“Erm . . . no,” I say, coloring slightly. “It's a . . . a handmade card.”
John Gavin gives me a look, then rips the envelope open and pulls out a card printed in silver, with pink feathers glued to the corners.
Now that I look at it, maybe I should have chosen a less girly one.
Or not brought one at all. But it seemed so perfect for the occasion.
Friend—I know I've made mistakes, but can we start over?
John Gavin reads incredulously. He turns it over, as though suspecting a joke. “Did you buy this?”
“It's nice, isn't it!” says Suze. “You get them in New York.”
“I see. I'll bear that in mind.” He puts it up on the table and we all look at it. “Miss Bloomwood, why exactly are you here?”
“Right!” I say. “Well. As my greeting card states, I'm aware that I have . . .” I swallow. “Perhaps not been the perfect . . . ideal customer. However, I'm confident that we can work together as a team, and achieve harmony.”
So far so good. I learned that bit off by heart.
“Which means?” says John Gavin.
I clear my throat. “Um . . . due to circumstances beyond my control, I have recently found myself in a slight financial . . . situation. So I was wondering whether you could perhaps temporarily . . .”
“Very kindly . . .” puts in Suze.
“Very kindly . . . perhaps extend my overdraft a little further, on a . . . a short-term . . .”
“Goodwill . . .” interjects Suze.
“Goodwill . . . temporary . . . short-term basis. Obviously to be paid back as soon as is feasibly and humanly possible.” I stop, and draw breath.
“Have you finished?” says John Gavin, folding his arms.
“Erm . . . yes.” I look to Suze for confirmation. “Yes, we have.”
There's silence while John Gavin drums his Biro on the table. Then he looks up and says, “No.”
“No?” I look at him puzzledly. “Is that just . . . no?”
“Just no.” He pushes back his chair. “So if you'll excuse me—”
“What do you mean, no?” says Suze. “You can't just say no! You have to weigh up the pros and cons!”
“I have weighed up the pros and the cons,” says John Gavin. “There are no pros.”
“But this is one of your most valued customers!” Suze's voice rises in dismay. “This is Becky Bloomwood of TV fame, who has a huge, glittering career in front of her!”
“This is Becky Bloomwood who has had her overdraft limit extended six times in the last year,” says John Gavin in a rather nasty voice. “And who each time has failed to keep within those limits. This is Becky Bloomwood who has consistently lied, who has consistently avoided meetings, who has treated bank staff with little or no respect, and who seems to think we're all here solely to fund her appetite for shoes. I've looked at your file, Miss Bloomwood. I know the picture.”
There's a subdued little silence. I can feel my cheeks getting hotter and hotter and I've got a horrible feeling I might cry.
“I don't think you should be so mean!” says Suze in a burst. “Becky's just had a really awful time! Would you like to be in the tabloids? Would you like to have someone stalking you?”
“Oh, I see!” His voice glints with sarcasm. “You expect me to feel sorry for you!”
“Yes!” I say. “No. Not exactly. But I think you should give me a chance.”
“You think I should give you another chance. And what have you done to merit another chance?” He shakes his head, and there's silence.
“I just . . . I thought if I explained it all to you . . .” I tail off feebly and shoot Suze a hopeless look to say, “Let's just forget it.”
“Hey, is it hot in here?” says Suze in a sudden husky voice. She takes off her jacket, shakes back her hair, and runs one hand down her cheek. “I'm feeling really . . . hot. Are you feeling hot, John?”
John Gavin shoots her an irritated look.
“What precisely did you want to explain to me, Miss Bloomwood?”
“Well. Just that I really want to sort things out,” I say, my voice trembling. “You know, I really want to turn things around. I want to stand on my own two feet, and—”
“Stand on your own two feet?” interrupts John Gavin scathingly. “You call taking handouts from a bank ‘standing on your own two feet'? If you were really standing on your own two feet, you'd have no overdraft. You'd have a few assets by now! You, of all people, shouldn't need telling that.”
