I flash her a little smile and keep walking, without missing a step. But I can hardly breathe. Shit. What am I going to do? What the fuck am I going to do?

We turn a corner and begin to walk calmly down another corridor. And I’m doing pretty well. As long as we just keep walking, I’m OK.

“Was Finnish a hard language to learn?” asks Jill.

“Not that hard,” I hear myself saying in a scratchy voice. “My. . my father’s half Finnish.”

“Yes, I thought it must be something like that,” says Jill. “I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you learn at school, is it?” And she gives a jolly little laugh.

It’s all right for her, I think desperately. She’s not the one being led to her death. Oh God, this is terrible. People keep passing us and glancing at me and smiling, as if to say “So that’s the Finnish-speaker!”

Why did I put I was fluent in Finnish? Why?

“All right?” says Jill. “Not nervous?”

“Oh no!” I say at once, and force a grin onto my face. “Of course I’m not nervous!”

Maybe I’ll be able to busk it, I think suddenly. I mean, the guy won’t conduct the whole bloody interview in Finnish, will he? He’ll just say “Hašallø,” or whatever it is, and I’ll say “Hašallø” back, and then before he can say anything else, I’ll quickly say, “You know, my technical Finnish is a bit rusty these days. Would you mind if we spoke in English?” And he’ll say. .

“Nearly there,” says Jill, and smiles at me.

“Good,” I say brightly, and clasp my sweaty hand more tightly round my briefcase handle. Oh God. Please save me from this. Please. .

“Here we are!” she says, and stops at a door marked “Conference Room.” She knocks twice, then pushes it open. There’s a roomful of people sitting round a table, and they all turn to look at me.

“Jan Virtanen,” she says. “I’d like you to meet Rebecca Bloomwood.”

A bearded man rises from his chair, give me a huge smile, and extends his hand.

“Neiti Bloomwood,” he says cheerfully. “Nautin erittain paljon tapaamisestamme. Onko oiken, etta teilla on jonkinlainen yhteys Suomeen?”

I stare speechlessly at him. My face is glowing, as though I’m consumed with happiness. Everyone in the room is waiting for me to answer, I’ve got to say something.

“I. . erm. . erm. . Hašallø!” I lift my hand in a friendly little wave and smile around the room.

But nobody smiles back.

“Erm. . I’ve just got to. .” I start backing away. “Just got to. .”

I turn. And I run.

Eleven


I ARRIVE BACK DOWN in the foyer, panting slightly. Which is not surprising, since I’ve just run about a half marathon along endless corridors, trying to get out of this place. I descend the final flight of stairs (couldn’t risk waiting for the elevators in case the Finnish brigade suddenly turned up), then pause to catch my breath. I straighten my skirt, transfer my briefcase from one sweaty hand to the other, and begin to walk calmly across the foyer toward the door, as though I’ve come out of an utterly ordinary, utterly unspectacular meeting. I don’t look right and I don’t look left. I don’t think about the fact that I’ve just completely shredded any chances I had of becoming a top City banker. All I can think about is getting to that glass door and getting outside before anyone can. .

“Rebecca!” comes a voice behind my voice, and I freeze. Shit. They’ve got me.

“Hašallø!” I gulp, turning round. “Hašall. . Oh. Hell. . Hello.”

It’s Luke Brandon.

It’s Luke Brandon, standing right in front of me, looking down at me with that amused smile he always seems to have.

“This isn’t the sort of place I would have expected to find you,” he says. “You’re not after a City job, are you?”

And why shouldn’t I be? Doesn’t he think I’m clever enough?

“Actually,” I say haughtily, “I’m thinking of a change of career. Maybe into foreign banking. Or futures broking.”

“Really?” he says. “That’s a shame.”

A shame? What does that mean? Why is it a shame? As I look up at him, his dark eyes meet mine, and I feel a little flicker, deep inside me. Out of nowhere, Clare’s words pop into my head. Luke Brandon was asking me if you had a boyfriend.

“What. .” I clear my throat. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Oh, I recruit from here quite often,” he says. “They’re very efficient. Soulless, but efficient.” He shrugs, then looks at my shiny briefcase. “Have they fixed you up with anything yet?”

“I’ve. . I’ve got a number of options open to me,” I say. “I’m just considering my next move.”

Which, to be honest, is straight out the door.

“I see,” he says, and pauses. “Did you take the day off to come here?”

