And the truth is, I’m rather looking forward to getting down to my book. I have so many important themes I want to address in it, like poverty and wealth, comparative religion, philosophy maybe. I mean, I know the publishers have just asked for a simple self-help book, but there’s no reason why I can’t encompass broader questions too, is there?

In fact, if it does really well, I might give lectures. God, that would be great, wouldn’t it? I could become a kind of lifestyle guru and tour the world, and people would flock to see me, and ask my advice on all sorts of issues—

“How’s it going?” says Suze, appearing at my door in a towel, and I jump guiltily. I’ve been sitting at my computer for quite a while now but I haven’t actually turned it on.

“I’m just thinking,” I say, hastily reaching to the back of the computer and flipping the switch. “You know, focusing my thoughts and… and letting the creative juices meld into a coherent pattern.”

“Wow,” says Suze, and looks at me in slight awe. “That’s amazing. Is it hard?”

“Not really,” I say, after a bit of thought. “It’s quite easy, actually.”

The computer suddenly bursts into a riot of sound and color, and we both stare at it, mesmerized.

“Wow!” says Suze again. “Did you do that?”

“Erm… yes,” I say. Which is true. I mean, I did switch it on.

“God, you’re so clever, Bex,” breathes Suze. “When do you think you’ll finish it?”

“Oh, quite soon, I expect,” I say breezily. “You know. Once I get going.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to get on with it, then,” says Suze. “I just wanted to borrow a dress for tonight.”

“Oh right,” I say, with interest. “Where are you going?”

“Venetia’s party,” says Suze. “D’you want to come too? Oh, go on, come! Everyone’s going!”

For a moment I’m tempted. I’ve met Venetia a few times, and I know she gives amazing parties at her parents’ house in Kensington.

“No,” I say at last. “I’d better not. I’ve got work to do.”

“Oh well.” Suze’s face droops briefly. “But I can borrow a dress, can I?”

“Of course!” I screw up my face for a moment, thinking hard. “Why don’t you wear my new Tocca dress with your red shoes and my English Eccentrics wrap?”

“Excellent!” says Suze, going to my wardrobe. “Thanks, Bex. And… could I borrow some knickers?” she adds casually. “And some tights and makeup?”

I turn in my chair and give her a close look.

“Suze — when you decluttered your room, did you keep anything?”

“Of course I did!” she says, a little defensively. “You know. A few things.” She meets my gaze. “OK, perhaps I went a bit too far.”

“Do you have any underwear left?”

“Well… no. But you know, I feel so good, and kind of positive about life — it doesn’t matter! It’s feng shui. You should try it!”

I watch as Suze gathers up the dress and underwear and rifles through my makeup bag. Then she leaves the room and I stretch my arms out in front of me, flexing my fingers. Right. To work.

I open a file, type “Chapter One,” and stare at it proudly. Chapter One! This is so cool! Now all I have to do is come up with a really memorable, striking opening sentence.

I sit quite still for a while, concentrating on the empty screen in front of me, then type briskly,


Finance is the


I stop, and take a sip of Diet Coke. Obviously the right sentence takes a bit of honing. You can’t just expect it to land straight in your head.


Finance is the most


God, I wish I were writing a book about clothes. Or makeup. Becky Bloomwood’s Guide to Lipstick.

Anyway, I’m not. So concentrate.


Finance is something which


You know, my chair’s quite uncomfortable. I’m sure it can’t be healthy, sitting on a squashy chair like this for hours on end. I’ll get repetitive strain injury, or something. Really, if I’m going to be a writer, I should invest in one of those ergonomic ones which swivel round and go up and down.


Finance is very


Maybe they sell chairs like that on the Internet. Maybe I should just have a quick little look. Since the computer’s on, and everything.

In fact — surely it would be irresponsible of me if I didn’t. I mean, you have to look after yourself, don’t you? Mens sana in healthy sana, or whatever it is.

I reach for my mouse, quickly click onto the Internet icon, and search for “office chairs”—and soon I’m coasting happily through the list. And I’ve already noted down a few good possibilities — when all of a sudden I land on this incredible Web site which I’ve never seen before, all full of office supplies. Not just boring white envelopes, but really amazing high-tech stuff. Like smart chrome filing cabinets, and cool pen holders, and really nice personalized nameplates to put on your door.

