Shopaholic Takes Manhattan

Five

WE ARRIVE BACK in London the next day — and Luke still hasn’t mentioned his deal or New York, or anything. And I know I should just ask him outright. I should casually say, “So what’s this I hear about New York, Luke?” and wait and see what he says. But somehow I can’t bring myself to do it.

I mean, for a start, he’s made it plain enough that he doesn’t want to talk about it. If I confront him, he might think I’ve been trying to find out stuff behind his back. And for another start, Alicia might have got it wrong — or even be making it up. (She’s quite capable of it, believe me. When I was a financial journalist she once sent me to the completely wrong room for a press conference — and I’m sure it was deliberate.) So until I’m absolutely certain of my facts, there’s no point saying anything.

At least, this is what I tell myself. But I suppose if I’m really honest, the reason is that I just can’t bear the idea of Luke turning to me and giving me a kind look and saying, “Rebecca, we’ve had a lot of fun, but…”

So I end up saying nothing and smiling a lot — even though inside, I feel more and more miserable. As we arrive back outside my flat, I want to turn to him and wail, “Are you going to New York? Are you?”

But instead, I give him a kiss, and say lightly, “You will be OK for Saturday, won’t you?”

It turns out Luke’s got to fly off to Zurich tomorrow and have lots of meetings with finance people. Which of course is very important and I completely understand that. But Saturday is Tom and Lucy’s wedding at home, and that’s even more important. He just has to be there.

“I’ll make it,” he says. “I promise.” He squeezes my hand and I get out of the car and he says he has to shoot off. And then he’s gone.

Disconsolately, I open the door to our flat, and a moment later Suze comes out of the door of her room, dragging a full black bin liner along the ground.

“Hi!” she says. “You’re back!”

“Yes!” I reply, trying to sound cheerful. “I’m back!”

Suze disappears out of our door, and I hear her lugging her black bag down the stairs and out of the main front door — then bounding up to our flat again.

“So, how was it?” she says breathlessly, closing the door behind her.

“It was fine,” I say, walking into my bedroom. “It was… nice.”

“Nice?” Suze’s eyes narrow and she follows me in. “Only nice?”

“It was… good.”

“Good? Bex, what’s wrong? Didn’t you have a lovely time?”

I wasn’t really planning to say anything to Suze, because after all, I don’t know the facts yet. Plus I read in a magazine recently that couples should try to sort their problems out alone, without recourse to others. But as I look at her warm, friendly face, I just can’t help it, I hear myself blurting out, “Luke’s moving to New York.”

“Really?” says Suze, missing the point. “Fantastic! God, I love New York. I went there three years ago, and—”

“Suze, he’s moving to New York — but he hasn’t told me.”

“Oh,” says Suze, looking taken aback. “Oh, right.”

“And I don’t want to bring it up, because I’m not supposed to know, but I keep thinking, why hasn’t he told me? Is he just going to… go?” My voice is rising in distress. “Will I just get a postcard from the Empire State Building saying, ‘Hi, I live in New York now, love Luke’?”

“No!” says Suze at once. “Of course not! He wouldn’t do that!”

“Wouldn’t he?”

“No. Definitely not.” Suze folds her arms and thinks for a few moments — then looks up. “Are you absolutely sure he hasn’t told you? Like, maybe when you were half asleep or daydreaming or something?”

She looks at me expectantly and for a few moments I think hard, wondering if she could be right. Maybe he told me in the car and I just wasn’t listening. Or last night, while I was eyeing up that girl’s Lulu Guinness handbag in the bar… But then I shake my head.

“No. I’m sure I’d remember if he’d mentioned New York.” I sink down miserably onto the bed. “He’s just not telling me because he’s going to chuck me.”

“No, he’s not!” retorts Suze. “Honestly, Bex, men never mention things. That’s just what they’re like.” She picks her way over a pile of CDs and sits cross-legged on the bed beside me. “My brother never mentioned when he got done for drugs. We had to find it out from the paper! And my father once bought a whole island without telling my mother.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes! And then he forgot about it, too. And he only remembered when he got this letter out of the blue inviting him to roll the pig in the barrel.”

“To do what?”