“I . . . I know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “But the fact is, I have got an overdraft. And I just thought—”
“You thought what? That you're special? That you're an exception because you're on the television? That the normal rules don't apply to you? That this bank owes you money?”
His voice is like a drill in my head and suddenly I feel myself snap.
“No!” I cry. “I don't think that. I don't think any of that. I know I've been stupid, and I know I've done wrong. But I think that everyone does wrong occasionally.” I take a deep breath. “You know, if you look at your files, you'll see I did pay off my overdraft. And I did pay off my store cards. And OK, I'm in debt again. But I'm trying to sort it out—and all you can do is . . . is sneer. Well, fine. I'll sort myself out without your help. Come on, Suze.”
Shaking slightly, I get to my feet. My eyes are hot, but I'm not going to cry in front of him. There's a shaft of determination inside me, which strengthens as I turn to face him.
“Endwich—because we care,” I say.
There's a long, tense silence. Then, without saying anything else, I open the door and walk out.
As we walk home, I feel almost high with determination. I'll show him. I'll show that John Gavin. And all of them. The whole world.
I'm going to pay off my debts. I don't know how—but I'm going to do it. I'll take an extra job waitressing, maybe. Or I'll get down to it, and finish my self-help book. I'll just make as much money as I can, as quickly as I can. And then I'll go into that bank with a huge check, and plonk it down in front of him, and in a dignified but pointed voice, I'll say—
“Bex?” Suze grabs my arm—and I realize I'm walking straight past our house.
“Are you OK?” says Suze as she lets us in. “Honestly, what a bastard.”
“I'm fine,” I say, lifting my chin. “I'm going to show him. I'm going to pay off my overdraft. Just wait. I'm going to show them all.”
“Excellent!” says Suze. She bends down and picks up a letter from the doormat.
“It's for you,” she says. “From Morning Coffee!”
“Oh right!” As I'm opening the envelope, I feel a huge leap of hope. Maybe they're offering me a new job! Something with a huge salary, enough to pay off my debts straight away. Maybe they've sacked Emma and I'm going to take her place as the main presenter! Or maybe . . .
Oh my God. Oh my God, no.
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
2 October 2000
Dear Becky:
First of all, bad luck on your recent unfortunate bout of publicity! I really felt for you, and I know I also speak for Rory, Emma, and all the rest of the team.
As you know, the Morning Coffee family is a fiercely loyal and supportive one, and it is our policy never to allow adverse publicity to stand in the way of talent. However, completely coincidentally, we have recently been reviewing all our regular contributors. Following some discussion, we have decided to rest you from your slot for a while.
I must emphasize that this is just a temporary measure. However, we would appreciate it if you would return your East-West TV pass in the envelope provided and also sign the enclosed release document.
The work you've done for us has been fabulous (obviously!). We just know that your talents will flourish elsewhere and that this will not prove a setback to someone as dynamic as yourself!
With very best
wishes,
Zelda Washington
Assistant Producer
695 SOHO SQUARE
LONDON W1 5AS
* * *
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
4 October 2000
Dear Becky:
Thank you very much for your first draft of Manage Money the Bloomwood Way. We appreciated the care that had gone into your work. Your writing is well paced and fluent, and you certainly made some interesting points.
Unfortunately, 500 words—however excellent they are—is not quite enough for a self-help book. Your suggestion that we could “pad out the rest with photographs” is unfortunately not really workable.
Sadly, we have therefore decided that this is not a viable project and, as a result, would request that you return our advance forthwith.
With all best wishes,
Pippa Brady
Editor
Helping you to help yourself
OUT NOW! Jungle Survival by Brig. Roger Flintwood (deceased)
Fourteen
FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, I don't leave the house. I don't answer the phone and I don't talk to anyone. I feel physically raw, as though people's gazes, or their questions, or even the sunlight, might hurt me. I need to be in a dark place, on my own. Suze has gone to Milton Keynes for a big sales and marketing conference with Hadleys, so I'm all alone in the flat. I order takeout, drink two bottles of white wine, and don't once get out of my pajamas.
