I’m feeling quite shaken as I go back into the kitchen. To think I ever liked Luke Brandon. To think I table-hopped with him. To think I let him lend me twenty quid. He’s just an arrogant, self-centered, chauvinistic—

“Telephone!” says Mum. “Shall I get it?”

It’ll be him again, won’t it? Ringing back to apologize. Well, he needn’t think I’m that easily won round. I stand by every word I said. And I’ll tell him so. In fact, I’ll add that—

“It’s for you, Becky,” says Mum.

“Fine,” I say coolly, and make my way to the telephone. I don’t hurry; I don’t panic. I feel completely in control.

“Hello?” I say.

“Rebecca? Eric Foreman here.”

“Oh!” I say in surprise. “Hi!”

“Bit of news about your piece.”

“Oh yes?” I say, trying to sound calm. But my stomach’s churning. What if Luke Brandon’s spoken to him? Oh shit, I did check all the facts, didn’t I?

“I’ve just had Morning Coffee on the phone,” he says. “You know, the TV program? Rory and Emma. They’re interested in your story.”

“What?” I say stupidly.

“There’s a new series they’re doing on finance, ‘Managing Your Money.’ They get some financial expert in every week, tell the viewers how to keep tabs on their dosh.” Eric Foreman lowers his voice. “Frankly, they’re running out of stuff to talk about. They’ve done mortgages, store cards, pensions, all the usual cobblers. .”

“Right,” I say, trying to sound focused. But as his words slowly sink in, I’m a bit dazed. Rory and Emma read my article? Rory and Emma themselves? I have a sudden vision of them holding the paper together, jostling for a good view.

But of course, that’s silly, isn’t it? They’d have a copy each.

“So, anyway, they want to have you on the show tomorrow morning,” Eric Foreman’s saying. “Talk about this windfall story, warn their viewers to take care. You interested in that kind of thing? If not, I can easily tell them you’re too busy.”

“No!” I say quickly. “No. Tell them I’m. .” I swallow. “I’m interested.”

As I put down the phone, I feel faint. I’m going to be on television.


BANK OF HELSINKI

Helsinki House 124 Lombard Street

London EC2D 9YF


Rebecca Bloomwood c/o William Green Recruitment 39 Farringdon Square London EC4 7TD


27 March 2000


Dere Rebecca Bloomwood: Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish “Daily World” Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish Finnish good-bye,Jan Virtanen

Nineteen


THE CAR TO TAKE me to the television studios arrives promptly at seven-thirty the next morning. When the doorbell rings, Mum, Dad, and I all jump, even though we’ve been waiting in a tense silence for ten minutes.

“Well,” says Dad gruffly, glancing at his watch. “They’re here, anyway.”

Ever since I told him about the arrangements, Dad’s been predicting that the car won’t turn up and that he’ll have to drive me to the studios himself. He even worked out a route last night, and phoned up Uncle Malcolm as a standby. (To be honest, I think he was quite looking forward to it.)

“Oh, Becky,” says Mum in a trembling voice. “Good luck, darling.” She looks at me, then shakes her head. “Our little Becky, on television. I can’t believe it.”

I start to get up, but Dad puts out a restraining arm.

“Now, before you answer the door, Becky,” he says. “You are sure, aren’t you? About the risk you’re taking.” He glances at Mum, who bites her lip.

“I’ll be fine!” I say, trying to sound as soothing as possible. “Honestly, Dad, we’ve been over it all.”

Last night, it suddenly occurred to Dad that if I went on the telly, my stalker would know where I was. At first he was adamant I’d have to call the whole thing off — and it took an awful lot of persuasion to convince him and Mum I’d be perfectly safe in the TV studios. They were even talking about hiring a bodyguard, can you believe it? I mean, what on earth would I look like, turning up with a bodyguard?

Actually, I’d look pretty cool and mysterious, wouldn’t I? That might have been quite a good idea.

The doorbell rings again and I leap to my feet.

“Well,” says Dad. “You just be careful.”

“I will, don’t worry!” I say, picking up my bag. I walk to the door calmly, trying not to give away how excited I feel. Inside I feel as light as a bubble.