“Oh, this ancient ceremony thing,” says Suze vaguely. “My dad gets to roll the first pig, because he owns the island.” Her eyes suddenly brighten. “In fact, he’s always looking for people to do it instead of him. I don’t suppose you fancy doing it this year, do you? You get to wear this funny hat, and you have to learn a poem in Gaelic, but it’s quite easy…”

“Suze—”

“Maybe not,” says Suze hurriedly. “Sorry.” She leans back on my pillow and chews a fingernail thoughtfully. Then suddenly she looks up. “Hang on a minute. Who told you about New York? If it wasn’t Luke?”

“Alicia,” I say gloomily. “She knew all about it.”

“Alicia?” Suze stares at me. “Alicia Bitch Longlegs? Oh, for goodness’ sake. She’s probably making it up. Honestly, Bex, I’m surprised you even listened!”

And she sounds so sure that I feel my heart giving a joyful leap. Of course. That must be the answer. Didn’t I suspect it myself? Didn’t I tell you what Alicia was like?

The only thing — tiny niggle — is I’m not sure Suze is completely 100 percent unbiased here. There’s a bit of history between Suze and Alicia, which is that they both started working at Brandon Communications at the same time — but Suze got the sack after three weeks and Alicia went on to have a high-flying career. Not that Suze really wanted to be a PR girl, but still.

“I don’t know,” I say doubtfully. “Would Alicia really do that?”

“Of course she would!” says Suze. “She’s just trying to wind you up. Come on, Bex, who do you trust more? Alicia or Luke?”

“Luke,” I say after a pause. “Luke, of course.”

“Well, then!”

“You’re right,” I say, suddenly feeling more cheerful. “You’re right! I should just trust him, shouldn’t I? I shouldn’t listen to gossip and rumors!”

“Exactly. Here are your letters. And your messages.”

“Ooh, thanks!” I say, and take the bundle with a little pang of excited hope. Because you never know, do you, what might have happened while you’re away? Maybe one of these envelopes is a letter from a long-lost friend, or an exciting job offer, or news that I’ve won a holiday!

But of course, they aren’t. It’s just one boring old bill after another, which I leaf through dismissively before dropping the whole lot to the floor without even opening them.

You know, this always happens. Whenever I go away, I always think I’ll come back to mountains of exciting post, with parcels and telegrams and letters full of scintillating news — and I’m always disappointed. In fact, I really think someone should set up a company called holidaypost.com which you would pay to write you loads of exciting letters, just so you had something to look forward to when you got home.

I turn to my phone messages — and Suze has written them down really conscientiously:

Your mum — what are you wearing to Tom and Lucy’s wedding?Your mum — don’t wear violet as it will clash with her hat.Your mum — Luke does know it’s morning dress?Your mum — Luke is definitely coming, isn’t he?David Barrow — please could you ring him.Your mum—

Hang on. David Barrow. Who’s that?

“Hey, Suze!” I yell. “Did David Barrow say who he was?”

“No,” says Suze, appearing in the hall. “He just said could you ring him.”

“Oh right.” I look at the message, feeling faintly intrigued. “What did he sound like?” Suze screws up her nose.

“Oh, you know. Quite posh. Quite… smooth.”

I’m a little excited as I dial the number. David Barrow. It sounds almost familiar. Maybe he’s a film producer or something!

“David Barrow,” comes his voice — and Suze is right, he is quite posh.

“Hello!” I say. “This is Rebecca Bloomwood. I had a message to call you.”

“Ah, Miss Bloomwood! I’m the special customer manager of La Rosa.”

“Oh.” I screw up my face puzzledly. La Rosa? What on earth’s—

Oh yes. That trendy boutique in Hampstead. But I’ve only been in there about once, and that was ages ago. So why is he calling me?

“May I say, first, what an honor it is to have a television personality of your caliber as one of our customers.”

“Oh! Well — thank you!” I say, beaming at the phone. “It’s a pleasure, actually.”

This is great. I know exactly why he’s calling. They’re going to give me some free clothes, aren’t they? Or maybe… yes! They want me to design a new line for them! God, yes. I’ll be a designer. They’ll call it the Becky Bloomwood collection. Simple, stylish, wearable garments, with maybe one or two evening dresses…

“This is simply a courtesy call,” says David Barrow, interrupting my thoughts. “I just want to ensure that you are completely happy with our service and ask if you have any other needs we can help you with.”

