Becky, I’m really sorry,” says Tom in a rush. “The way we behaved toward you at the wedding.”

“That’s all right!” I say, a little too brightly.

“It’s not all right.” He shakes his head. “Your mum was bang on. You’re one of my oldest friends. I’ve been feeling really bad, ever since.”

“Honestly, Tom. It was my fault, too. I mean, I should have just admitted Luke wasn’t there!” I smile ruefully. “It would have been a lot simpler.”

“But if Lucy was giving you a hard time, I can really understand why you felt you just had to… to…” He breaks off, and takes a deep swig of his drink. “Anyway. Luke seemed like a nice guy. Is he coming tonight?”

“No,” I say after a pause, and force a smile. “No, he isn’t.”

After half an hour or so, people begin to take their seats on the rows of plastic chairs. At the back of the room are five or six friends of Tarquin’s holding mobile phones, and Caspar explains to me that they’re on the line to telephone bidders.

“They’re people who heard about it but couldn’t come, for whatever reason. We’ve been circulating the catalogues fairly widely, and a lot of people are interested. The Vera Wang dress alone attracted a great deal of attention.”

“Yes,” I say, feeling a sudden lurch of emotion, “I expect it did.” I look around the room, at the bright, expectant faces, at the people still taking a last look at the tables. A girl is leafing through a pile of jeans; someone else is trying out the clasp on my dinky little white case. I can’t quite believe that after tonight, none of these things will be mine anymore. They’ll be in other people’s wardrobes. Other people’s rooms.

“Are you all right?” says Caspar, following my gaze.

“Yes!” I say brightly. “Why shouldn’t I be all right?”

“I’ve done a lot of house sales,” he says kindly. “I know what it’s like. One gets very attached to one’s possessions. Whether it’s an eighteenth-century chiffonier, or…” He glances at the catalogue. “A pink leopard-print coat.”

“Actually — I never much liked that coat.” I gave him a resolute smile. “And anyway, that’s not the point. I want to start again and I think — I know — this is the best way.” I smile at him. “Come on. Let’s get going, shall we?”

“Absolutely.” He raps on his lectern and raises his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen! First, on behalf of Becky Bloomwood, I’d like to welcome you all here this evening. We’ve got quite a lot to get through, so I won’t delay you — except to remind you that 25 percent of everything raised tonight is going to a range of charities — plus any remainder of the proceeds after Becky has paid off all her outstanding accounts.”

“I hope they’re not holding their breath,” says a dry voice from the back, and everyone laughs. I peer through the crowd to see who it is — and I don’t believe it. It’s Derek Smeath, standing there with a pint in one hand, a catalogue in the other. He gives me a little smile, and I give a shy wave back.

“How did he know about this?” I hiss to Suze, who has come to join me on the platform.

“I told him, of course!” she says. “He said he thought it was a marvelous idea. He said when you use your brain, no one comes near you for ingenuity.”

“Really?” I glance at Derek Smeath again and flush slightly.

“So,” says Caspar. “I present Lot One. A pair of clementine sandals, very good condition, hardly worn.” He lifts them onto the table and Suze squeezes my hand sympathetically. “Do I have any bids?”

“I bid £15,000,” says Tarquin, sticking up his hand at once.

“Fifteen thousand pounds,” says Caspar, sounding a bit taken aback. “I have a bid of £15,000—”

“No, you don’t!” I interrupt. “Tarquin, you can’t bid £15,000!”

“Why not?”

“You have to bid realistic prices.” I give him a stern look. “Otherwise you’ll be banned from the bidding.”

“OK… £1,000.”

“No! You can bid… £10,” I say firmly.

“All right, then. Ten pounds.” He puts his hand down meekly.

“Fifteen pounds,” comes a voice from the back.

“Twenty!” cries a girl near the front.

“Twenty-five,” says Tarquin.

“Thirty!”

“Thirt—” Tarquin catches my eye, blushes, and stops.

“Thirty pounds. Any further bids on 30…” Caspar looks around the room, his eyes suddenly like a hawk’s. “Going… going… gone! To the girl in the green velvet coat.” He grins at me, scribbles something on a piece of paper, and hands the shoes to Fenella, who is in charge of distributing sold items.

“Your first £30!” whispers Suze in my ear.

“Lot Two!” says Caspar. “Three embroidered cardigans from Jigsaw, unworn, with price tags still attached. Can I start the bidding at…”

“Twenty pounds!” says a girl in pink.

