“This is Lucy,” he says proudly, and pulls forward a slim girl with big blue eyes, holding about sixty-five carrier bags. And I don’t believe it. It’s the girl who was buying all that stuff in Ally Smith. The girl whose boyfriend was paying. Surely she didn’t mean. .

“You’re going out together?” I say stupidly. “You and her?”

“Yes,” says Tom, and grins at me. “Have been for some time now.”

But this doesn’t make any sense. Why haven’t Janice and Martin mentioned Tom’s girlfriend? They’ve mentioned every other bloody thing in his life.

And fancy Tom having a girlfriend!

“Hi,” says Lucy.

“Hi there,” I say. “I’m Rebecca. Next-door neighbor. Childhood friend. All that.”

“Oh, you’re Rebecca,” she says, and gives a swift glance at Tom.

What does that mean? Have they been talking about me? God, does Tom still fancy me? How embarrassing.

“That’s me!” I say brightly, and give a little laugh.

“You know, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,” says Lucy thoughtfully — and then her eyes crinkle in recognition. “You work at Ally Smith, don’t you?”

“No!” I say, a little too sharply.

“Oh,” she says. “I thought I saw you—”

God, I can’t have it going back to my parents that I work in a shop. They’ll think I’ve been lying about my entire life in London and that secretly I’m broke and living in squalor.

“Research,” I say quickly. “I’m a journalist, actually.”

“Rebecca’s a financial journalist,” says Tom. “Really knows her stuff.”

“Oh, right,” says Lucy, and I give her a supercilious smile.

“Mum and Dad always listen to Rebecca,” says Tom. “Dad was talking about it just the other day. Said you’d been very helpful on some financial matter. Switching funds or something.”

I nod vaguely, and give him a special, old-friends smile. Not that I’m jealous, or anything — but I do feel a little twinge seeing Tom smiling down at this Lucy character who, frankly, has very boring hair, even if her clothes are quite nice. Come to think of it, Tom’s wearing quite nice clothes himself. Oh, what’s going on? This is all wrong. Tom belongs in his starter home in Reigate, not prancing around expensive shops looking halfway decent.

“Anyway,” he says. “We must get going.”

“Train to catch?” I say patronizingly. “It must be hard, living so far out.”

“It’s not so bad,” says Lucy. “I commute to Wetherby’s every morning and it only takes forty minutes.”

“You work for Wetherby’s?” I say, aghast. Why am I surrounded by City high-flyers?

“Yes,” she says. “I’m one of their political advisers.”

What? What does that mean? Is she really brainy, or something? Oh God, this gets worse and worse.

“And we’re not catching our train just yet,” says Tom, smiling down at Lucy. “We’re off to Tiffany first. Choose a little something for Lucy’s birthday next week.” He lifts a hand and starts twisting a lock of her hair round his finger.

I can’t cope with this anymore. It’s not fair. Why haven’t I got a boyfriend to buy me stuff in Tiffany’s?

“Well, lovely to see you,” I gabble. “Give my love to your mum and dad. Funny they didn’t mention Lucy,” I can’t resist adding. “I saw them the other day, and they didn’t mention her once.”

I shoot an innocent glance at Lucy. But she and Tom are exchanging looks again.

“They probably didn’t want to—” begins Tom, and stops abruptly.

“What?” I say.

There’s a long, awkward silence. Then Lucy says, “Tom, I’ll just look in this shop window for a second,” and walks off, leaving the two of us alone.

God, what drama! I’m obviously the third person in their relationship.

“Tom, what’s going on?” I say, and give a little laugh.

But it’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s still hankering after me. And Lucy knows it.

“Oh God,” says Tom, and rubs his face. “Look, Rebecca, this isn’t easy for me. But the thing is, Mum and Dad are aware of your. . feelings for me. They didn’t want to mention Lucy to you, because they thought you’d be. .” He exhales sharply. “Disappointed.”

What? Is this some kind of joke? I have never been more dumbfounded in all my life. For a few seconds I can’t even move for astonishment.

“My feelings for you?” I stutter at last. “Are you joking?”

“Look, it’s pretty obvious,” he says, shrugging. “Mum and Dad told me how the other day, you kept on asking how I was, and all about my new house. .” There’s a slightly pitying look in his eye. Oh my God, I can’t stand this. How can he think. . “I really like you, Becky,” he adds. “I just don’t. .”

“I was being polite!” I roar. “I don’t fancy you!”

“Look,” he says. “Let’s just leave it, shall we?”