“Yes,” I say. “Of course I did.”

What does he think? That I just sloped off for a couple of hours and said I was at a press conference?

Actually, that’s not a bad idea. I might try that next time.

“So — what are you up to now?” he asks.

Don’t say “nothing.” Never say “nothing.”

“Well, I’ve got some bits and pieces to do,” I say. “Calls to make, people to see. That kind of thing.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding. “Yes. Well. Don’t let me keep you.” He looks around the foyer. “And I hope it all works out for you, job-wise.”

“Thanks,” I say, giving him a businesslike smile.

And then he’s gone, walking off toward the doors, and I’m left holding my clunky briefcase, feeling just a bit disappointed. I wait until he’s disappeared, then wander slowly over to the doors myself and go out onto the street. And then I stop. To tell you the truth, I’m not quite sure what to do next. I’d kind of planned to spend the day ringing everyone up and telling them about my fab new job as a futures broker. Instead of which. . Well, anyway. Let’s not think about that.

But I can’t stand still on the pavement outside William Green all day. People will start thinking I’m a piece of installation art or something. So eventually I begin walking along the street, figuring I’ll arrive at a tube soon enough and then I can decide what to do. I come to a corner and I’m just waiting for the traffic to stop, when a taxi pulls up beside me.

“I know you’re a very busy woman, with a lot to do,” comes Luke Brandon’s voice, and my head jerks up in shock. There he is, leaning out of the taxi window, his dark eyes crinkled up in a little smile. “But if you had the odd half-hour to spare — you wouldn’t be interested in doing a little shopping, would you?”



This day is unreal. Completely and utterly unreal.

I get into the taxi, put my clunky briefcase on the floor, and shoot a nervous look at Luke as I sit down. I’m already slightly regretting this. What if he asks me a question about interest rates? What if he wants to talk about the Bundesbank or American growth prospects? But all he says is “Harrods, please,” to the driver.

As we zoom off, I can’t stop a smile coming to my face. I thought I was going to have to go home and be all miserable on my own — and instead, I’m on my way to Harrods, and someone else is paying. I mean, you can’t get more perfect than that.

As we drive along, I look out of the window at the crowded streets. Although it’s March, there are still a few sale signs in the shop windows left over from January, and I find myself peering at the displays, wondering if there are any bargains I might have missed. We pause outside a branch of Lloyds Bank. I look idly at the window, and at the queue of people inside, and hear myself saying “You know what? Banks should run January sales. Everyone else does.”

There’s silence and I look up, to see a look of amusement on Luke Brandon’s face.

“Banks?” he says.

“Why not?” I say defensively. “They could reduce their charges for a month or something. And so could building societies. Big posters in the windows, ‘Prices Slashed’. .” I think for a moment. “Or maybe they should have April sales, after the end of the tax year. Investment houses could do it, too. ‘Fifty percent off a selected range of funds.’ ”

“A unit trust sale,” says Luke Brandon slowly. “Reductions on all upfront charges.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Everyone’s a sucker for a sale. Even rich people.”

The taxi moves on again, and I gaze out at a woman in a gorgeous white coat, wondering where she got it. Maybe at Harrods. Maybe I should buy a white coat, too. I’ll wear nothing but white all winter. A snowy white coat and a white fur hat. People will start calling me the Girl in the White Coat.

When I look back again, Luke’s writing something down in a little notebook. He looks up and meets my eye for a moment, then says, “Rebecca, are you serious about leaving journalism?”

“Oh,” I say vaguely. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about leaving journalism. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“And you really think banking would suit you better?”

“Who knows?” I say, feeling a bit rattled at his tone. It’s all right for him. He doesn’t have to worry about his career — he’s got his own multimillion-pound company. I’ve only got my own multimillion-pound overdraft. “Elly Granger is leaving Investor’s Weekly News,” I add. “She’s joining Wetherby’s as a fund manager.”

“I heard,” he says. “Doesn’t surprise me. But you’re nothing like Elly Granger.”

Really? This comment intrigues me. If I’m not like Elly, who am I like, then? Someone really cool like Kristin Scott Thomas, maybe.

“You have imagination,” adds Luke. “She doesn’t.”

Wow! Now I really am gobsmacked. Luke Brandon thinks I have imagination? Gosh. That’s good, isn’t it. That’s quite flattering, really. You have imagination. Mmm, yes, I like that. Unless. .