“Twenty-five!” cries another girl.

“I have a telephone bid of 30,” says a guy raising his hand at the back.

“Thirty pounds from one of our telephone bidders… Any advance on 30? Remember, ladies and gentlemen, this will be raising funds for charity…”

“Thirty-five!” cries the girl in pink, and turns to her neighbor. “I mean, they’d be more than that each in the shop, wouldn’t they? And they’ve never even been worn!”

God, she’s right. I mean, thirty-five quid for three cardigans is nothing. Nothing!

“Forty!” I hear myself crying, before I can stop myself. The whole room turns to look at me, and I feel myself furiously blushing. “I mean… does anyone want to bid 40?”

The bidding goes on and on, and I can’t believe how much money is being raised. My shoe collection raises at least £1,000, a set of Dinny Hall jewelry goes for £200—and Tom Webster bids £600 for my computer.

“Tom,” I say anxiously, as he comes up to the platform to fill in his slip. “Tom, you shouldn’t have bid all that money.”

“For a brand-new Apple Mac?” says Tom. “It’s worth it. Besides, Lucy’s been saying she wants her own computer for a while.” He gives a half-smile. “I’m kind of looking forward to telling her she’s got your castoff.”

“Lot Seventy-three,” says Caspar beside me. “And one which I know is going to attract a great deal of interest. A Vera Wang cocktail dress.” He slowly holds up the inky purple dress, and there’s an appreciative gasp from the crowd.

But actually — I don’t think I can watch this go. This is too painful, too recent. My beautiful glittering movie-star dress. I can’t even look at it without remembering it all, like a slow-motion cine-film. Dancing with Luke in New York; drinking cocktails; that heady, happy excitement. And then waking up and seeing everything crash around me.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, and get to my feet. I head quickly out of the room, down the stairs, and into the fresh evening air. I lean against the side of the pub, listening to the laughter and chatter inside, and take a few deep breaths, trying to focus on all the good reasons why I’m doing this.

A few moments later, Suze appears beside me.

“Are you OK?” she says, and hands me a glass of wine. “Here. Have some of this.”

“Thanks,” I say gratefully, and take a deep gulp. “I’m fine, really. It’s just… I suppose it’s just hitting me. What I’m doing.”

“Bex…” She pauses and rubs her face awkwardly. “Bex, you could always change your mind. You could always stay. I mean — after tonight, with any luck, all your debts will be paid off! You could get a job, stay in the flat with me…”

I look at her for a few silent moments, feeling a temptation so strong, it almost hurts. It would be so easy to agree. Go home with her, have a cup of tea, and fall back into my old life.

But then I shake my head.

“No. I’m not going to fall into anything again. I’ve found something I really want to do, Suze, and I’m going to do it.”

“Rebecca.” A voice interrupts us, and we both look up to see Derek Smeath coming out of the door of the pub. He’s holding the wooden bowl, one of Suze’s photograph frames, and a big hard-backed atlas which I remember buying once when I thought I might give up my Western life and go traveling.

“Hi!” I say, and nod at his haul. “You did well.”

“Very well.” He holds the bowl up. “This is a very handsome piece.”

“It was in Elle Decoration once,” I tell him. “Very cool.”

“Really? I’ll tell my daughter.” He puts it slightly awkwardly under his arm. “So you’re off to America tomorrow.”

“Yes. Tomorrow afternoon. After I’ve paid a small trip to your friend John Gavin.”

A wry smile passes over Derek Smeath’s face.

“I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you.” He extends his hand as best he can to shake mine. “Well, good luck, Becky. Do let me know how you get on.”

“I will,” I say, smiling warmly. “And thanks for… You know. Everything.”

He nods, and then walks off into the night.

I stay outside with Suze for quite a time. People are leaving now, carrying their loot, and telling each other how much they got it all for. A guy walks by clutching the mini paper shredder, a girl drags a bin liner full of clothes, someone else has got the invitations with the twinkly pizza slices. Just as I’m starting to get cold, a voice hails us from the stairs.

“Hey,” calls Tarquin. “It’s the last lot. D’you want to come and see?”

“Come on,” says Suze, stubbing out her cigarette. “You’ve got to see the last thing go. What is it?”

“I don’t know,” I say as we mount the stairs. “The fencing mask, perhaps?”

But as we walk back into the room, I feel a jolt of shock. Caspar’s holding up my Denny and George scarf. My precious Denny and George scarf. Shimmering blue, silky velvet, overprinted in a paler blue, and dotted with iridescent beading.

