“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 br
own 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 m
edia 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
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD