“So,” says the driver after a while. “You’re appearing on Morning Coffee, are you?”

“Yes, I am,” I say, and immediately feel a joyful smile plaster itself over my face. God, I must stop this. I bet Jeremy Paxman doesn’t start grinning inanely every time someone asks him if he’s appearing on University Challenge.

“So what’re you on for?” says the driver, interrupting my thoughts.

I’m about to reply “To be famous and maybe get some free clothes,” when I realize what he means.

“A financial story,” I say coolly. “I wrote a piece in The Daily World, and the producers read it and wanted me on the show.”

“Been on television before?”

“No,” I admit reluctantly. “No, I haven’t.”

We pull up at some lights and the driver turns round in his seat to survey me.

“You’ll be fine,” he says. “Just don’t let the nerves get to you.”

“Nerves?” I say, and give a little laugh. “I’m not nervous! I’m just. . looking forward to it.”

“Glad to hear it,” says the driver, turning back. “You’ll be OK, then. Some people, they get onto that sofa, thinking they’re fine, relaxed, happy as a clam. . then they see that red light, and it hits them that 2.5 million people around the country are all watching them. Makes some people start to panic.”

“Oh,” I say after a slight pause. “Well. . I’m nothing like them! I’ll be fine!”

“Good,” says the driver.

“Good,” I echo, a little less certainly, and look out of the window.

I’ll be fine. Of course I will. I’ve never been nervous in my life before, and I’m certainly not going to start. .

Two point five million people.

Gosh. When you think about it — that is quite a lot, isn’t it? Two point five million people, all sitting at home, staring at the screen. Staring at my face. Waiting for what I’m going to say next.

OK, don’t think about it. The important thing is just to keep remembering how well prepared I am. I rehearsed for ages in front of the mirror last night and I know what I’m going to say practically by heart.

It all has to be very basic and simple, Zelda said — because apparently 76 percent of the Morning Coffee audience are housewives looking after toddlers, who have very short attention spans. She kept apologizing for what she called the “dumbing-down effect” and saying a financial expert like myself must feel really frustrated by it — and of course, I agreed with her.

But to be honest, I’m quite relieved. In fact, the more dumbed down the better, as far as I’m concerned. I mean, writing a Daily World article with all my notes to hand was one thing, but answering tricky questions on live TV is quite another.

So anyway, I’m going to start off by saying “If you were offered a choice between a carriage clock and £20,000, which would you choose?” Rory or Emma will reply, “Twenty thousand pounds, of course!” and I’ll say, “Exactly. Twenty thousand pounds.” I’ll pause briefly, to let that figure sink into the audience’s mind, and then I’ll say, “Unfortunately, when Flagstaff Life offered their customers a carriage clock to transfer their savings, they didn’t tell them that if they did so, they would lose a £20,000 windfall!”

That sounds quite good, don’t you think? Rory and Emma will ask a few very easy questions like “What can people do to protect themselves?” and I’ll give nice simple answers. And right at the end, just to keep it light, we’re going to talk about all the different things you could buy with £20,000.

Actually, that’s the bit I’m looking forward to most of all. I’ve already thought of loads of things. Did you know, with £20,000 you could buy forty Gucci watches, and have enough left over for a bag?



The Morning Coffee studios are in Maida Vale, and as we draw near to the gates, familiar from the opening credits of the show, I feel a dart of excitement. I’m actually going to be on television!

The doorman waves us through the barrier, we pull up outside a pair of huge double doors, and the driver opens the door for me. As I get out, my legs are shaking slightly, but I force myself to walk confidently up the steps, into the reception hall, and up to the desk.

“I’m here for Morning Coffee,” I say, and give a little laugh as I realize what I’ve just said. “I mean. .”

“I know what you mean,” says the receptionist, kindly but wearily. She looks up my name on a list, jabs a number into her phone, and says, “Jane? Rebecca Bloomwood’s here.” Then she gestures to a row of squashy chairs and says, “Someone will be with you shortly.”

I walk over to the seating area and sit down opposite a middle-aged woman with lots of wild dark hair and a big amber necklace round her neck. She’s lighting up a cigarette, and even though I don’t really smoke anymore, I suddenly feel as though I could do with one myself.

Not that I’m nervous or anything. I just fancy a cigarette.

“Excuse me,” calls the receptionist. “This is a no-smoking area.”

“Damn,” says the woman in a raspy voice. She takes a long drag, then stubs the cigarette out on a saucer and smiles at me conspiratorially. “Are you a guest on the show?” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “Are you?”