I stand staring at it, with a growing tightness in my throat, remembering with a painful vividness the day I bought it. How desperately I wanted it. How Luke lent me the twenty quid I needed. The way I told him I was buying it for my aunt.

The way he used to look at me whenever I wore it.

My eyes are going blurry, and I blink hard, trying to keep control of myself.

“Bex… don’t sell your scarf,” says Suze, looking at it in distress. “Keep one thing, at least.”

“Lot 126,” says Caspar. “A very attractive silk and velvet scarf.”

“Bex, tell them you’ve changed your mind!”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” I say, staring fixedly ahead. “There’s no point hanging on to it now.”

“What am I bid for this fine designer accessory by Denny and George?”

“Denny and George!” says the girl in pink, looking up. She’s got the hugest pile of clothes around her, and I’ve no idea how she’s going to get them all home. “I collect Denny and George! Thirty pounds!”

“I have a bid at £30,” says Caspar. He looks around the room — but it’s swiftly emptying. People are queueing up to collect their items, or buy drinks at the bar, and the very few left sitting on the chairs are mostly chatting.

“Any further bids for this Denny and George scarf?”

“Yes!” says a voice at the back, and I see a girl in black raising a hand. “I have a telephone bid of £35.”

“Forty pounds,” says the girl in pink promptly.

“Fifty,” says the girl in black.

“Fifty?” says the pink girl, swiveling on her chair. “Who is it bidding? Is it Miggy Sloane?”

“The bidder wishes to remain anonymous,” says the girl in black after a pause. She catches my eye and for an instant my heart stops still.

“I bet it’s Miggy,” says the girl, turning back. “Well, she’s not going to beat me. Sixty pounds.”

“Sixty pounds?” says the chap next to her, who’s been eyeing her pile of stuff with slight alarm. “For a scarf?”

“A Denny and George scarf, stupid!” says the pink girl, and takes a swig of wine. “It would be at least two hundred in a shop. Seventy! Ooh, silly. It’s not my turn, is it?”

The girl in black has been murmuring quietly into the phone. Now she looks up at Caspar. “A hundred.”

“A hundred?” The pink girl swivels on her chair again. “Really?”

“The bidding stands at one hundred,” says Caspar calmly. “I am bid £100 for this Denny and George scarf. Any further bids?”

“A hundred and twenty,” says the pink girl. There are a few moments’ silence, and the girl in black talks quietly into the phone again. Then she looks up and says, “A hundred and fifty.”

There’s an interested murmuring around the room, and people who had been chatting at the bar all turn toward the auction floor again.

“One hundred and fifty pounds,” says Caspar. “I am bid £150 for Lot 126, a Denny and George scarf.”

“That’s more than I paid for it!” I whisper to Suze.

“Bidding rests with the telephone buyer. At £150. One hundred and fifty pounds, ladies and gentlemen.”

There’s a tense silence — and suddenly I realize I’m digging my nails into the flesh of my hands.

“Two hundred,” says the girl in pink defiantly, and there’s a gasp around the room. “And tell your so-called anonymous bidder, Miss Miggy Sloane, that whatever she bids, I can bid.”

Everyone turns to look at the girl in black, who mutters something into the receiver, then nods her head.

“My bidder withdraws,” she says, looking up. I feel an inexplicable pang of disappointment, and quickly smile to cover it.

“Two hundred pounds!” I say to Suze. “That’s pretty good!”

“Going… going… gone,” says Caspar, and raps his gavel. “To the lady in pink.”

There’s a round of applause, and Caspar beams happily around. He picks up the scarf, and is about to hand it to Fenella, when I stop him.

“Wait,” I say. “I’d like to give it to her. If that’s all right.”

I take the scarf from Caspar and hold it quite still for a few moments, feeling its familiar gossamer texture. I can still smell my scent on it. I can feel Luke tying it round my neck.

The Girl in the Denny and George Scarf.

Then I take a deep breath and walk down, off the platform, toward the girl in pink. I smile at her and hand it over to her.

“Enjoy it,” I say. “It’s quite special.”

“Oh, I know,” she says quietly. “I know it is.” And just for a moment, as we look at each other, I think she understands completely. Then she turns and lifts it high into the air in triumph, like a trophy. “Sucks to you, Miggy!”

I turn away and walk back to the platform, where Caspar is sitting down, looking exhausted.

“Well done,” I say, sitting down next to him. “And thank you so much again. You did a fantastic job.”