“Well — thanks!” I say. “I’m very happy, thanks! I mean, I’m not exactly a regular customer but—”

“Also to mention the small matter of your outstanding La Rosa Card account,” adds David Barrow as though I haven’t spoken. “And to inform you that if payment is not received within seven days, further action will have to be taken.”

I stare at the phone, feeling my smile fade. This isn’t a courtesy call at all, is it? He doesn’t want me to design a collection of clothes. He’s phoning about money!

I feel slightly outraged. Surely people aren’t just allowed to telephone you in your own home and demand money with no warning? I mean, obviously I’m going to pay them. Just because I don’t send a check off the moment the bill comes through the letter box…

“It has been three months now since your first bill,” David Barrow is saying. “And I must inform you that our policy after the three-month period is to hand over all outstanding accounts to—”

“Yes, well,” I interrupt coolly. “My… accountants are dealing with all my bills at the moment. I’ll speak to them.”

“I’m so glad to hear it. And of course, we look forward to seeing you again in La Rosa very soon!”

“Yeah, well,” I say grumpily. “Maybe.”

I put the phone down as Suze comes past the door again, dragging another black bin bag. “Suze, what are you doing?” I say, staring at her.

“I’m decluttering!” she says. “It’s brilliant. So cleansing! You should try it! So — who was David Barrow?”

“Just some stupid bill I hadn’t paid,” I say. “Honestly! Phoning me at home!”

“Ooh, that reminds me. Hang on…”

She disappears for a moment, then appears again, holding a bundle of envelopes.

“I found these under my bed when I was tidying up, and this other lot were on my dressing table… I think you must have left them in my room.” She pulls a face. “I think they’re all bills, too.”

“Oh, thanks,” I say, and throw them onto the bed.

“Maybe…” says Suze hesitantly, “maybe you should pay some of them off? You know. Just one or two.”

“But I have paid them off!” I say in surprise. “I paid them all off in June. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh yes!” says Suze. “Yes, of course I do.” She bites her lip. “But the thing is, Bex…”

“What?”

“Well… that was a while ago, wasn’t it? And maybe you’ve built up a few debts since then.”

“Since June?” I give a little laugh. “But that was only about five minutes ago! Honestly, Suze, you don’t need to worry. I mean… take this one.” I reach randomly for an envelope. “I mean, what have I bought in M&S recently? Nothing!”

“Oh right,” says Suze, looking relieved. “So this bill will just be for… zero, will it.”

“Absolutely,” I say ripping it open. “Zero! Or, you know, ten quid. You know, for the odd pair of knickers—”

I pull out the account and look at it. For a moment I can’t speak.

“How much is it?” says Suze in alarm.

“It’s… it’s wrong,” I say, trying to stuff it back in the envelope. “It has to be wrong. I’ll write them a letter…”

“Let me see.” Suze grabs the bill and her eyes widen. “Three hundred sixty-five pounds? Bex—”

“It has to be wrong,” I say — but my voice is holding less conviction. I’m suddenly remembering those leather trousers I bought in the Marble Arch sale. And that dressing gown. And that phase I went through of eating M&S sushi every day.

Suze stares at me for a few minutes, her face creased anxiously.

“Bex — d’you think all of these other bills are as high as that?”

Silently I reach for the envelope from Selfridges, and tear it open. Even as I do so, I’m remembering that chrome juicer, the one I saw and had to have… I’ve never even used it. And that fur-trimmed dress. Where did that go?

“How much is it?”

“It’s… it’s enough,” I reply, pushing it quickly back inside, before she can see that it’s well over £400.

I turn away, trying to keep calm. But I feel alarmed and slightly angry. This is all wrong. The whole point is, I paid off my cards. I paid them off. I mean, what’s the point of paying off all your credit cards if they all just go and sprout huge new debts again? What is the point?

“Look, Bex, don’t worry,” says Suze. “You’ll be OK! I just won’t cash your rent check this month.”

“No!” I exclaim. “Don’t be silly. You’ve been good enough to me already! I don’t want to owe you anything. I’d rather owe M&S.” I look round and see her anxious face. “Suze, don’t worry! I can easily put this lot off for a bit.” I hit the letter. “And meanwhile, I’ll get a bigger overdraft or something. In fact, I’ve just asked the bank for an extension — so I can easily ask for a bit more. In fact, I’ll phone them right now!”

“What, this minute?”

