I wait until the front door bangs behind her, and the taxis waiting outside have roared off. Then I take a sip of tea and turn back to my first chapter.



Chapter One

Finance is very


Actually, I’m not really in the mood for this anymore. Suze is right, I should have a break. I mean, if I sit here hour after hour, I’ll get all jaded, and lose the creative flow. And the point is, I’ve made a good start.

I stand up and stretch, then wander into the sitting room, and pick up a copy of Tatler. It’s EastEnders in a minute, and then it might be Changing Rooms or something, or that documentary about the vets. I’ll just watch that — and then I’ll go back to work. I mean, I’ve got a whole evening ahead, haven’t I? I need to pace myself.

Idly, I flick open the magazine and am scanning the contents page for something interesting when suddenly my eye stops in surprise. It’s a little picture of Luke, with the caption Best of Brandon, page seventy-four! Why on earth didn’t he tell me he was going to be in Tatler?

The photograph is his new official one, the one I helped him choose an outfit for (blue shirt, dark blue Fendi tie). He’s staring at the camera, looking all serious and businesslike — but if you look closely at his eyes, there’s a little friendly spark in there. As I stare at his face I feel a tug of affection and realize Suze is right. I should just trust him, shouldn’t I? I mean — what does Alicia Bitchy-pants know about anything?

I turn to page seventy-four, and it’s an article on “Britain’s Top Movers and Shakers.” I scan down the page, and I can’t help noticing that some of the movers and shakers are pictured with their partners. Maybe there’ll be a picture of me with Luke! After all, somebody might have taken a picture of us together at a party or something, mightn’t they? Come to think of it, we were once snapped by the Evening Standard at a launch for some new magazine, although it never actually got into the paper.

Ooh! Here he is, number thirty-four! And it’s just him, in that same official photo, with not a glimpse of me. Still, I feel a twinge of pride as I see his picture (much bigger than some of the others, ha!) and a caption reading: “Brandon’s ruthless pursuit of success has knocked lesser competitors off the starting blocks.” Then the piece starts: “Luke Brandon, dynamic owner and founder of Brandon Communications, the blah-di blah-di…”

I skim over the text, feeling a pleasant anticipation as I reach the section labeled “Vital Statistics.” This is the bit where I’ll be mentioned! “Currently dating TV personality Rebecca Bloomwood.” Or maybe, “Partner of well-known finance expert Rebecca Bloomwood.” Or else—


Luke James Brandon

Age: 34

Education: Cambridge

Current status: Single.


Single?

Luke told them he was single?

A hurt anger begins to rise through me as I stare at Luke’s confident, arrogant gaze. Suddenly I’ve had enough of all this. I’ve had enough of being made to feel insecure and paranoid and wondering what’s going on. Hands trembling, I pick up the phone and jab in Luke’s number.

“Yes,” I say, as soon as the message has finished. “Yes, well. If you’re single, Luke, then I’m single too. OK? And if you’re going to New York, then I’m going to… to Outer Mongolia. And if you’re…”

Suddenly my mind goes blank. Shit, and it was going so well.

“… if you’re too cowardly to tell me these things yourself, then maybe it’s better for both of us if we simply…”

I’m really struggling here. I should have written it all down before I began.

“… if we just call it a day. Or perhaps that’s what you think you’ve already done,” I finish, breathing hard.

“Becky?” Suddenly Luke’s deep voice is in my ear, and I jump with fright.

“Yes?” I say, trying to sound dignified.

“What is all this gibberish you’re spouting on my machine?” he asks calmly.

“It’s not gibberish!” I reply indignantly. “It’s the truth!”

“ ‘If you’re single, then I’m single’? What’s that supposed to be? Lyrics to a pop song?”

“I was talking about you! And the fact that you’ve told the whole world you’re single.”

“I’ve done what?” says Luke, sounding amused. “When did I do that?”

“It’s in Tatler!” I say furiously. “This month!” I grab for the magazine and flip it open. “Britain’s top movers and shakers. Number thirty-four, Luke Brandon.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” says Luke. “That thing.”