“Not at all!” says Caspar. “I enjoyed it, actually. Bit of a change from early German porcelain.” He gestures to his notes. “I think we raised a fair bit, too.”

“You did brilliantly!” says Suze, coming to sit down too, and handing Caspar a beer. “Honestly, Bex, you’ll be completely out of the woods now.” She gives an admiring sigh. “You know, it just shows, you were right all along. Shopping is an investment. I mean, like, how much did you make on your Denny and George scarf?”

“Erm…” I close my eyes, trying to work it out. “About… 60 percent?”

“Sixty percent return! In less than a year! You see? That’s better than the crummy old stock market!” She takes out a cigarette and lights it. “You know, I think I might sell all my stuff, too.”

“You haven’t got any stuff,” I point out. “You decluttered it all.”

“Oh yeah.” Suze’s face falls. “God, why did I do that?”

I lean back on my elbow and close my eyes. Suddenly, for no real reason, I feel absolutely exhausted.

“So you’re off tomorrow,” says Caspar, taking a swig of beer.

“I’m off tomorrow,” I echo, staring up at the ceiling. Tomorrow I’m leaving England and flying off to America to live. Leaving everything behind and starting again. Somehow, it just doesn’t feel real.

“Not one of these crack-of-dawn flights, I hope?” he says, glancing at his watch.

“No, thank God. I’m not flying until about five.”

“That’s good,” says Caspar, nodding. “Gives you plenty of time.”

“Oh yes.” I sit up and glance at Suze, who grins back. “Plenty of time for just a couple of little things I’ve got to do.”

“Becky! We’re so glad you changed your mind!” cries Zelda as soon as she sees me. I get up from the sofa where I’ve been sitting in reception, and give her a quick smile. “Everyone’s so thrilled you’re coming on! What made you decide?”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” I say pleasantly. “Just… one of those things.”

“Well, let me take you straight up to makeup… we’re completely chaotic, as usual, so we’ve brought your slot forward slightly…”

“No problem,” I say. “The sooner the better.”

“I have to say, you look very well,” says Zelda, surveying me with a slight air of disappointment. “Have you lost weight?”

“A little, I suppose.”

“Ah… stress,” she says wisely. “Stress, the silent killer. We’re doing a feature on it next week. Now!” she exclaims, bustling me into the makeup room. “This is Becky…”

“Zelda, we know who Becky is,” says Chloe, who’s been doing my makeup ever since I first appeared on Morning Coffee. She pulls a face at me in the mirror and I stifle a giggle.

“Yes, of course you do! Sorry, Becky, I’ve just got you down in my mind as a guest! Now, Chloe. Don’t do too good a job on Becky today. We don’t want her looking too glowing and happy, do we?” She lowers her voice. “And use waterproof mascara. In fact, everything waterproof. See you later!”

Zelda sweeps out of the room, and Chloe shoots her a scornful glance.

“OK,” she says. “I’m going to make you look as good as you’ve ever looked in your life. Extra happy and extra glowing.”

“Thanks, Chloe,” I say, grinning at her, and sit down on a chair.

“Oh, and please don’t tell me you’re really going to need waterproof mascara,” she adds, tying a cape around me.

“No way,” I say firmly. “They’ll have to shoot me first.”

“Then they probably will,” says a girl from across the room, and we all start giggling helplessly.

“All I can say is, I hope they’re paying you well to do this,” says Chloe, as she starts to smooth foundation onto my skin.

“Yes,” I say. “They are, as it happens. But that’s not why I’m doing it.”

Half an hour later, I’m sitting in the Green Room when Clare Edwards comes walking in. She’s wearing a dark green suit that really doesn’t do much for her — and is it my imagination, or has someone made her up far too pale? She’s going to look really pasty under the lights.

“Oh,” says Clare, looking discomfited as she sees me. “Hello, Becky.”

“Hi, Clare,” I say. “Long time no see.”

“Yes. Well.” She twists her hands into a knot. “I was very sorry to read of your troubles.”

“Thanks,” I say lightly. “Still — it’s an ill wind, eh, Clare?”

Clare immediately blushes bright red and looks away — and I feel a bit ashamed of myself. It’s not her fault I got sacked.

“Honestly, I’m really pleased you got the job,” I say more kindly. “And I think you’re doing it really well.”

“Right!” says Zelda, hurrying in. “We’re ready for you. Now, Becky.” She puts a hand on my arm as we walk out. “I know this is going to be very traumatic for you. We’re quite prepared for you to take your time… again, if you break down completely, start sobbing, whatever… don’t worry.”

