But as I reach the little parade of shops I feel a stab of nerves, and without quite meaning to, I slow my walk to a funereal pace. Maybe I’ll just buy myself a Mars Bar and go home again. Or a Mint Aero, if they’ve got them.

Cautiously, I push at the door and wince at the ping! as it opens. I really don’t want to draw attention to myself this morning. What if the guy behind the counter has read my article and thinks it’s rubbish? This is nerve-racking. I should never have become a journalist. I should have become a beautician, like I always wanted to. Maybe it’s not too late. I’ll retrain, open my own boutique. .

“Hello, Becky!”

I look up and feel my face jerk in surprise. Martin Webster’s standing at the counter, holding a copy of The Daily World. “I just happened to be awake,” he explains sheepishly. “Thought I’d just come down, have a little look. .”

“Oh,” I say. “Erm. . me too.” I give a nonchalant shrug. “Since I was awake anyway. .”

My eye falls on the newspaper and I feel my stomach flip over. I’m going to expire with nerves. Please, just kill me quickly.

“So — what. . what’s it like?” I say in a strangled voice.

“Well,” says Martin, gazing at the page as though perplexed. “It’s certainly big.” He turns the paper round to face me, and I nearly keel over. There, in full color, is a picture of Martin and Janice staring miserably up at the camera, below the headline couple cheated by fat cats at flagstaff life.

Shaking slightly, I take the paper from Martin. My eye skips across the page to the first column of text. . and there it is! “By Rebecca Bloomwood.” That’s my name! That’s me!

There’s a ping at the door of the shop, and we both look round. And there, to my utter astonishment, is Dad.

“Oh,” he says, and gives an embarrassed little cough. “Your mother wanted me to buy a copy. And since I was awake anyway. .”

“So was I,” says Martin quickly.

“Me too,” I say.

“Well,” says Dad. “So — is it in?”

“Oh yes,” I say, “it’s in.” I turn the paper round so he can see it.

“Gosh,” he says. “It’s big, isn’t it?”

“The photo’s good, don’t you think?” says Martin enthusiastically. “Brings out the flowers in our curtains beautifully.”

“Yes, the photo’s great,” I agree.

I’m not going to demean myself by asking what he thought of the article itself. If he wants to compliment my writing, he will. If he doesn’t — then it really doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m proud of it.

“And Janice looks very nice, I thought,” says Martin, still gazing at the photograph.

“Very nice,” agrees Dad. “If a little mournful.”

“You see, these professionals, they know how to light a shot,” says Martin. “The way the sunlight falls just here, on her—”

“What about my article?” I wail piteously. “Did you like that?”

“Oh, it’s very good!” says Martin. “Sorry, Becky, I should have said! I haven’t read it all yet, but it seems to capture the situation exactly. Makes me out to be quite a hero!” He frowns. “Although I never did fight in the Falklands, you know.”

“Oh well,” I say hurriedly. “That’s neither here nor there, really.”

“So you wrote all this yesterday?” says Dad. “On my typewriter?” He seems astounded.

“Yes,” I say smugly. “It looks good, doesn’t it? Have you seen my byline? ‘By Rebecca Bloomwood.’ ”

“Janice’ll be thrilled,” says Martin. “I’m going to buy two copies.”

“I’m going to buy three,” says Dad. “Your granny will love to see this.”

“And I’ll buy one,” I say. “Or two, perhaps.” I carelessly reach for a handful and plonk them on the counter.

“Six copies?” says the cashier. “Are you sure?”

“I need them for my records,” I say, and blush slightly.



When we get home, Mum and Janice are both waiting at our front door, desperate to see a copy.

“My hair!” wails Janice as soon as she sees the picture. “It looks terrible! What have they done to it?”

“No, it doesn’t, love!” protests Martin. “You look very nice.”

“Your curtains look lovely, Janice,” says Mum, looking over her shoulder.

“They do, don’t they?” says Martin eagerly. “That’s just what I said.”

I give up. What kind of family have I got, that are more interested in curtains than top financial journalism? Anyway, I don’t care. I’m mesmerized by my byline. “By Rebecca Bloomwood.” “By Rebecca Bloomwood.”

After everyone’s peered at the paper, Mum invites Janice and Martin round to our house for breakfast, and Dad goes and puts on some coffee. There’s a rather festive air to the proceedings, and everyone keeps laughing a lot. I don’t think any of us can quite believe that Janice and Martin are in The Daily World. (And me, of course. “By Rebecca Bloomwood.”)