“Why not?”

I pick up the phone again, reach for an old bank statement, and dial the Endwich number.

“You see, there really isn’t a problem,” I say reassuringly. “One little phone call is all it’ll take.”

“Your call is being transferred to the Central Endwich Call Center,” comes a tinny voice down the line. “Kindly memorize the following number for future use: 0800…”

“What’s going on?” says Suze.

“I’m being transferred to some central system,” I say, as Vivaldi’s Four Seasons starts to play. “They’ll probably be really quick and efficient. This is great, isn’t it? Doing it all over the phone.”

“Welcome to Endwich Bank!” says a new woman’s voice in my ear. “Please key in your account number.”

What’s my account number? Shit! I’ve got no idea—

Oh yes. On my bank statement.

“Thank you!” says a voice as I finish pressing the numbers. “Now please key in your personal identification number.”

What?

Personal identification number? I didn’t know I had a personal identification number. Honestly! They never told me—

Actually… maybe that does ring a slight bell.

Oh God. What was it again? Seventy-three-something? Thirty-seven-something?

“Please key in your personal identification number,” repeats the voice pleasantly.

“But I don’t know my bloody personal identification number!” I say. “Quick, Suze, if you were me, what would you choose as a personal identification number?”

“Ooh!” says Suze. “Um… I’d choose… um… 1234?”

“Please key in your personal identification number,” says the voice, with a definite edge to it this time.

God, this is really stressful.

“Try my number for my bicycle lock,” suggests Suze. “It’s 435.”

“Suze — I need my number. Not yours.”

“You might have chosen the same! You never know!”

“Please key in—”

“All right!” I yell, and punch in 435.

“I’m sorry,” intones the voice. “This password is invalid.”

“I knew it wouldn’t work!”

“It might have done!” says Suze defensively.

“It should be four digits, anyway,” I say, having a sudden flash of memory. “I had to phone up and register it… and I was standing in the kitchen… and… yes! Yes! I’d just got my new Karen Millen shoes, and I was looking at the price tag… and that was the number I used!”

“How much were they?” says Suze in excitement.

“They were… £120 reduced to… to £84.99!”

“Punch it in! 8499!”

Excitedly I punch in 8499—and to my disbelief, the voice says, “Thank you! You are through to the Endwich Banking Corporation. Endwich — because we care. For debt control, press one. For mortgage arrears, press two. For overdrafts and bank charges, press three. For…’’

“Right! I’m through.” I exhale sharply, feeling a bit like James Bond breaking the code to save the world. “Am I debt control? Or overdrafts and bank charges?”

“Overdrafts and bank charges,” says Suze knowledgeably.

“OK.” I press three and a moment later a cheerful singsong voice greets me.

“Hello! Welcome to the Endwich Central Call Center. I’m Dawna, how can I help you, Miss Bloomwood?’’

“Oh, hi!” I say, taken aback. “Are you real?”

“Yes!” says Dawna, and laughs. “I’m real. Can I help you?”

“Erm… yes. I’m phoning because I need an extension to my overdraft. A few hundred pounds if that’s all right. Or, you know, more, if you’ve got it…”

“I see,” says Dawna pleasantly. “Was there a specific reason? Or just a general need?”

She sounds so nice and friendly, I feel myself start to relax.

“Well, the thing is, I’ve had to invest quite a bit in my career recently, and a few bills have come in, and kind of… taken me by surprise.”

“Oh right,” says Dawna sympathetically.

“I mean, it’s not as if I’m in trouble. It’s just a temporary thing.”

“A temporary thing,” she echoes, and I hear her typing in the background.

“I suppose I have been letting things mount up a bit. But the thing was, I paid everything off! I thought I’d be able to relax for a bit!”

“Oh right.”

“So you understand?” I give a relieved beam to Suze, who offers me thumbs-up in return. This is more like it. Just one quick and easy call, like in the adverts. No nasty letters, no tricky questions…

“I completely understand,” Dawna’s saying. “It happens to us all, doesn’t it?”

“So — can I have the overdraft?” I say joyfully.

“Oh, I’m not authorized to extend your overdraft by more than £50,” says Dawna in surprise. “You’ll have to get in touch with your branch overdraft facilities director. Who is a… let me see… Fulham… a Mr. John Gavin.”

I stare at the phone in dismay.

