You bet I am. I’m wearing my smartest black suit, and tights and high heels, with an FT under my arm, obviously. And I’m carrying the briefcase with the combination lock, which my mum gave me one Christmas and which I’ve never used. This is partly because it’s really heavy and bumpy — and partly because I’ve forgotten the combination, so I can’t actually open it. But it looks the part. And that’s what counts.

Jill Foxton, the woman I’m meeting, was really nice on the phone when I told her about wanting to change careers, and sounded pretty impressed by all my experience. I quickly typed up a curriculum vitae and e-mailed it to her — and, OK, I padded it a bit, but that’s what they expect, isn’t it? It’s all about selling yourself. And it worked, because she phoned back only about ten minutes after receiving it, and asked if I’d come in and see her, as she thought she had some interesting opportunities for me.

I was so excited, I could barely keep still. I went straight into Philip and told him I wanted to take tomorrow off to take my nephew to the zoo — and he didn’t suspect a thing. He’s going to be gobsmacked when he finds out I’ve turned overnight into a high-flying futures broker.

“Hi,” I say confidently to the woman at reception. “I’m here to see Jill Foxton. It’s Rebecca Bloomwood.”

“Of. .”

I can’t say Successful Saving. It might get back to Philip that I’ve been looking for a new job.

“Of. . just of nowhere, really,” I say and give a relaxed little laugh. “Just Rebecca Bloomwood. I have a ten o’clock appointment.”

“Fine,” she says, and smiles. “Take a seat.”

I pick up my briefcase and walk over to the black leather chairs, trying not to give away how nervous I feel. I sit down, run my eye hopefully over the magazines on the coffee table (but there’s nothing interesting, just things like The Economist), then lean back and look around. This foyer is pretty impressive, I have to admit. There’s a fountain in the middle, and glass stairs rising in a curve — and, what seems like several miles away, I can see lots of state-of-the-art lifts. Not just one lift, or two — but about ten. Blimey. This place must be huge.

“Rebecca?” A blond girl in a pale trouser suit is suddenly in front of me. Nice suit, I think. Very nice suit.

“Hi!” I say. “Jill!”

“No, I’m Amy,” she smiles. “Jill’s assistant.”

Wow. That’s pretty cool. Sending your assistant to pick up your visitors, as if you’re too grand and busy to do it yourself. Maybe that’s what I’ll get my assistant to do when I’m an important futures broker and Elly comes over for lunch. Or maybe I’ll have a male assistant — and we’ll fall in love! God, it would be just like a movie. The high-flying woman and the cute but sensitive. .

“Rebecca?” I come to and see Amy staring at me curiously. “Are you ready?”

“Of course!” I say gaily, and pick up my briefcase. As we stride off over the glossy floor, I surreptitiously run my gaze over Amy’s trouser suit again — and find my eye landing on an Emporio Armani label. I can’t quite believe it. The assistants wear Emporio Armani! So what’s Jill herself going to be in? Couture Dior? God, I love this place already.

We go up to the sixth floor and begin to walk along endless carpeted corridors.

“So you want to be a futures broker,” says Amy after a while.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s the idea.”

“And you already know a bit about it.”

“Well, you know.” I give a modest smile. “I’ve written extensively on most areas of finance, so I do feel quite well equipped.”

“That’s good,” says Amy, and gives me a smile. “Some people turn up with no idea. Then Jill asks them a few standard questions, and. .” She makes a gesture with her hand. I don’t know what it means, but it doesn’t look good.

“Right!” I say, forcing myself to speak in an easy tone. “So — what sort of questions?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about!” says Amy. “She’ll probably ask you. . oh, I don’t know. Something like ‘How do you trade a butterfly?’ or, ‘What’s the difference between open outlay and OR?’ Or, ‘How would you calculate the expiry date of a futures instrument?’ Really basic stuff.”

“Right,” I say, and swallow. “Great.”

Something in me is telling me to turn and run — but we’ve already arrived at a pale blond-wood door.

“Here we are,” says Amy, and smiles at me. “Would you like tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, please,” I say, wishing I could say “A stiff gin, please.” Amy knocks on the door, opens it and ushers me in, and says, “Rebecca Bloomwood.”

“Rebecca!” says a dark-haired woman behind the desk, and gets up to shake my hand.