At ten o’clock, I slope off and ring up Eric Foreman. Just casually, you know. To let him know I’ve seen it.

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” he says cheerfully. “The editor’s really going for this series, so if you come up with any more stories like this just give me a shout. I like your style. Just right for The Daily World.”

“Excellent,” I say, feeling a glow of pleasure.

“Oh, and while I’m at it,” he adds, “you’d better give me your bank details.”

My stomach gives a nasty lurch. Why does Eric Foreman want my bank details? Shit, is he going to check that my own finances are in order or something? Is he going to run a credit check on me?

“Everything’s done by transfer these days,” he’s saying. “Four hundred quid. That all right?”

What? What’s he—

Oh my God, he’s going to pay me. But of course he is. Of course he is!

“That’s fine,” I hear myself say. “No problem. I’ll just, ahm. . give you my account number, shall I?”

Four hundred quid! I think dazedly as I scrabble for my checkbook. Just like that! I can’t quite believe it.

“Excellent,” says Eric Foreman, writing the details down. “I’ll sort that out for you with Accounts.” Then he pauses. “Tell me, would you be in the market for writing general features? Human interest stories, that kind of thing?”

Would I be in the market? Is he kidding?

“Sure,” I say, trying not to sound too thrilled. “In fact. . I’d probably prefer it to finance.”

“Oh right,” he says. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for bits that might suit you. As I say, I think you’ve got the right style for us.”

“Great,” I say. “Thanks.”

As I put the phone down, there’s a huge smile on my face. I’ve got the right style for The Daily World! Hah!

The phone rings again, and I pick it up, wondering if it’s Eric Foreman offering me some more work already.

“Hello, Rebecca Bloomwood,” I say in a businesslike voice.

“Rebecca,” says Luke Brandon’s curt voice — and my heart freezes. “Could you please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Shit.

He sounds really angry. For an instant I’m paralyzed. My throat feels dry; my hand is sweaty round the receiver. Oh God. What am I going to say? What am I going to say to him?

But hang on a minute. I haven’t done anything wrong.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, playing for time. Keep calm, I tell myself. Calm and cool.

“Your tawdry effort in The Daily World,” he says scathingly. “Your one-sided, unbalanced, probably libelous little story.”

For a second I’m so shocked I can’t speak. Tawdry? Libelous?

“It’s not tawdry!” I splutter at last. “It’s a good piece. And it’s certainly not libelous. I can prove everything I said.”

“And I suppose getting the other side of the story would have been inconvenient,” he snaps. “I suppose you were too busy writing your purple prose to approach Flagstaff Life and ask for their version of events. You’d rather have a good story than spoil it by trying to give a balanced picture.”

“I tried to get the other side of the story!” I exclaim furiously. “I phoned your PR company yesterday and told them I was writing the piece!”

There’s silence.

“Who did you speak to?” says Luke.

“Alicia,” I reply. “I asked her a very clear question about Flagstaff’s policy on switching funds, and she told me she’d get back to me. I told her I had an urgent deadline.”

Luke gives an impatient sigh. “What the fuck were you doing, speaking to Alicia? Flagstaff’s my client, not hers.”

“I know! I said that to her! But she said you were a very busy man and she could deal with me.”

“Did you tell her you were writing for The Daily World?”

“No,” I say, and feel myself flush slightly red. “I didn’t specify who I was writing for. But I would have told her if she’d asked me. She just didn’t bother. She just assumed I couldn’t possibly be doing anything important.” In spite of myself, my voice is rising in emotion. “Well, she was wrong, wasn’t she? You were all wrong. And maybe now you’ll start treating everybody with respect. Not just the people you think are important.”

I break off, panting slightly, and there’s a bemused silence.

“Rebecca,” says Luke at last, “if this is about what happened between us that day — if this is some kind of petty revenge—”

I’m really going to explode now.

“Don’t you bloody insult me!” I yell. “Don’t you bloody try and make this personal! This is about two innocent people being hoodwinked by one of your big-shot clients, nothing else. I told the truth, and if you didn’t have a chance to respond, it’s your own company’s incompetence that’s to blame. I was completely professional, I gave you every opportunity to put out your side of the story. Every opportunity. And if you blew it, that’s not my fault.”

And without giving him the chance to reply, I slam the phone down.