“But I’ve already written to him!”

“Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it? Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No,” I say. “No, I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”

I put down the phone disconsolately.

“Stupid bank. Stupid call center.”

“So are they going to give you the money?” asks Suze.

“I don’t know. It all depends on this John Gavin bloke.” I look up and see Suze’s anxious face. “But I’m sure he’ll say yes,” I add hastily. “He’s just got to review my file. It’ll be fine!”

“I suppose if you just don’t spend anything for a while, you’ll easily get back on track, won’t you?” she says hopefully. “I mean, you’re making loads of money from the telly, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I say after a pause, not liking to tell her that after rent, taxi fares, meals out, and outfits for the show, it doesn’t actually amount to that much.

“And there’s your book, too…”

“My book?”

For a moment I stare at her blankly. Then suddenly, with a lift of the heart, I remember. Of course! My self-help book! I’ve been meaning to do something about that.

Well, thank God. This is the answer. All I have to do is write my book really quickly and get a nice big check — and then I’ll pay all these cards off and everything will be happy again. Ha. I don’t need any stupid overdraft. I’ll start straight away. This evening!

And the truth is, I’m rather looking forward to getting down to my book. I have so many important themes I want to address in it, like poverty and wealth, comparative religion, philosophy maybe. I mean, I know the publishers have just asked for a simple self-help book, but there’s no reason why I can’t encompass broader questions too, is there?

In fact, if it does really well, I might give lectures. God, that would be great, wouldn’t it? I could become a kind of lifestyle guru and tour the world, and people would flock to see me, and ask my advice on all sorts of issues—

“How’s it going?” says Suze, appearing at my door in a towel, and I jump guiltily. I’ve been sitting at my computer for quite a while now but I haven’t actually turned it on.

“I’m just thinking,” I say, hastily reaching to the back of the computer and flipping the switch. “You know, focusing my thoughts and… and letting the creative juices meld into a coherent pattern.”

“Wow,” says Suze, and looks at me in slight awe. “That’s amazing. Is it hard?”

“Not really,” I say, after a bit of thought. “It’s quite easy, actually.”

The computer suddenly bursts into a riot of sound and color, and we both stare at it, mesmerized.

“Wow!” says Suze again. “Did you do that?”

“Erm… yes,” I say. Which is true. I mean, I did switch it on.

“God, you’re so clever, Bex,” breathes Suze. “When do you think you’ll finish it?”

“Oh, quite soon, I expect,” I say breezily. “You know. Once I get going.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to get on with it, then,” says Suze. “I just wanted to borrow a dress for tonight.”

“Oh right,” I say, with interest. “Where are you going?”

“Venetia’s party,” says Suze. “D’you want to come too? Oh, go on, come! Everyone’s going!”

For a moment I’m tempted. I’ve met Venetia a few times, and I know she gives amazing parties at her parents’ house in Kensington.

“No,” I say at last. “I’d better not. I’ve got work to do.”

“Oh well.” Suze’s face droops briefly. “But I can borrow a dress, can I?”

“Of course!” I screw up my face for a moment, thinking hard. “Why don’t you wear my new Tocca dress with your red shoes and my English Eccentrics wrap?”

“Excellent!” says Suze, going to my wardrobe. “Thanks, Bex. And… could I borrow some knickers?” she adds casually. “And some tights and makeup?”

I turn in my chair and give her a close look.

“Suze — when you decluttered your room, did you keep anything?”

“Of course I did!” she says, a little defensively. “You know. A few things.” She meets my gaze. “OK, perhaps I went a bit too far.”

“Do you have any underwear left?”

“Well… no. But you know, I feel so good, and kind of positive about life — it doesn’t matter! It’s feng shui. You should try it!”

I watch as Suze gathers up the dress and underwear and rifles through my makeup bag. Then she leaves the room and I stretch my arms out in front of me, flexing my fingers. Right. To work.

I open a file, type “Chapter One,” and stare at it proudly. Chapter One! This is so cool! Now all I have to do is come up with a really memorable, striking opening sentence.

I sit quite still for a while, concentrating on the empty screen in front of me, then type briskly,

Finance is the

I stop, and take a sip of Diet Coke. Obviously the right sentence takes a bit of honing. You can’t just expect it to land straight in your head.

Finance is the most

God, I wish I were writing a book about clothes. Or makeup. Becky Bloomwood’s Guide to Lipstick.

