Out of the corner of my eye I can see that all the Brandonites have stopped what they’re doing and are watching, too. Well, that’ll show them. They’re not the only ones to get packages delivered to the green room. They’re not the only ones to have resources. Finally I get the sticky tape undone and open the flaps of the box.
And as everyone watches, a big red helium balloon, with “GOOD LUCK” emblazoned across it, floats up to the ceiling. There’s a card attached to the string, and, without looking anyone in the eye, I rip it open.
Immediately I wish I hadn’t.
“Good luck to you, good luck to you, whatever you’re about to do,” sings a tinny electronic voice.
I slam the card shut and feel a surge of embarrassment. From the other side of the room I can hear little sniggers going on, and I look up to see Alicia smirking. She whispers something into Luke’s ear, and an amused expression spreads across his face.
He’s laughing at me. They’re all laughing at Rebecca Bloomwood and her singing balloon. For a few moments I can’t move for mortification. My chest is rising and falling swiftly; I’ve never felt less like a leading industry expert in my life.
Then, on the other side of the room, I hear Alicia murmur some malicious little comment and give a snort of laughter. Deep inside me, something snaps. Sod them, I think suddenly. Sod them all. They’re probably only jealous, anyway. They wish they had balloons, too.
Defiantly I open the card again to read the message.
“No matter if it’s rain or shine, we all know that you’ll be fine,” sings the card’s tinny voice at once. “Hold your head up, keep it high—all that matters is you try.”
To Becky, I read. With love and thanks for all your wonderful help. We’re so proud to know you. From your friends Janice and Martin.
I stare down at the card, reading the words over and over, and feel my eyes grow hot with tears. Janice and Martin have been good friends over the years. They’ve always been kind to me, even when I gave them such disastrous advice. I owe this to them. And I’m bloody well not going to let them down.
I blink a few times, take a deep breath, and look up to see Luke Brandon gazing at me, his eyes dark and expressionless.
“Friends,” I say coolly. “Sending me their good wishes.”
Carefully I place the card on the coffee table, making sure it stays open so it’ll keep singing, then pull my balloon down from the ceiling and tie it to the back of my chair.
“OK,” comes Zelda’s voice from the door. “Luke and Rebecca. Are you ready?”
“Couldn’t be readier,” I say calmly, and walk past Luke to the door.
Twenty-one
AS WE STRIDE ALONG the corridors to the set, neither Luke nor I says a word. I dart a glance at him as we turn a corner—and his face is even steelier than it was before.
Well, that’s fine. I can do hard and businesslike, too. Firmly I lift my chin and begin to take longer strides, pretending to be Alexis Carrington in Dynasty.
“So, do you two already know each other?” says Zelda, who’s walking along between us.
“We do, as it happens,” says Luke shortly.
“In a business context,” I say, equally shortly. “Luke’s always trying to promote some financial product or other. And I’m always trying to avoid his calls.”
Zelda gives an appreciative laugh and I see Luke’s eyes flash angrily. But I really don’t care. I don’t care how angry he gets. In fact, the angrier he gets, the better I feel.
“So—Luke, you must have been quite pissed off at Rebecca’s article in The Daily World,” says Zelda.
“I wasn’t pleased,” says Luke. “By any of it,” he adds in a lower voice.
What does that mean? I turn my head, and to my astonishment, he’s looking at me with a sober expression. Almost apologetic. Hmm. This must be an old PR trick. Soften up your opponent and then go in for the kill. But I’m not going to fall for it.
“He phoned me up to complain,” I say airily to Zelda. “Can’t cope with the truth, eh, Luke? Can’t cope with seeing what’s under the PR gloss?”
There’s silence and I dart another look at him. Now he looks so furious, I think for a terrifying moment that he’s going to hit me. Then his face changes and, in an icily calm voice, he says, “Let’s just get on the fucking set and get this over with, shall we?”
Zelda raises her eyebrows at me and I grin back. This is more like it.
“OK,” says Zelda as we approach a set of double swing doors. “Here we are. Keep your voices down when we go in.”