“Thanks, Zelda,” I say, and nod seriously. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

We get to the set, and there are Rory and Emma, sitting on the sofas. I glance at a monitor as I walk past, and see that they’ve blown up that awful picture of me in New York, tinted it red, and headlined it “Becky’s Tragic Secret.”

“Hi, Becky,” says Emma, as I sit down, and pats me sympathetically on the hand. “Are you all right? Would you like a tissue?”

“Erm… no, thanks.” I lower my voice. “But, you know. Perhaps later.”

“Terrifically brave of you to come and do this,” says Rory, and squints at his notes. “Is it true your parents have disowned you?”

“Ready in five,” calls Zelda from the floor. “Four… three…”

“Welcome back,” says Emma somberly to camera. “Now, we’ve got a very special guest with us today. Thousands of you will have followed the story of Becky Bloomwood, our former financial expert. Becky was, of course, revealed by The Daily World to be far from financially secure herself.”

The picture of me shopping appears on the monitor, followed by a series of tabloid headlines, accompanied by the song “Hey Big Spender.”

“So, Becky,” says Emma, as the music dies away. “Let me begin by saying how extremely sorry and sympathetic we are for you in your plight. In a minute, we’ll be asking our new financial expert, Clare Edwards, just what you should have done to prevent this catastrophe. But now — just to put our viewers straight… could you tell us exactly how much in debt you are?”

“I’d be glad to, Emma,” I say, and take a deep breath. “At the present moment, my debt amounts to…” I pause, and I can feel the whole studio bracing itself for a shock. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Emma looks at Rory as though to check she’s heard correctly. “Nothing?”

“My overdraft facilities director, John Gavin, will be glad to confirm that this morning, at nine thirty, I paid off my overdraft completely. I’ve paid off every single debt I had.”

I allow myself a tiny smile as I remember John Gavin’s face this morning, as I handed over wads and wads of cash. I so wanted him to wriggle and squirm and look pissed off. But to give him his due, after the first couple of thousand he started smiling, and beckoning people round to watch. And at the end, he shook my hand really quite warmly — and said now he understood what Derek Smeath meant about me.

I wonder what old Smeathie can have said?

“So you see, I’m not really in a plight at all,” I add. “In fact, I’ve never been better.”

“Right…” says Emma. “I see.” There’s a distracted look in her eye — and I know Barry must be yelling something in her earpiece.

“But even if your money situation is temporarily sorted out, your life must still be in ruins.” She leans forward sympathetically again. “You’re unemployed… shunned by your friends…”

“On the contrary, I’m not unemployed. This afternoon I’m flying to the States, where I have a new career waiting for me. It’s a bit of a gamble… and it’ll certainly be a challenge. But I genuinely think I’ll be happy there. And my friends…” My voice wobbles a little, and I take a deep breath. “It was my friends who helped me out. It was my friends who stood by me.”

Oh God, I don’t believe it. After all that, I’ve got bloody tears in my eyes. I blink them back as hard as I can, and smile brightly at Emma.

“So really, my story isn’t one of failure. Yes, I got myself into debt; yes, I was fired. But I did something about it.” I turn to the camera. “And I’d like to say to anyone out there who’s got themselves in a mess like I did… you can get out of it, too. Take action. Sell all your clothes. Apply for a new job. You can start again, like I’m going to.”

There’s silence around the studio. Then suddenly, from behind one of the cameras, there’s the sound of clapping. I look over in shock — and it’s Dave, the cameraman. He grins at me and mouths “Well done.” Suddenly Gareth the floor manager joins in… and someone else… and now the whole studio is applauding, apart from Emma and Rory, who are looking rather nonplussed — and Zelda, who’s talking frantically into her mouthpiece.

“Well!” says Emma, over the sound of the applause. “Um… We’re taking a short break now — but join us in a few moments to hear more on our lead story today: Becky’s… Tragic… umm…” She hesitates, listening to her earpiece. “… or rather, Becky’s… um, Triumphant… um…”

The signature tune blares out of a loudspeaker and she glances at the producer’s box in irritation. “I wish he’d make up his bloody mind!”

“See you,” I say, and get up. “I’m off now.”

“Off?” says Emma. “You can’t go yet!”

“Yes, I can.” I reach toward my microphone, and Eddie the sound guy rushes forward to unclip it.