“But I don’t!” I cry furiously. “I never did fancy you! That’s why I didn’t go out with you when you asked me! When we were both sixteen, remember?”

I break off and look at him triumphantly — to see that his face hasn’t moved a bit. He isn’t listening. Or if he is, he’s thinking that the fact I’ve dragged in our teenage past means I’m obsessed by him. And the more I try to argue the point, the more obsessed he’ll think I am. Oh God, this is horrendous.

“OK,” I say, trying to gather together the remaining shreds of my dignity. “OK, we’re obviously not communicating here, so I’ll just leave you to it.” I glance over at Lucy, who’s looking in a shop window and obviously pretending not to be listening. “Honestly, I’m not after your boyfriend,” I call. “And I never was. Bye.”

And I stride off down the street, a nonchalant smile plastered stiffly across my face.



As I round the corner, however, the smile gradually slips, and I sit heavily down on a bench. I feel humiliated. Of course, the whole thing’s laughable. That Tom Webster should think I’m in love with him. Just serves me right for being too polite to his parents and feigning interest in his bloody limed oak units. Next time I’ll yawn loudly, or walk away. Or produce a boyfriend of my own.

I know all this. I know I shouldn’t care two hoots what Tom Webster or his girlfriend think. But even so. . I have to admit, I feel a bit low. Why haven’t I got a boyfriend? There isn’t even anyone I fancy at the moment. The last serious boyfriend I had was Robert Hayman, who sells advertising for Portfolio News, and we split up three months ago. And I didn’t even much like him. He used to call me “Love” and jokingly put his hands over my eyes during the rude bits in films. Even when I told him not to, he still kept doing it. It used to drive me mad. Just remembering it now makes me feel all tense and scratchy.

But still, he was a boyfriend, wasn’t he? He was someone to phone up during work, and go to parties with and use as ammunition against creeps. Maybe I shouldn’t have chucked him. Maybe he was all right.

I give a gusty sigh, stand up, and start walking along the street again. All in all, it hasn’t been a great day. I’ve lost a job and been patronized by Tom Webster. And now I haven’t got anything to do tonight. I thought I’d be too knackered after working all day, so I didn’t bother to organize anything.

Still, at least I’ve got twenty quid.

Twenty quid. I’ll buy myself a nice cappuccino and a chocolate brownie. And a couple of magazines.

And maybe something from Accessorize. Or some boots. In fact I really need some new boots — and I’ve seen some really nice ones in Hobbs with square toes and quite a low heel. I’ll go there after my coffee, and look at the dresses, too. God, I deserve a treat, after today. And I need some new tights for work, and a nail file. And maybe a book to read on the tube. .

By the time I join the queue at Starbucks, I feel happier already.


PGNI FIRST BANK VISA 7 Camel Square

Liverpool L1 5NP

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood

Flat 24 Burney Rd.London SW6 8FD


10 March 2000


Dear Ms. Bloomwood: PGNI First Bank VISA Card No. 1475839204847586 Thank you for your letter of 6 March.Your offer of a free subscription to Successful Saving magazine is most kind, as is your invitation to dinner at The Ivy. Unfortunately, employees of PGNI First Bank are prohibited from accepting such gifts.I look forward to receiving your outstanding payment of £105.40, as soon as possible.Yours sincerely,Peter Johnson Customer Accounts Executive

Ten


ON MONDAY MORNING I wake early, feeling rather hollow inside. My gaze flits to the pile of unopened carrier bags in the corner of my room and then quickly flits away again. I know I spent too much money on Saturday. I know I shouldn’t have bought two pairs of boots. I know I shouldn’t have bought that purple dress. In all, I spent. . Actually, I don’t want to think about how much I spent. Think about something else, quick, I instruct myself. Something else. Anything’ll do.

I’m well aware that at the back of my mind, thumping quietly like a drumbeat, are the twin horrors of Guilt and Panic.

Guilt Guilt Guilt Guilt.

Panic Panic Panic Panic.

If I let them, they’d swoop in and take over. I’d feel completely paralyzed with misery and fear. So the trick I’ve learned is simply not to listen. My mind is very well trained like that.

My other trick is to distract myself with different thoughts and activities. So I get up, switch the radio on, take a shower, and get dressed. The thumping’s still there at the back of my head, but gradually, gradually, it’s fading away. As I go into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee, I can barely hear it anymore. A cautious relief floods over me, like that feeling you get when a painkiller finally gets rid of your headache. I can relax. I’m going to be all right.