She pushes open the doors and ushers us in, and for a moment my cool act falters. I feel all shaky and awed, like Laura Dern in Jurassic Park when she sees the dinosaurs for the first time. Because there it is, in real life. The real live Morning Coffee set. With the sofa and all the plants and everything, all lit up by the brightest, most dazzling lights I’ve ever seen in my life.
This is just unreal. How many zillion times have I sat at home, watching this on the telly? And now I’m actually going to be part of it.
“We’ve got a couple of minutes till the commercial break,” says Zelda, leading us across the floor, across a load of trailing cables. “Rory and Emma are still with Elisabeth in the library set.”
She gestures to us to sit down on opposite sides of the coffee table, and, gingerly, I do so. The sofa’s harder than I was expecting, and kind of … different. Everything’s different. The plants seem bigger than they do on the screen, and the coffee table is smaller. God, this is weird. The lights are so bright on my face, I can hardly see anything, and I’m not quite sure how to sit. A girl comes and threads a microphone cable under my shirt and clips it to my lapel. Awkwardly, I lift my hand to push my hair back, and immediately Zelda comes hurrying over.
“Try not to move too much, OK, Rebecca?” she says. “We don’t want to hear a load of rustling.”
“Right,” I say. “Sorry.”
Suddenly my voice doesn’t seem to be working properly. I feel as though a wad of cotton’s been stuffed into my throat. I glance up at a nearby camera and, to my horror, see it zooming toward me.
“OK, Rebecca,” says Zelda, hurrying over again, “one more golden rule—don’t look at the camera, all right? Just behave naturally!”
“Fine,” I say huskily.
Behave naturally. Easy-peasy.
“Thirty seconds till the news bulletin,” she says, looking at her watch. “Everything OK, Luke?”
“Fine,” says Luke calmly. He’s sitting on his sofa as though he’s been there all his life. Typical.
I shift on my seat, tug nervously at my skirt, and smooth my jacket down. They always say that television puts ten pounds on you, which means my legs will look really fat. Maybe I should cross them the other way. Or not cross them at all? But then maybe they’ll look even fatter.
“Hello!” comes a high-pitched voice from across the set before I can make up my mind. My head jerks up, and I feel an excited twinge in my stomach. It’s Emma March in the flesh! She’s wearing a pink suit and hurrying toward the sofa, closely followed by Rory, who looks even more square-jawed than usual. God, it’s weird seeing celebrities up close. They don’t look quite real, somehow.
“Hello!” Emma says cheerfully, and sits down on the sofa. “So you’re the finance people, are you? Gosh, I’m dying for a wee.” She frowns into the lights. “How long is this slot, Zelda?”
“Hi there!” says Rory, and shakes my hand. “Roberta.”
“It’s Rebecca!” says Emma, and rolls her eyes at me sympathetically. “Honestly, he’s hopeless.” She wriggles on the sofa. “Gosh, I really need to go.”
“Too late now,” says Rory.
“But isn’t it really unhealthy not to go when you need to?” Emma wrinkles her brow anxiously. “Didn’t we have a phone-in on it once? That weird girl phoned up who only went once a day. And Dr. James said … what did he say?”
“Search me,” says Rory cheerfully. “These phone-ins
always go over my head. Now I’m warning you, Rebecca,” he adds, turning to me, “I can never follow any of this finance stuff. Far too brainy for me.” He gives me a wide grin and I smile weakly back.
“Ten seconds,” calls Zelda from the side of the set, and my stomach gives a tweak of fear. Over the loudspeakers I can hear the Morning Coffee theme music, signaling the end of a commercial break.
“Who starts?” says Emma, squinting at the TelePrompTer.
“Oh, me.”
So this is it. I feel almost light-headed with fear. I don’t know where I’m supposed to be looking; I don’t know when I’m supposed to speak. My legs are trembling and my hands are clenched tightly in my lap. The lights are dazzling my eyes; a camera’s zooming in on my left, but I’ve got to try to ignore it.
“Welcome back!” says Emma suddenly to the camera. “Now, which would you rather have? A carriage clock or £20,000?”