I just can’t believe how well everything’s going. Not only am I going to be on the telly, but everyone’s being so nice to me! Yesterday I had several phone conversations with an assistant producer of Morning Coffee, who’s a really sweet girl called Zelda. We went over exactly what I was going to say on the program, then she arranged for a car to come and pick me up — and when I told her I was at my parents’ house with none of my clothes handy, she thought for a bit — then said I could choose something to wear from the wardrobe. I mean, how cool is that? Choosing any outfit I like from the wardrobe! Maybe they’ll let me keep it afterward, too.

As I open the front door, my stomach gives an excited leap. There, waiting in the drive, is a portly, middle-aged man in a blue blazer and cap, standing next to a shiny black car. My own private chauffeur! This just gets better and better.

“Miss Bloomwood?” says the driver.

“Yes,” I say, unable to stop myself from grinning in delight. I’m about to reach for the door handle — but he gets there before me, opens the car door with a flourish, and stands to attention, waiting for me to get in. God, this is like being a film star or something!

I glance back toward the house and see Mum and Dad standing on the front step, both looking utterly gobsmacked.

“Well — bye then!” I say, trying to sound casual, as though I always ride around in a chauffeur-driven car. “See you later!”

“Becky, is that you?” comes a voice from next door, and Janice appears on the other side of the hedge in her dressing gown. Her eyes grow large as they take in the car and she glances at Mum, who raises her shoulders, as though to say “I know, isn’t it unbelievable?”

“Morning, Janice,” says Dad.

“Morning, Graham,” says Janice dazedly. “Oh, Becky! I’ve never seen anything like it. In all the years. . If Tom could only see you. .” She breaks off and looks at Mum. “Have you taken any photographs?”

“We haven’t!” says Mum in dismay. “It didn’t even occur to us. Graham, quick — go and get the camera.”

“No, wait, I’ll get our camcorder!” says Janice. “It won’t take me two ticks. We could have the car arriving in the drive, and Becky walking out of the front door. . and maybe we could use The Four Seasons as the soundtrack, and then cut straight to. .”

“No!” I say hastily, seeing a flicker of amusement pass across the face of the driver. And I was doing so well at looking nonchalant and professional. “We haven’t got time for any pictures. I have to get to the studios!”

“Yes,” says Janice, suddenly looking anxious. “Yes, you don’t want to be late.” She glances fearfully at her watch, as though afraid the program might already have started. “It’s on at eleven, isn’t it?”

“Eleven o’clock the program starts,” says Dad. “Set the video for five to, that’s what I’ve been telling people.”

“That’s what we’ll do,” says Janice. “Just in case.” She gives a little sigh. “I shan’t dare to go to the loo all morning, just in case I miss it!”

There’s an awed silence as I get into the car. The driver closes the door smartly, then walks around to the driver’s door. I press the button to lower my window and grin out at Mum and Dad.

“Becky, darling, what will you do afterward?” says Mum. “Come back here or go back to the flat?”

Immediately I feel my smile falter, and look down, pretending to fiddle with the window controls. I don’t want to think about afterward.

In fact, I can’t even visualize afterward. I’m going to be on the telly. . and that’s as far as it goes. The rest of my life is shut securely away in a box at the back of my head and I don’t even want to remember it’s there.

“I. . I’m not sure,” I say. “I’ll see what happens.”

“They’ll probably take you out to lunch afterward,” says Dad knowledgeably. “These showbiz types are always having lunch with each other.”

“Liquid lunches,” puts in Janice, and gives a little laugh.

“At The Ivy,” says Mum. “That’s where all the actors meet up, isn’t it?”

“The Ivy’s old hat!” retorts Dad. “They’ll take her to the Groucho Club.”

“The Groucho Club!” says Janice, clasping her hands. “Isn’t that where Kate Moss goes?”

This is getting ridiculous.

“We’d better go,” I say, and the driver nods.

“Good luck, sweetheart,” calls Dad. I close the window and lean back, and the car purrs out of the drive.



For a while, we drive in silence. I keep casually glancing out of the window to see if anyone’s looking at me in my chauffeur-driven car and wondering who I am (that new girl on EastEnders, perhaps). Although we’re whizzing along the highway so fast, I probably look like a blur.