To my slight surprise, Jill is not nearly as well dressed as Amy. She’s wearing a blue, rather mumsy-looking suit, and boring court shoes. But still, never mind, she’s the boss. And her office is pretty amazing.

“It’s very good to meet you,” she says, gesturing to a chair in front of her desk. “And let me say straight away, I was extremely impressed by your CV.”

“Really?” I say, feeling relief creep over me. That can’t be bad, can it? Extremely impressed. Maybe it won’t matter I don’t know the answers to those questions.

“Particularly by your languages,” adds Jill. “Very good. You do seem to be one of those rare breeds, an all-rounder.”

“Well, my French is really only conversational,” I say modestly. “Voici la plume de ma tante, and all that!”

Jill gives an appreciative laugh, and I beam back at her.

“But Finnish!” she says, reaching for the cup of coffee on her desk. “That’s quite unusual.”

I keep smiling and hope we move off the subject of languages. To be honest, “fluent in Finnish” went in because I thought “conversational French” looked a bit bare on its own. And after all, who speaks Finnish, for God’s sake? No one.

“And your financial knowledge,” she says, pulling my CV toward her. “You seemed to have covered a lot of different areas during your years in financial journalism.” She looks up. “What attracts you to derivatives in particular?”

What? What’s she talking about? Oh yes. Derivatives. They’re futures, aren’t they? And they have something to do with the price of a security. Or a commodity. Something like that.

“Well,” I begin confidently — and am interrupted as Amy comes in with a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” I say, and look up, hoping we’ve moved onto something else. But she’s still waiting for an answer. “I think the excitement of futures is the. . um, their speculative nature, combined with the ability to control risk with hedge positions,” I hear myself saying.

Wow. How on earth did I come out with that?

“They’re an extremely challenging area,” I add quickly, “and I think. .” What do I think? Should I throw in a quick reference to butterflies or expiry dates or something? Or Barings Bank? Probably better not. “I think I’d be well suited to that particular field,” I finish at last.

“I see,” says Jill Foxton, and leans back in her chair. “The reason I ask is, there’s a position we have in banking, which I think might also suit you. I don’t know what you would feel about that.”

A position in banking? Has she actually found me a job? I don’t believe it!

“Well, that would be fine by me,” I say, trying not to sound too joyful. “I mean, I’d miss the futures — but then, banking’s good, too, isn’t it?”

Jill laughs. I think she thinks I’m joking or something.

“The client is a triple-A-rated foreign bank, looking for a new recruit in the London arm of their debt financing division.”

“Right,” I say intelligently.

“I don’t know whether you’re familiar with the principles of European back-to-back arbitrage?”

“Absolutely,” I say confidently. “I wrote an article on that very subject last year.”

Which isn’t quite true, but I can always read a book about it, can’t I?

“Obviously I’m not trying to rush you into any decision,” she says, “but if you do want a change of career, I’d say this would be perfect for you. There’d be an interview, but I can’t see any problems there.” She smiles at me. “And we’ll be able to negotiate you a very attractive package.”

“Really?” Suddenly, I can’t quite breathe. She’s going to negotiate an attractive package. For me!

“Oh yes,” says Jill. “Well, you must realize you’re a bit of a one-off.” She gives me a confidential smile. “You know, when your CV came through yesterday, I actually whooped! I mean, the coincidence!”

“Absolutely,” I say, beaming at her. God, this is fantastic. This is a bloody dream come true. I’m going to be a banker! And not just any old banker — a triple-A-rated banker!

“So,” says Jill casually. “Shall we go and meet your new employer?”

“What?” I say in astonishment, and a little smile spreads over her face.

“I didn’t want to tell you until I’d met you — but the recruitment director of Bank of Helsinki is over here for a meeting with our managing director. I just know he’s going to love you. We can have the whole thing wrapped up by this afternoon!”

“Excellent!” I say, and get to my feet. Ha-ha-ha! I’m going to be a banker!

It’s only as we’re halfway down the corridor that her words begin to impinge on my mind. Bank of Helsinki.

Bank of Helsinki. That doesn’t mean. . Surely she doesn’t think. .

“I can’t wait to hear the two of you talking away in Finnish,” says Jill pleasantly, as we begin to climb a flight of stairs. “It’s not a language I know at all.”

Oh my God. Oh my God. No.

“But then, my languages have always been hopeless,” she adds comfortably. “I’m not talented in that department, not like you!”