What? I think in shock. But that’s my line. That’s what I was going to say.
“The answer’s obvious, isn’t it?” continues Emma blithely. “We’d all prefer the £20,000.”
“Absolutely!” interjects Rory with a cheerful smile.
“But when some Flagstaff Life investors received a letter inviting them to move their savings recently,” says Emma, suddenly putting on a sober face, “they didn’t realize that if they did so, they would lose out on a £20,000 windfall. Rebecca Bloomwood is the journalist who uncovered this story—Rebecca, do you think this kind of deception is commonplace?”
And suddenly everyone’s looking at me, waiting for me to reply. The camera’s trained on my face; the studio’s silent.
Two point five million people, all watching at home.
I can’t breathe.
“Do you think investors need to be cautious?” prompts Emma.
“Yes,” I manage in a strange, woolly voice. “Yes, I think they should.”
“Luke Brandon, you represent Flagstaff Life,” says Emma, turning away. “Do you think—”
Shit, I think miserably. That was pathetic. Pathetic! What’s happened to my voice, for God’s sake? What’s happened to all my prepared answers?
And now I’m not even listening to Luke’s reply. Come on, Rebecca. Concentrate.
“What you must remember,” Luke’s saying smoothly, “is that nobody’s entitled to a windfall. This isn’t a case of deception!” He smiles at Emma. “This is simply a case of a few investors being a little too greedy for their own good. They believe they’ve missed out—so they’re deliberately stirring up bad publicity for the company. Meanwhile, there are thousands of people who have benefited from Flagstaff Life.”
What? What’s he saying?
“I see,” says Emma, nodding her head. “So, Luke, would you agree that—”
“Wait a minute!” I hear myself interrupting. “Just … just wait a minute. Mr. Brandon, did you just call the investors greedy?”
“Not all,” says Luke. “But some, yes.”
I stare at him in disbelief, my skin prickling with outrage. An image of Janice and Martin comes into my mind—the sweetest, least greedy people in the world—and for a few moments I’m so angry, I can’t speak.
“The truth is, the majority of investors with Flagstaff Life have seen record returns over the last five years,” Luke’s continuing to Emma, who’s nodding intelligently. “And that’s what they should be concerned with. Good-quality investment. Not flash-in-the-pan windfalls. After all, Flagstaff Life was originally set up to provide—”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Luke,” I cut in, forcing myself to speak calmly. “Correct me if I’m wrong—but I believe Flagstaff Life was originally set up as a mutual company? For the mutual benefit of all its members. Not to benefit some at the expense of others.”
“Absolutely,” replies Luke without flickering. “But that doesn’t entitle every investor to a £20,000 windfall, does it?”
“Maybe not,” I say, my voice rising slightly. “But surely it entitles them to believe they won’t be misled by a company they’ve put their money with for fifteen years? Janice and Martin Webster trusted Flagstaff Life. They trusted the advice they were given. And look where that trust got them!”
“Investment is a game of luck,” says Luke blandly. “Sometimes you win—”
“It wasn’t luck!” I hear myself crying furiously. “Of course it wasn’t luck! Are you telling me it was compete coincidence that they were advised to switch their funds two weeks before the windfall announcements?”
“My clients were simply making available an offer that they believed would add value to their customers’ portfolios,” says Luke, giving me a tight smile. “They have assured me that they were simply wishing to benefit their customers. They have assured me that—”
“So you’re saying your clients are incompetent, then?” I retort. “You’re saying they had all the best intentions—but cocked it up?”
Luke’s eyes flash in anger and I feel a thrill of exhilaration.
“I fail to see—”
“Well, we could go on debating all day!” says Emma, shifting slightly on her seat. “But moving onto a slightly more—”
“Come on, Luke,” I say, cutting her off. “Come on. You can’t have it both ways.” I lean forward, ticking points off on my hand. “Either Flagstaff Life were incompetent, or they were deliberately trying to save money. Whichever it is, they’re in the wrong. The Websters were loyal customers and they should have gotten that money. In my opinion, Flagstaff Life deliberately encouraged them out of the with-profits fund to stop them receiving the windfall. I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”
I look around for support and see Rory gazing blankly at me.
