The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

Seventeen

I have never before worked so hard on an article. Never.

Mind you, I've never before been asked to write one so quickly. At Successful Saving, we get a whole month to write our article – and we complain about that. When Eric Foreman said, 'Can you do it by tomorrow?' I thought he was joking at first. I jauntily replied, 'Of course!' and nearly added, 'In fact, I'll have it with you in five minutes' time!' Then, just in time, I realized he was serious. Crikey.

So I'm round at Martin and Janice's first thing the next morning with a Dictaphone, writing down exactly all the information their investment and trying to get in lots of heart-wrenching details, as advised by Eric.

'We need human interest,' he told me over the phone. 'None of your dull financial reporting here. Make us feel sorry for them. Make us weep. A hardworking, ordinary couple, who thought they could rely on a few savings to see them through their old age. Ripped off by the fat cats. What kind of house do these people live in?'

'Ahmm… a four-bedroomed detached house in Surrey.'

'Well, for Christ's sake don't put that in!' he boomed. 'I want honest, poor and proud. Never demanded a penny off the state, saved to provide for themselves. Trusted a respectable financial institution. And all it did was kick them in the face.' He paused, and it sounded as if he might be picking his teeth. 'That kind of thing. Think you can manage it?'

'I… ahm… yes! Of course!' I stuttered.

Oh God, I thought as I put down the phone. Oh God, what have I got myself into?

But it's too late to change my mind now. So the next thing is to persuade Janice and Martin that they don't mind appearing in the Daily World. The trouble is, it's not exactly the Financial Times, is it? Or even the normal Times. (Still, as I remind them, it could be a lot worse. It could be the Sun – and they'd end up sandwiched between a topless model and a blurred paparazzi shot of Posh Spice.)

Luckily, however, they're so bowled over that I'm making all this effort on their behalf, they don't seem to care which newspaper I'm writing for. And when they hear that a photographer's coming over at midday to take their picture, you'd think the Queen was coming to visit.

'My hair!' says Janice in dismay, staring into the mirror. 'Have I time to get Maureen in to give me a blow-dry?'

'Not really. And it looks lovely,' I say reassuringly. 'Anyway, they want you as natural as possible. Just… honest, ordinary people.' I glance around the living room, trying to pick up poignant details to put into my article.

An anniversary card from their son stands proudly on the well-polished mantelpiece. But this year there will be no celebration for Martin and Janice Webster.

'I must phone Phyllis!' says Janice. 'She won't believe it!'

'You weren't ever a soldier, or anything?' I say thoughtfully to Martin. 'Or a… a fireman? Anything like that. Before you became a travel agent.

'Not really, love,' says Martin, wrinkling his brow. 'Just the Cadets at school.'

'Oh, right,' I say, brightening. 'That might do.'

Martin Webster fingers the cadet badge he was so proud to wear as a youth. His life has been one of hard work and service for others. Now, in his retirement years, he should be enjoying the rewards he deserves. But the fat cats have conned him out of his nest egg. The Daily World asks…

'I've photocopied all the documents for you,' says Martin. 'All the paperwork. I don't know if it'll be any use…

'Oh, thanks,' I say, taking the pile of pages from him. 'I'll have a good read through these.'

When honest Martin Webster received a letter from Flagstaff Life, inviting him to switch investment funds, he trusted the money men to know what was best for him.

Two weeks later he discovered they had tricked him out of a ?20,000 windfall.

"My wife is ill as a result of all this," he said. 'I'm so worried.'

Hmmm.

'Janice?' I say, looking up casually. 'Do you feel all right? Not… unwell, or anything?'

'A bit nervous, to be honest, dear,' she says, looking round from the mirror. 'I'm never very good at having my picture taken.'

"My nerves are shot to pieces,' said Mrs Webster in a ragged voice. I’ve never felt so betrayed in all my life.'

'Well, I think I've got enough now,' I say, getting up and switching off my Dictaphone. 'I might have to slightly digress from what's on the tape – just to make the story work. You don't mind, do you?'

'Of course not!' says Janice. 'You write what you like, Becky! We trust you.'

'So what happens now?' says Martin.

'I'll have to go and talk to Flagstaff Life,' I say. 'Get them to give their defence.'

'What defence?' says Martin. 'There is no defence for what they did to us!'