When Suze returns, I'm sitting on the floor in the sitting room where she left me, staring blankly at the television, stuffing KitKats into my mouth.
“Oh God,” she says, dropping her bag on the floor. “Bex, are you OK? I shouldn't have left you on your own.”
“I'm fine!” I say, looking up and forcing my stiff face to twist into a smile. “How was the sales conference?”
“Well . . . it was really good, actually,” says Suze, looking abashed. “People kept congratulating me on the way my frames have been selling. They'd all heard of me! And they did a presentation of my new designs, and everybody loved them . . .”
“That's really great, Suze,” I say, and reach up to squeeze her hand. “You deserve it.”
“Well. You know.” She bites her lip—then picks up an empty wine bottle from the floor and puts it on the table.
“So, did . . . Luke call?” she says hesitantly.
“No,” I say, after a long silence. “No, he didn't.” I look at Suze, then look away again.
“What are you watching?” she says, as an ad for Diet Coke comes on.
“I'm watching Morning Coffee,” I say. “It's the financial advice slot coming up next.”
“What?” Suze's face creases in dismay. “Bex, let's switch channels.” She reaches for the remote control, but I grab it.
“No!” I say, staring rigidly at the screen. “I want to see it.”
The familiar Morning Coffee music blasts out of the screen as the signature graphic of a cup of coffee appears and then melts away to a studio shot.
“Hello!” says Emma cheerily to camera. “Welcome back. And it's time for us to introduce our new money expert, Clare Edwards!”
I stare at Clare's familiar face, feeling a fresh humiliation seep over me. When they promoted her appearance earlier on I was so shocked I spilled my coffee on my hand. It still hurts.
“Who's Clare Edwards?” says Suze, staring at the screen in distaste.
“I used to work with her on Successful Saving,” I say without moving my head. “She used to sit next to me.”
The camera pans away to show Clare sitting on the sofa opposite Emma, staring grimly back.
“She doesn't look like much fun,” says Suze.
“She isn't.”
“So, Clare,” says Emma brightly. “What's your basic philosophy of money?”
“Do you have a catchphrase?” interjects Rory cheerfully.
“I don't believe in catchphrases,” says Clare, giving Rory a disapproving look. “Personal finance isn't a trivial matter.”
“Right!” says Rory. “Of course not. Erm . . . so—do you have any top tips for savers, Clare?”
“I don't believe in futile and misleading generalizations,” says Clare. “All savers should choose a spread of investments suitable to their individual requirements and tax status.”
“Absolutely!” says Emma after a pause. “Right. Well—let's go to the phones, shall we? And it's Mandy from Norwich.”
As the first caller is put through, the phone in our sitting room rings.
“Hello?” says Suze, picking it up and zapping the sound on the television, “Ooh, hello, Mrs. Bloomwood. Do you want to speak to Becky?”
She raises her eyebrows at me and I wince back. I've only spoken to Mum and Dad briefly since my return. They know I'm not going to move to New York—but that's all I've said them so far. I just can't face telling them how badly everything else has turned out too.
“Becky, love, I was just watching Morning Coffee!” exclaims Mum. “What's that girl doing, giving out financial advice?”
“It's . . . it's OK, Mum, don't worry!” I say, feeling my nails dig into my palm. “They just . . . they got her to cover while I was away.”
“Well. They could have chosen someone better! She's got a miserable face on her, hasn't she?” Her voice goes muffled. “What's that, Graham? Dad says, at least she shows how good you are! But surely, now that you're back, they can let her go?”
“I don't think it's as simple as that,” I say after a pause. “Contracts and . . . things.”
“So, when will you be back on? Because I know Janice will be asking.”