“It all sounds a bit technical for me,” he says with a little laugh. “Bit complicated.”
“OK, let’s put it another way,” I say quickly. “Let’s …” I close my eyes, searching for inspiration. “Let’s … suppose I’m in a clothes shop!” I open my eyes again. “I’m in a clothes shop, and I’ve chosen a wonderful cashmere Nicole Farhi coat. OK?”
“OK,” says Rory cautiously.
“I love Nicole Farhi!” says Emma, perking up. “Beautiful knitwear.”
“Exactly,” I say. “OK, so imagine I’m standing in the checkout queue, minding my own business, when a sales assistant comes up to me and says, ‘Why not buy this other coat instead? It’s better quality—and I’ll throw in a free bottle of perfume.’ I’ve got no reason to distrust the sales assistant, so I think, Wonderful, and I buy the other coat.”
“Right,” says Rory, nodding. “With you so far.”
“But when I get outside,” I say carefully, “I discover that this other coat isn’t Nicole Farhi and isn’t real cashmere. I go back in—and the shop won’t give me a refund.”
“You were ripped off!” exclaims Rory, as though he’s just discovered gravity.
“Exactly,” I say. “I was ripped off. And the point is, so were thousands of Flagstaff Life customers. They were persuaded out of their original choice of investment, into a fund which left them £20,000 worse off.” I pause, marshaling my thoughts. “Perhaps Flagstaff Life didn’t break the law. Perhaps they didn’t contravene any regulations. But there’s a natural justice in this world, and they didn’t just break that, they shattered it. Those customers deserved that windfall. They were loyal, long-standing customers, and they deserved it. And if you’re honest, Luke Brandon, you know they deserved it.”
I finish my speech breathlessly and look at Luke. He’s staring at me with an unreadable expression on his face—and in spite of myself, I feel my stomach clench with nerves. I swallow, and try to shift my vision away from his—but somehow I can’t move my head. It’s as though our eyes are glued together.
“Luke?” says Emma. “Do you have a response to Rebecca’s point?”
Luke doesn’t respond. He’s staring at me, and I’m staring back, feeling my heart thump like a rabbit.
“Luke?” repeats Emma sli
ghtly impatiently. “Do you have—”
“Yes,” says Luke. “Yes I do. Rebecca—” He shakes his head, almost smiling to himself, then looks up again at me. “Rebecca, you’re right.”
There’s a sudden still silence around the studio.
I open my mouth, but I can’t make a sound.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rory and Emma glancing at each other puzzledly.
“Sorry, Luke,” says Emma. “Do you mean—”
“She’s right,” says Luke, and gives a shrug. “Rebecca’s absolutely right.” He reaches for his glass of water, leans back on his sofa, and takes a sip. “If you want my honest opinion, those customers deserved that windfall. I very much wish they had received it.”
He looks up at me, and he’s wearing that same apologetic expression he had in the corridor. This can’t be happening. Luke’s agreeing with me. How can he be agreeing with me?
“I see,” says Emma, sounding a bit affronted. “So, you’ve changed your position, then?”
There’s a pause, while Luke stares thoughtfully into his glass of water. Then he looks up and says, “My company is employed by Flagstaff Life to maintain their public profile. But that doesn’t mean that personally I agree with everything they do—or even that I know about it.” He pauses. “To tell you the truth, I had no idea any of this was going on until I read about it in Rebecca’s article in The Daily World. Which, by the way, was a fine piece of investigative journalism,” he adds, nodding to me. “Congratulations.”
I stare back helplessly, unable even to mutter “Thank you.” I’ve never felt so wrong-footed in all my life. I want to stop and bury my head in my hands and think all of this through slowly and carefully—but I can’t, I’m on live television. I’m being watched by 2.5 million people, all around the country.
I hope my legs look OK.
“If I were a Flagstaff customer and this had happened to me, I’d be very angry,” Luke continues. “There is such a thing as customer loyalty; there is such a thing as playing straight. And I would hope that any client of mine, whom I represent in public, would abide by both of those principles.”