'I know,' I say and grin at him. 'Exactly.'

As I go back home and up to my bedroom, I'm full of happy adrenalin. All I need to do is get a quote from Flagstaff Life, and I can start writing the piece. I haven't got long: it needs to be finished by two o'clock if it's going to make tomorrow's edition. God, this is exciting. Why has work never seemed so exciting before?

Briskly I reach for the phone and dial Flagstaff's number – only to be told by the switchboard operator that all press enquiries are dealt with out-of-house. She gives me a number, which seems rather familiar, and I frown at it for a moment, then punch it in.

'Hello,' says a smooth voice. 'Brandon Communications.'

Oh God, of course. Suddenly I feel a bit shaky. The word 'Brandon' has hit me right in the stomach like a punch. I'd forgotten all about Luke Brandon. To be honest, I'd forgotten all about the rest of my life. And frankly, I don't want to be reminded of it.

But it's OK – I don't have to speak to him personally, do I?

'Hi!' I say. 'It's Rebecca Bloomwood here. Ermm… I just wanted to talk to somebody about Flagstaff Life.'

'Let me check…' says the voice. 'Yes, that's Luke Brandon's client. I'll just put you through to his assistant…' And the voice disappears before I can say anything.

Oh God.

Oh God, I can't do this. I can't speak to Luke Brandon. My questions are jotted down on a piece of paper in front of me, but as I stare at them I'm not reading them. I'm remembering the humiliation I felt that day in Harrods. That horrible plunge in my stomach when I heard the patronizing note in his voice and suddenly realized what he thought of me. A joke. A nothing,

OK, I can do this, I tell myself firmly. I can do it. I'll just be very stern and businesslike and ask my questions, and-

'Rebecca!' comes a voice in my ear. 'How are you! It's Alicia here.'

'Oh,' I say in surprise. 'I thought I was going to speak to Luke. It's about Flagstaff Life.'

'Yes, well,' says Alicia. 'Luke Brandon is a very busy man. I'm sure I can answer any questions you have.'

'Oh, right,' I say, and pause. 'But they're not your client, are they?'

'I'm sure that won't matter in this case,' she says, and gives a little laugh. 'What did you want to know?'

'Right' I say, and look at my list. 'Was it a deliberate policy for Flagstaff Life to invite their investors to move out of with-profits just before they announced windfalls? Some people lost out a lot, you know.'

'Right…' she says. 'Thanks, Camilla, I'll have smoked salmon and lettuce.'

'What?' I say.

'Sorry, yes, I am with you,' she says. 'Just jotting it down… I'll have to get back to you on that, I'm afraid.'

'Well, I need a response soon!' I say. 'My deadline's in a few hours.'

'Got that,' says Alicia. Suddenly her voice goes muffled. 'No, smoked salmon. OK then, Chinese chicken. Yes.' The muffle disappears. 'So, Rebecca, any other questions? Tell you what, shall I send you our latest press pack? That's bound to answer any other queries. Or you could fax in your questions.'

'Fine,' I say curtly. 'Fine, I'll do that.' And I put the phone down.

For a while I stare straight ahead in brooding silence. Stupid patronizing cow. Can't even be bothered to take my questions seriously.

Then gradually it comes to me that this is the way I always get treated when I ring up press offices. No one's ever in any hurry to answer my questions, are they? People are always putting me on hold, saying they'll ring me back and not bothering. I've never minded before – I've rather enjoyed hanging on to a phone, listening to 'Greensleeves' (at least it beats working). I've never cared before whether people took me seriously or not.

But today, I do care. Today what I'm doing does seem important, and I do want to be taken seriously.

Well, I'll show her, I think fiercely. I'll show them all, Luke Brandon included. Show them that I, Rebecca Bloomwood, am not a joke.

With a sudden determination I reach for my dad's typewriter. I feed in some paper, switch on my Dictaphone, take a deep breath and begin to type.

REBECCA BLOOMWOOD

THE PINES

43 ELTON ROAD

OXSHOTT

SURREY

FAX MESSAGE FOR

ERIC FOREMAN

DAILY WORLD

FROM

REBECCA BLOOMWOOD

28 March 2000

Dear Eric

I enclose my 950-word article on Flagstaff Life and the lost windfalls. I do hope you like it.

With best wishes

Rebecca Bloomwood

Financial Journalist