“Well said,” he mutters as he unthreads it from my jacket. “Don’t take their shit.” He grins at me. “Barry’s going ballistic up there.”

“Hey, Becky!” Zelda’s head jerks up in horror. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve said what I came to say. Now I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“You can’t leave now! We haven’t finished!”

“I’ve finished,” I say, and reach for my bag.

“But the phone lines are all red!” says Zelda, hurrying toward me. “The switchboard’s jammed! The callers are all saying…” She stares at me as though she’s never seen me before. “I mean, we had no idea. Who would ever have thought…”

“I’ve got to go, Zelda.”

“Wait! Becky!” says Zelda as I reach the door of the studio. “We… Barry and I… we were having a quick little chat just now. And we were wondering whether…”

“Zelda,” I interrupt gently. “It’s too late. I’m going.”

It’s nearly three by the time I arrive at Heathrow Airport. I’m still a little flushed from the farewell lunch I had in the pub with Suze, Tarquin, and my parents. To be honest, there’s a small part of me that feels like bursting into tears and running back to them all. But at the same time, I’ve never felt so confident in my life. I’ve never been so sure I’m doing the right thing.

There’s a promotional stand in the center of the terminus, giving away free newspapers, and as I pass it, I reach for a Financial Times. Just for old times’ sake. Plus, if I’m carrying the FT, I might get upgraded. I’m just folding it up to place it neatly under my arm, when I notice a name which makes me stop dead.

Brandon in bid to save company. Page 27.

With slightly shaky fingers, I unfold the paper, find the page, and read the story.

Financial PR entrepreneur Luke Brandon is fighting to keep his investors on board after severe loss of confidence following the recent defection of several senior employees. Morale is said to be low at the formerly groundbreaking PR agency, with rumors of an uncertain future for the company causing staff to break ranks. In crisis meetings to be held today, Brandon will be seeking to persuade backers to approve his radical restructuring plans, which are said to involve…

I read to the end of the piece, and gaze for a few seconds at Luke’s picture. He looks as confident as ever — but I remember Michael’s remark about him being hurled across the paddock. His world’s crashed around him, just like mine did. And chances are, his mum won’t be on the phone telling him not to worry.

For a moment I feel a twinge of pity for him. I almost want to call him up and tell him things’ll get better. But there’s no point. He’s busy with his life — and I’m busy with mine. So I fold the paper up again, and resolutely walk forward to the checkin desk.

“Anything to check?” says the checkin girl, smiling at me.

“No,” I say. “I’m traveling light. Just me and my bag.” I casually lift my FT to a more prominent position. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of an upgrade?”

“Not today, sorry.” She pulls a sympathetic face. “But I can put you by the emergency exit. Plenty of legroom there. If I could just weigh your bag, please?”

“Sure.”

And I’m just bending down to put my little case on the belt, when a familiar voice behind me exclaims, “Wait!”

I feel a lurch inside as though I’ve just dropped twenty feet. I turn disbelievingly — and it’s him.

It’s Luke, striding across the concourse toward the checkin desk. He’s dressed as smartly as ever, but his face is pale and haggard. From the shadows under his eyes he looks as though he’s been existing on a diet of late nights and coffee.

“Where the fuck are you going?” he demands as he gets nearer. “Are you moving to Washington?”

“What are you doing here?” I retort shakily. “Aren’t you at some crisis meeting with your investors?”

“I was. Until Mel came in to hand round tea, and told me she’d seen you on the television this morning. So I called Suze and got the flight number out of her—”

“You just left your meeting?” I stare at him. “What, right in the middle?”

“She told me you’re leaving the country.” His dark eyes search my face. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” I say, and clutch my little suitcase more tightly. “Yes, I am.”

“Just like that? Without even telling me?”

“Yes, just like that,” I say, plonking my case on the belt. “Just like you came back to Britain without even telling me.” There’s an edge to my voice, and Luke flinches.

“Becky—”

“Window or aisle seat?” interrupts the checkin girl.

“Window, please.”

“Becky—”

His mobile phone gives a shrill ring, and he switches it off irritably. “Becky… I want to talk.”

“Now you want to talk?” I echo disbelievingly. “Great. Perfect timing. Just as I’m checking in.” I hit the FT with the back of my hand. “And what about this crisis meeting?”

“It can wait.”

“The future of your company can wait?” I raise my eyebrows. “Isn’t that a little… irresponsible, Luke?”

“My company wouldn’t have a fucking future if it weren’t for you,” he exclaims, almost angrily, and in spite of myself I feel a tingling all over my body. “I’ve just been on the phone to Michael. He told me what you did. How you cottoned on to Alicia. How you warned him, how you sussed the whole thing.” He shakes his head. “I had no idea. Jesus, if it hadn’t been for you, Becky…”

“He shouldn’t have told you,” I mutter furiously. “I told him not to. He promised.”

“Well, he did tell me! And now…” Luke breaks off. “And now I don’t know what to say,” he says more quietly. “ ‘Thank you’ doesn’t even come close.”

We stare at each other in silence for a few moments.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I say at last, looking away. “I only did it because I can’t stand Alicia. No other reason.”

“So… I’ve put you on row thirty-two,” says the checkin girl brightly. “Boarding should be at four thirty…” She takes one further look at my passport and her expression changes. “Hey! You’re the one off Morning Coffee, aren’t you?”

“I used to be,” I say with a polite smile.

“Oh right,” she says puzzledly. As she hands over my passport and boarding card, her eye runs over my FT, and stops at Luke’s photograph. She looks up at Luke, and down again.

“Hang on. Are you him?” she says, jabbing at the picture.

“I used to be,” says Luke after a pause. “Come on, Becky. Let me buy you a drink, at least.”

We sit down at a little table with glasses of Pernod. I can see the light on Luke’s phone lighting up every five seconds, indicating that someone’s trying to call him. But he doesn’t even seem to notice.

“I wanted to ring you,” he says, staring into his drink. “Every single day, I wanted to ring. But… it’s been so crazy since I got back. And what you said about me not having time for a real relationship? That really stuck with me. Plus…” He breaks off into silence.

“Plus what?” I say at last.

“I wasn’t sure,” he says, and looks up with frank brown eyes. “The truth is, I didn’t know whether we could make it work. It seemed in New York that we suddenly split apart, and started going in different directions. It was as though we didn’t understand each other anymore.”

I should be able to hear this without reacting. But for some reason the back of my throat feels tight all over again.

“So — what happened?” I say, forcing myself to sound matter-of-fact. “Why are you here? The day when all your investors have flown in to see you.”

“Not ideal. I’ll give you that.” A flicker of amusement passes briefly across his face. “But how was I to know you were planning to skip the country? Michael’s been a secretive bastard. And when I heard you were leaving…” He meets my eyes. “I suddenly realized.”

“Realized… what?” I manage.

“That I’d been a fucking… stupid…”

He pushes his glass around the table abstractly, as though searching for something, and I stare at him apprehensively. “You were right,” he says suddenly. “I was obsessed with making it in New York. It was a kind of madness. I couldn’t see anything else. Jesus, I’ve fucked everything up, haven’t I? You… us… the business…”

“Come on, Luke,” I say awkwardly. “You can’t take credit for everything. I fucked up a good few things for you…” I stop as Luke shakes his head. He drains his glass and gives me a frank look.

“There’s something you need to know. Becky — how do you think The Daily World got hold of your financial details?”

I look at him in surprise.

“It… it was the council tax girl. The girl who came to the flat and snooped around while Suze was…” I tail away as he shakes his head again.

“It was Alicia.”

For a moment I’m too taken aback to speak.

“Alicia?” I manage at last. “How do you… why would she…”

“When we searched her office we found some bank statements of yours in her desk. Some letters, too. Christ alone knows how she got hold of them.” He exhales sharply. “This morning, I finally got a guy at The Daily World to admit she was the source. They just followed up what she gave them.”

I stare at him, feeling rather cold. Remembering that day I visited his office. The Conran bag with all my letters in it. Alicia standing by Mel’s desk, looking like a cat with a mouse.

I knew I’d left something behind. Oh God, how could I have been so stupid?

“You weren’t her real target,” Luke’s saying. “She did it to discredit me and the company — and distract my attention from what she was up to. They won’t confirm it, but I’m sure she was also the ‘inside source’ giving all those quotes about me.” He takes a deep breath. “The point is, Becky — I got it all wrong. My deal wasn’t ruined because of you.” He looks at me matter-of-factly. “Yours was ruined because of me.”

I sit still for a few moments, unable to speak. It’s as though something heavy is slowly lifting from me. I’m not sure what to think or feel.