Anyway, I’m not. So concentrate.

Finance is something which

You know, my chair’s quite uncomfortable. I’m sure it can’t be healthy, sitting on a squashy chair like this for hours on end. I’ll get repetitive strain injury, or something. Really, if I’m going to be a writer, I should invest in one of those ergonomic ones which swivel round and go up and down.

Finance is very

Maybe they sell chairs like that on the Internet. Maybe I should just have a quick little look. Since the computer’s on, and everything.

In fact — surely it would be irresponsible of me if I didn’t. I mean, you have to look after yourself, don’t you? Mens sana in healthy sana, or whatever it is.

I reach for my mouse, quickly click onto the Internet icon, and search for “office chairs”—and soon I’m coasting happily through the list. And I’ve already noted down a few good possibilities — when all of a sudden I land on this incredible Web site which I’ve never seen before, all full of office supplies. Not just boring white envelopes, but really amazing high-tech stuff. Like smart chrome filing cabinets, and cool pen holders, and really nice personalized nameplates to put on your door.

I scroll through all the photographs, utterly mesmerized. I mean, I know I’m not supposed to be spending money at the moment — but this is different. This is investment in my career. After all — this is my office, isn’t it? It should be well equipped. It needs to be well equipped. In fact, I can’t believe how shortsighted I’ve been. How on earth was I expecting to write a book without the necessary equipment? It would be like climbing Everest without a tent.

I’m so dazzled by the array of stuff you can get that I almost can’t decide what to get. But there are a few essentials which I absolutely must buy.

So I click on an ergonomic swivel chair upholstered in purple to match my iMac, plus a Dictaphone which translates stuff straight into your computer. And then I find myself adding a really cool steel claw which holds up notes while you’re typing, a set of laminated presentation folders — which are bound to come in useful — and a mini paper shredder. Which is a complete essential because I don’t want the whole world seeing my first drafts, do I? And I’m toying with the idea of some modular reception furniture — except I don’t really have a reception area in my bedroom — when Suze comes back into the room.

“Hi! How’s it going?”

I jump guiltily, quickly click on “send” without even bothering to check what the final amount was, click off the Internet — and look up just as my Chapter One reappears on the screen.

“You’re working really hard!” says Suze, shaking her head. “You should take a break. How much have you done?”

“Oh… quite a lot,” I say.

“Can I read it?” And to my horror she starts coming toward me.

“No!” I exclaim. “I mean — it’s a work in progress. It’s… sensitive material.” Hastily I close the document and stand up. “You look really great, Suze. Fantastic!”

“Thanks!” She beams at me and twirls around in my dress as the doorbell rings. “Ooh! That’ll be Fenny.”

Fenella is one of Suze’s weird posh cousins from Scotland. Except to be fair, she’s not actually that weird anymore. She used to be as peculiar as her brother, Tarquin, and spend the whole time riding horses and shooting fish, or whatever they do. But recently she’s moved to London and got a job in an art gallery, and now she just goes to parties instead. As Suze opens the front door I can hear her high-pitched voice — and a whole gaggle of girls’ voices following her. Fenny can’t move three feet without a huge cloud of shrieking people around her. She’s like some socialite version of a rain god.

“Hi!” she says, bursting into my room. She’s wearing a really nice pink velvet skirt from Whistles, which I’ve also got — but she’s teamed it with a disastrous brown Lurex polo neck. “Hi, Becky! Are you coming tonight?”

“Not tonight,” I say. “I’ve got to work.”

“Oh well.” Fenella’s face droops just like Suze’s did — then brightens. “Then can I borrow your Jimmy Choos? We’ve got the same size feet, haven’t we?”

“OK,” I say. “They’re in the wardrobe.” I hesitate, trying to be tactful. “And do you want to borrow a top? It’s just I’ve actually got the top that goes with your skirt. Pink cashmere with little beads. Really nice.”

“Have you?” says Fenny. “Ooh, yes! I shoved on this polo neck without really thinking.” As she peels it off, a blond girl in a black shift comes in and beams at me.

“Hi, er… Milla,” I say, remembering her name just in time. “How are you?”

“I’m fine!” she says, and gives me a hopeful look. “Fenny said I could borrow your English Eccentrics wrap.”