I scroll through all the photographs, utterly mesmerized. I mean, I know I’m not supposed to be spending money at the moment — but this is different. This is investment in my career. After all — this is my office, isn’t it? It should be well equipped. It needs to be well equipped. In fact, I can’t believe how shortsighted I’ve been. How on earth was I expecting to write a book without the necessary equipment? It would be like climbing Everest without a tent.

I’m so dazzled by the array of stuff you can get that I almost can’t decide what to get. But there are a few essentials which I absolutely must buy.

So I click on an ergonomic swivel chair upholstered in purple to match my iMac, plus a Dictaphone which translates stuff straight into your computer. And then I find myself adding a really cool steel claw which holds up notes while you’re typing, a set of laminated presentation folders — which are bound to come in useful — and a mini paper shredder. Which is a complete essential because I don’t want the whole world seeing my first drafts, do I? And I’m toying with the idea of some modular reception furniture — except I don’t really have a reception area in my bedroom — when Suze comes back into the room.

“Hi! How’s it going?”

I jump guiltily, quickly click on “send” without even bothering to check what the final amount was, click off the Internet — and look up just as my Chapter One reappears on the screen.

“You’re working really hard!” says Suze, shaking her head. “You should take a break. How much have you done?”

“Oh… quite a lot,” I say.

“Can I read it?” And to my horror she starts coming toward me.

“No!” I exclaim. “I mean — it’s a work in progress. It’s… sensitive material.” Hastily I close the document and stand up. “You look really great, Suze. Fantastic!”

“Thanks!” She beams at me and twirls around in my dress as the doorbell rings. “Ooh! That’ll be Fenny.”

Fenella is one of Suze’s weird posh cousins from Scotland. Except to be fair, she’s not actually that weird anymore. She used to be as peculiar as her brother, Tarquin, and spend the whole time riding horses and shooting fish, or whatever they do. But recently she’s moved to London and got a job in an art gallery, and now she just goes to parties instead. As Suze opens the front door I can hear her high-pitched voice — and a whole gaggle of girls’ voices following her. Fenny can’t move three feet without a huge cloud of shrieking people around her. She’s like some socialite version of a rain god.

“Hi!” she says, bursting into my room. She’s wearing a really nice pink velvet skirt from Whistles, which I’ve also got — but she’s teamed it with a disastrous brown Lurex polo neck. “Hi, Becky! Are you coming tonight?”

“Not tonight,” I say. “I’ve got to work.”

“Oh well.” Fenella’s face droops just like Suze’s did — then brightens. “Then can I borrow your Jimmy Choos? We’ve got the same size feet, haven’t we?”

“OK,” I say. “They’re in the wardrobe.” I hesitate, trying to be tactful. “And do you want to borrow a top? It’s just I’ve actually got the top that goes with your skirt. Pink cashmere with little beads. Really nice.”

“Have you?” says Fenny. “Ooh, yes! I shoved on this polo neck without really thinking.” As she peels it off, a blond girl in a black shift comes in and beams at me.

“Hi, er… Milla,” I say, remembering her name just in time. “How are you?”

“I’m fine!” she says, and gives me a hopeful look. “Fenny said I could borrow your English Eccentrics wrap.”

“I’m lending it to Suze,” I say, pulling a regretful face. “But what about… a purple shawl with sequins?”

“Yes, please! And Binky says, have you still got that black wraparound skirt?”

“I have,” I say thoughtfully. “But actually, I’ve got another skirt I think would look even better on her…”

It’s about half an hour before everyone has borrowed what they want. Eventually they all pile out of my room, shrieking to me that they’ll return it all in the morning, and Suze comes in, looking completely stunning with her hair piled up on her head and hanging down in blond tendrils.

“Bex, are you sure you don’t want to come?” she says. “Tarquin’s going to be there, and I know he’d like to see you.”

“Oh right,” I say, trying not to look too appalled at the idea. “Is he in London, then?”

“Just for a few days.” Suze looks at me, a little sorrowfully. “You know, Bex, if it weren’t for Luke… I reckon Tarkie still likes you.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” I say quickly. “That was ages ago now. Ages!”

My one and only date with Tarquin is one of those events I am trying very hard never to remember again, ever.

“Oh well,” says Suze, shrugging. “See you later. And don’t work too hard!”

“I won’t,” I reply, and give a world-weary sigh. “Or at least, I’ll try not to.”