The woman nods. “Promoting my new novel, Blood Red Sunset.” She lowers her voice to a thrilling throb. “A searing tale of love, greed, and murder, set in the ruthless world of South American money launderers.”

“Gosh,” I say. “That sounds really—”

“Let me give you a copy,” interrupts the woman. She reaches into a Mulberry holdall by her side and pulls out a vividly colored hardback book. “Remind me of your name?”

Remind her?

“It’s Rebecca,” I say. “Rebecca Bloomwood.”

“To Becca,” the woman says aloud, as she scrawls inside the front page. “With love and great affection.” She signs with a flourish and hands the book to me.

“Thanks very much. .” Quickly I look at the cover. “Elisabeth.”

Elisabeth Plover. To be honest, I’ve never heard of her.

“I expect you’re wondering how I came to know such a lot about such a violent, dangerous world,” says Elisabeth. She leans forward and gazes at me with huge green eyes. “The truth is, I lived with a money launderer for three long months. I loved him; I learned from him. . and then I betrayed him.” Her voice dies to a trembling whisper. “I still remember the look he gave me as the police dragged him away. He knew what I’d done. He knew I was his Judas Iscariot. And yet, in a strange kind of way, I think he loved me for it.”

“Wow,” I say, impressed in spite of myself. “Did all this happen in South America?”

“Brighton,” she says after a slight pause. “But money launderers are the same the world over.”

“Rebecca?” says a voice, before I can think of a reply to this, and we both look up to see a girl with smooth dark hair, in jeans and a black polo neck, walking swiftly toward us. “I’m Zelda. We spoke yesterday?”

“Zelda!” exclaims Elisabeth, getting to her feet. “How have you been, my darling?” She holds out her arms, and Zelda stares at her.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “have we—” She stops as her gaze falls on my copy of Blood Red Sunset. “Oh yes, that’s right. Elisabeth Plover. One of the researchers will be down for you in a minute. Meanwhile, do help yourself to coffee.” She flashes her a smile, then turns to me. “Rebecca, are you ready?”

“Yes!” I say eagerly, leaping up from my chair. (I have to admit, I feel quite flattered that Zelda’s come down to get me herself. I mean, she obviously doesn’t come down for everyone.)

“Great to meet you,” says Zelda, shaking my hand. “Great to have you on the show. Now, as usual, we’re completely frantic — so if it’s OK by you, I thought we’d just head straight off to hair and makeup and we can talk on the way.”

“Absolutely,” I say, trying not to sound too excited. “Good idea.”

Hair and makeup! This is so cool!

“There’s been a slight change of plan which I need to fill you in on,” says Zelda. “Nothing to worry about. . Any word from Bella yet?” she adds to the receptionist.

The receptionist shakes her head, and Zelda mutters something which sounds like “Stupid cow.”

“OK, let’s go,” she says, heading off toward a pair of swing doors. “I’m afraid it’s even more crazy than usual today. One of our regulars has let us down, so we’re searching for a replacement, and there’s been an accident in the kitchen. .” She pushes through the swing doors and now we’re striding along a green-carpeted corridor buzzing with people. “Plus, we’ve got Heaven Sent 7 in today,” she adds over her shoulder. “Which means the switchboard gets jammed with fans calling in, and we have to find dressing room space for seven enormous egos.”

“Right,” I say nonchalantly. But underneath I’m jumping with excitement. Heaven Sent 7? But I mean. . they’re really famous! And I’m appearing on the same show as them! I mean — I’ll get to meet them and everything, won’t I? Maybe we’ll all go out for a drink afterward and become really good friends. They’re all a bit younger than me, but that won’t matter. I’ll be like their older sister.

Or maybe I’ll go out with one of them! God, yes. That nice one with the dark hair. Nathan. (Or is it Ethan? Whatever he’s called.) He’ll catch my eye after the show and quietly ask me out to dinner without the others. We’ll go to some tiny little restaurant, and at first it’ll be all quiet and discreet, but then the press will find out and we’ll become one of those really famous couples who go to premieres all the time. And I’ll wear. .

“OK, here we are,” says Zelda, and I look up dazedly.

We’re standing in the doorway of a room lined with mirrors and spotlights. Three people are sitting in chairs in front of the mirrors, wearing capes and having makeup applied by trendy-looking girls in jeans; another is having her hair blow-dried. Music is playing in the background, there’s a friendly level of chatter, and in the air are the mingled scents of hair spray, face powder, and coffee.