“I’m just so sorry,” Luke’s saying. “For everything you’ve been through…”

“No.” I take a deep, shaky breath. “Luke, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t even Alicia’s fault. Maybe she fed them the details. But I mean, if I hadn’t got myself into debt in the first place, and if I hadn’t gone crazy shopping in New York — they wouldn’t have had anything to write about, would they?” I rub my dry face. “It was horrible and humiliating. But in a funny way, seeing that article was a good thing for me. It made me realize a few things about myself, at least.”

I pick up my glass, see that it’s empty, and put it down again.

“Do you want another one?” says Luke.

“No. No, thanks.”

There’s silence between us. In the distance, a voice is telling passengers on flight BA 2340 for San Francisco to please proceed to Gate 29.

“I know Michael offered you a job,” said Luke. He gestures to my case. “I assume this means you accepted it.” He pauses, and I stare at him, trembling slightly, saying nothing. “Becky — don’t go to Washington. Come and work for me.”

“Work for you?” I say, startled.

“Come and work for Brandon Communications.”

“Are you mad?”

He pushes his hair back off his face — and suddenly he looks young and vulnerable. Like someone who needs a break.

“I’m not mad. My staff’s been decimated. I need someone like you at a senior level. You know about finance. You’ve been a journalist. You’re good with people, you already know the company…”

“Luke, you’ll easily find someone else like me,” I chip in. “You’ll find someone better! Someone with PR experience, someone who’s worked in—”

“OK, I’m lying,” Luke interrupts. “I’m lying.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t just need someone like you. I need you.”

He meets my eyes candidly — and with a jolt I realize he’s not just talking about Brandon Communications.

“I need you, Becky. I rely on you. I didn’t realize it until you weren’t there anymore. Ever since you left, your words have been going round and round in my head. About my ambitions. About our relationship. About my mother, even.”

“Your mother?” I stare at him apprehensively. “I heard you tried to arrange a meeting with her…”

“It wasn’t her fault.” He takes a swig of Pernod. “Something came up, so she couldn’t make it. But you’re right, I should spend more time with her. Really get to know her better, and forge a closer relationship, just like you have with your mother.” He looks up and frowns at my dumbfounded expression. “That is what you meant, isn’t it?”

I try for a moment to imagine Luke and his mother chatting away in the kitchen like me and Mum — and fail completely.

“Erm… yes!” I say hastily. “Yes, that’s exactly what I meant. Absolutely.”

“That’s what I mean. You’re the only person who’ll tell me the stuff I need to hear, even when I don’t want to hear it. I should have confided in you right from the start. I was… I don’t know. Arrogant. Stupid.”

He sounds so bleak and hard on himself, I feel a twinge of dismay.

“Luke—”

“Becky, I know you’ve got your own career — and I completely respect that. I wouldn’t even ask if I didn’t think this could be a good step for you too. But… please.” He reaches across the table and puts a warm hand on mine. “Come back. Let’s start again.”

I stare helplessly at him, feeling emotion swelling in me like a balloon.

“Luke, I can’t work for you.” I swallow, trying to keep control of my voice. “I have to go to the States. I have to take this chance.”

“I know it seems like a great opportunity. But what I’m offering could be a great opportunity, too.”

“It’s not the same,” I say, clenching my hand tightly round my glass.

“It can be the same. Whatever Michael’s offered you, I’ll match it.” He leans forward. “I’ll more than match it. I’ll—”

“Luke,” I interrupt. “Luke, I didn’t take Michael’s job.”

Luke’s face jerks in shock.

“You didn’t? Then what—”

He looks at my suitcase and back up to my face — and I stare back in resolute silence.

“I understand,” he says at last. “It’s none of my business.”

He looks so defeated, I feel a sudden stab of pain in my chest. I want to tell him — but I just can’t. I can’t risk talking about it, listening to my own arguments waver, wondering whether I’ve made the right choice. I can’t risk changing my mind.

“Luke, I’ve got to go,” I say, my throat tight. “And… and you’ve got to get back to your meeting.”

“Yes,” says Luke after a long pause. “Yes. You’re right. I’ll go. I’ll go now.” He stands up and reaches into his pocket. “Just… one last thing. You don’t want to forget this.”

Very slowly, he pulls out a long, pale blue, silk and velvet scarf, scattered with iridescent beads.

My scarf. My Denny and George scarf.

I feel the blood drain from my face.

“How did you—” I swallow. “The bidder on the phone was you? But… but you withdrew. The other bidder got the—” I tail off and stare at him in confusion.

“Both the bidders were me.”

He ties the scarf gently round my neck, looks at me for a few seconds, then kisses me on the forehead. Then he turns round and walks away, into the airport crowds.