“I don't know, Mum,” I say desperately. “Listen, I've got to go, OK? There's someone at the door. But I'll talk to you soon!”
I put down the phone and bury my head in my hands.
“What am I going to do?” I say hopelessly. “What am I going to do, Suze? I can't tell them I've been fired. I just can't.” To my dismay, tears squeeze out of the sides of my eyes. “They're so proud of me. And I just keep letting them down.”
“You don't let them down!” retorts Suze hotly. “It wasn't your fault that stupid Morning Coffee completely overreacted. And I bet they're regretting it now. I mean, look at her!”
She turns up the sound, and Clare's voice drones sternly through the room. “Those who fail to provide for their own retirement are the equivalent of leeches on the rest of us.”
“I say,” says Rory. “Isn't that a bit harsh?”
“I mean, listen to her!” says Suze. “She's awful!”
“Maybe she is,” I say after a pause. “But even if they get rid of her too they'll never ask me back. It would be like saying they made a mistake.”
“They have made a mistake!”
The phone rings again and she looks at me. “Are you in or out?”
“Out. And you don't know when I'll be back.”
“OK . . .” She picks up the phone. “Hello? Sorry, Becky's out at the moment.”
“Wendy, you've made every mistake possible,” Clare Edwards is saying on the screen. “Have you never heard of a deposit account? And as for remortgaging your house to buy a boat . . .”
“No, I don't know when she'll be back,” says Suze. “Would you like me to take a message?” She picks up a pen and starts writing. “OK . . . fine . . . yes. Yes, I'll tell her. Thanks.”
“So,” I say as she puts the phone down. “Who was that?”
And I know it's stupid—but as I look up at her, I can't help feeling a hot flicker of hope. Maybe it was a producer from another show. Maybe it was someone wanting to offer me my own column. Maybe it was John Gavin, ringing to apologize and offer me free, unlimited overdraft facilities. Maybe it was the one phone call that will make everything all right.
“It was Mel. Luke's assistant.”
“Oh.” I stare at her in apprehension. “What did she want?”
“Apparently some parcel has arrived at the office, addressed to you. From the States. From Barnes & Noble.”
I stare at her blankly—then, with a pang, suddenly remember that trip to Barnes & Noble I made with Luke. I bought a whole pile of coffee-table books, and Luke suggested I send them back on the company courier bill instead of lugging them around. It seems like a million years ago now.
“Oh yes, I know what that is.” I hesitate. “Did she . . . mention Luke?”
“No,” says Suze apologetically. “She just said pop in anytime you want. And she said she was really sorry about what happened . . . and if you ever want a chat, just call.”
“Right.” I hunch my shoulders up, hug my knees, and turn up the television volume.
For the next few days, I tell myself I won't bother going. I don't really want those books anymore. And I can't quite cope with the thought of having to go in there—having to face all the curious looks from Luke's staff, and hold my head up and pretend to be OK.
But then, gradually, I start to think I'd like to see Mel. She's the only one I can talk to who really knows Luke, and it would be nice to have a heart-to-heart with her. Plus, she might have heard something of what's going on in the States. I know Luke and I are effectively over, I know it's really nothing to do with me anymore. But I still can't help caring about whether he's got his deal or not.
So four days later, at about six o'clock in the evening, I walk slowly toward the doors of Brandon Communications, my heart thumping. Luckily it's the friendly doorman on duty. He's seen me visit enough times to just wave me in, so I don't have to have any big announcements of my arrival.
I walk out of the lift at the fifth floor, and to my surprise, there's no one on reception. How weird. I wait for a few seconds—then wander past the desk and down the main corridor. Gradually my steps slow down—and a puzzled frown comes to my face. There's something wrong here. Something different.
It's too quiet. The whole place is practically dead. When I look across the open-plan space, most of the chairs are empty. There aren't any phones ringing; there aren't any people striding about; there aren't brainstorming sessions going on.