“I’m lending it to Suze,” I say, pulling a regretful face. “But what about… a purple shawl with sequins?”

“Yes, please! And Binky says, have you still got that black wraparound skirt?”

“I have,” I say thoughtfully. “But actually, I’ve got another skirt I think would look even better on her…”

It’s about half an hour before everyone has borrowed what they want. Eventually they all pile out of my room, shrieking to me that they’ll return it all in the morning, and Suze comes in, looking completely stunning with her hair piled up on her head and hanging down in blond tendrils.

“Bex, are you sure you don’t want to come?” she says. “Tarquin’s going to be there, and I know he’d like to see you.”

“Oh right,” I say, trying not to look too appalled at the idea. “Is he in London, then?”

“Just for a few days.” Suze looks at me, a little sorrowfully. “You know, Bex, if it weren’t for Luke… I reckon Tarkie still likes you.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” I say quickly. “That was ages ago now. Ages!”

My one and only date with Tarquin is one of those events I am trying very hard never to remember again, ever.

“Oh well,” says Suze, shrugging. “See you later. And don’t work too hard!”

“I won’t,” I reply, and give a world-weary sigh. “Or at least, I’ll try not to.”

I wait until the front door bangs behind her, and the taxis waiting outside have roared off. Then I take a sip of tea and turn back to my first chapter.

Chapter One

Finance is very

Actually, I’m not really in the mood for this anymore. Suze is right, I should have a break. I mean, if I sit here hour after hour, I’ll get all jaded, and lose the creative flow. And the point is, I’ve made a good start.

I stand up and stretch, then wander into the sitting room, and pick up a copy of Tatler. It’s EastEnders in a minute, and then it might be Changing Rooms or something, or that documentary about the vets. I’ll just watch that — and then I’ll go back to work. I mean, I’ve got a whole evening ahead, haven’t I? I need to pace myself.

Idly, I flick open the magazine and am scanning the contents page for something interesting when suddenly my eye stops in surprise. It’s a little picture of Luke, with the caption Best of Brandon, page seventy-four! Why on earth didn’t he tell me he was going to be in Tatler?

The photograph is his new official one, the one I helped him choose an outfit for (blue shirt, dark blue Fendi tie). He’s staring at the camera, looking all serious and businesslike — but if you look closely at his eyes, there’s a little friendly spark in there. As I stare at his face I feel a tug of affection and realize Suze is right. I should just trust him, shouldn’t I? I mean — what does Alicia Bitchy-pants know about anything?

I turn to page seventy-four, and it’s an article on “Britain’s Top Movers and Shakers.” I scan down the page, and I can’t help noticing that some of the movers and shakers are pictured with their partners. Maybe there’ll be a picture of me with Luke! After all, somebody might have taken a picture of us together at a party or something, mightn’t they? Come to think of it, we were once snapped by the Evening Standard at a launch for some new magazine, although it never actually got into the paper.

Ooh! Here he is, number thirty-four! And it’s just him, in that same official photo, with not a glimpse of me. Still, I feel a twinge of pride as I see his picture (much bigger than some of the others, ha!) and a caption reading: “Brandon’s ruthless pursuit of success has knocked lesser competitors off the starting blocks.” Then the piece starts: “Luke Brandon, dynamic owner and founder of Brandon Communications, the blah-di blah-di…”

I skim over the text, feeling a pleasant anticipation as I reach the section labeled “Vital Statistics.” This is the bit where I’ll be mentioned! “Currently dating TV personality Rebecca Bloomwood.” Or maybe, “Partner of well-known finance expert Rebecca Bloomwood.” Or else—

Luke James Brandon

Age: 34

Education: Cambridge

Current status: Single.

Single?

Luke told them he was single?

A hurt anger begins to rise through me as I stare at Luke’s confident, arrogant gaze. Suddenly I’ve had enough of all this. I’ve had enough of being made to feel insecure and paranoid and wondering what’s going on. Hands trembling, I pick up the phone and jab in Luke’s number.

“Yes,” I say, as soon as the message has finished. “Yes, well. If you’re single, Luke, then I’m single too. OK? And if you’re going to New York, then I’m going to… to Outer Mongolia. And if you’re…”

Suddenly my mind goes blank. Shit, and it was going so well.

“… if you’re too cowardly to tell me these things yourself, then maybe it’s better for both of us if we simply…”

I’m really struggling here. I should have written it all down before I began.

“… if we just call it a day. Or perhaps that’s what you think you’ve already done,” I finish, breathing hard.

“Becky?” Suddenly Luke’s deep voice is in my ear, and I jump with fright.

“Yes?” I say, trying to sound dignified.

“What is all this gibberish you’re spouting on my machine?” he asks calmly.

“It’s not gibberish!” I reply indignantly. “It’s the truth!”

“ ‘If you’re single, then I’m single’? What’s that supposed to be? Lyrics to a pop song?”

“I was talking about you! And the fact that you’ve told the whole world you’re single.”

“I’ve done what?” says Luke, sounding amused. “When did I do that?”

“It’s in Tatler!” I say furiously. “This month!” I grab for the magazine and flip it open. “Britain’s top movers and shakers. Number thirty-four, Luke Brandon.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” says Luke. “That thing.”

“Yes, that thing!” I exclaim. “That thing! And it says you’re single. How do you think it felt for me to see you’d said you were single?”

“It quotes me, does it?”

“Well… no,” I say after a pause. “It doesn’t exactly quote you. But I mean, they must have phoned you up and asked you—”

“They did phone me up and ask me,” he says. “And I said no comment.”

“Oh.” I’m silenced for a moment, trying to think clearly. OK, so maybe he didn’t say he was single — but I’m not at all sure I like “no comment.” Isn’t that what people say when things are going really badly?

“Why did you say no comment?” I say at last. “Why didn’t you say you were going out with me?”

“My darling,” says Luke, sounding a little weary, “think about it. Do you want our private life splashed all over the media?”

“Of course not.” I twist my hands into a complicated knot. “Of course not. But you…” I stop.

“What?”

“You told the media when you were going out with Sacha,” I say in a small voice.

Sacha is Luke’s ex-girlfriend.

I can’t quite believe I just said that.

Luke sighs.

“Becky, Sacha told the media about us. She would have had People magazine photographing us in the bath if they’d been interested. That’s the kind of girl she was.”

“Oh,” I say, winding the telephone cord round my finger.

“I’m not interested in that kind of thing. My clients can do what they like, but personally, I can’t think of anything worse. Hence the no comment.” He pauses. “But you’re right. I should have thought. I should have warned you. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” I say awkwardly. “I suppose I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

“So are we OK?” says Luke, and there’s a warm, teasing note to his voice. “Are we back on course?”

“What about New York?” I say, hating myself. “Is that all a mistake, too?”

There’s a long, horrible silence.

“What have you heard about New York?” says Luke at last — and to my horror, he sounds all businesslike and distant.

Oh God. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth closed?

“Nothing really!” I stammer. “I… I don’t know. I just…”

I tail off feebly, and for what seems like hours, neither of us says anything. My heart is pounding hard, and I’m clutching the receiver so hard, my ear’s starting to hurt.

“Becky, I need to talk to you about a few things,” says Luke finally. “But now is not the time.”

“Right,” I say, feeling a pang of fright. “What… sort of things?”

“Not now. We’ll talk when I get back, OK? Saturday. At the wedding.”

“Right,” I say again, talking brightly to hide the nerves in my voice. “OK! Well, I’ll… I’ll see you then, then…”

But before I can say any more, he’s gone.

MANAGING YOUR MONEY

A Comprehensive Guide to

Personal Finance

By Rebecca Bloomwood

COPYRIGHT © REBECCA BLOOMWOOD

Important: No part of this manuscript to be

reproduced without the author’s express permission!

FIRST EDITION (UK)

(FIRST DRAFT)

P A R T O N E

Chapter one. Finance is very

ENDWICH BANK

Fulham Branch

3 Fulham Road

London SW6 9JH

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd.

London SW6 8FD

12 September 2000

Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

Further to my letter of 8 September, I have conducted a thorough examination of your account. Your current overdraft limit vastly exceeds the bank’s approved ratios. I cannot see any need for this excessive level of debt, nor that any genuine attempts have been made to reduce it. The situation is little short of a disgrace.

Whatever special status you have enjoyed in the past will not be continuing in the future. I will certainly not be increasing your overdraft limit as you request, and would ask as a matter of urgency that you make an appointment with me to discuss your position.

Yours sincerely,

John Gavin

Overdraft Facilities Director