“Yes, that thing!” I exclaim. “That thing! And it says you’re single. How do you think it felt for me to see you’d said you were single?”

“It quotes me, does it?”

“Well… no,” I say after a pause. “It doesn’t exactly quote you. But I mean, they must have phoned you up and asked you—”

“They did phone me up and ask me,” he says. “And I said no comment.”

“Oh.” I’m silenced for a moment, trying to think clearly. OK, so maybe he didn’t say he was single — but I’m not at all sure I like “no comment.” Isn’t that what people say when things are going really badly?

“Why did you say no comment?” I say at last. “Why didn’t you say you were going out with me?”

“My darling,” says Luke, sounding a little weary, “think about it. Do you want our private life splashed all over the media?”

“Of course not.” I twist my hands into a complicated knot. “Of course not. But you…” I stop.

“What?”

“You told the media when you were going out with Sacha,” I say in a small voice.

Sacha is Luke’s ex-girlfriend.

I can’t quite believe I just said that.

Luke sighs.

“Becky, Sacha told the media about us. She would have had People magazine photographing us in the bath if they’d been interested. That’s the kind of girl she was.”

“Oh,” I say, winding the telephone cord round my finger.

“I’m not interested in that kind of thing. My clients can do what they like, but personally, I can’t think of anything worse. Hence the no comment.” He pauses. “But you’re right. I should have thought. I should have warned you. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” I say awkwardly. “I suppose I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

“So are we OK?” says Luke, and there’s a warm, teasing note to his voice. “Are we back on course?”

“What about New York?” I say, hating myself. “Is that all a mistake, too?”

There’s a long, horrible silence.

“What have you heard about New York?” says Luke at last — and to my horror, he sounds all businesslike and distant.

Oh God. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth closed?

“Nothing really!” I stammer. “I… I don’t know. I just…”

I tail off feebly, and for what seems like hours, neither of us says anything. My heart is pounding hard, and I’m clutching the receiver so hard, my ear’s starting to hurt.

“Becky, I need to talk to you about a few things,” says Luke finally. “But now is not the time.”

“Right,” I say, feeling a pang of fright. “What… sort of things?”

“Not now. We’ll talk when I get back, OK? Saturday. At the wedding.”

“Right,” I say again, talking brightly to hide the nerves in my voice. “OK! Well, I’ll… I’ll see you then, then…”

But before I can say any more, he’s gone.


MANAGING YOUR MONEY

A Comprehensive Guide to


Personal Finance


By Rebecca Bloomwood


COPYRIGHT © REBECCA BLOOMWOOD

Important: No part of this manuscript to be


reproduced without the author’s express permission!

FIRST EDITION (UK)

(FIRST DRAFT)


P A R T O N E


Chapter one. Finance is very


ENDWICH BANK

Fulham Branch

3 Fulham Road

London SW6 9JH

Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood


Flat 2

4 Burney Rd.

London SW6 8FD


12 September 2000


Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

Further to my letter of 8 September, I have conducted a thorough examination of your account. Your current overdraft limit vastly exceeds the bank’s approved ratios. I cannot see any need for this excessive level of debt, nor that any genuine attempts have been made to reduce it. The situation is little short of a disgrace.

Whatever special status you have enjoyed in the past will not be continuing in the future. I will certainly not be increasing your overdraft limit as you request, and would ask as a matter of urgency that you make an appointment with me to discuss your position.

Yours sincerely,


John Gavin

Overdraft Facilities Director

Six


I ARRIVE AT MY PARENTS’ house at ten o’clock on Saturday, to find the street full of festivity. There are balloons tied to every tree, our drive is full of cars, and a billowing marquee is just visible from next door’s garden. I get out of my car, reach for my overnight bag, then just stand still for a few moments, staring at the Websters’ house. God, this is strange. Tom Webster getting married. I can hardly believe it. To be honest — and this may sound a bit mean — I can hardly believe that anyone would want to marry Tom Webster. He has smartened up his act recently, admittedly. He’s got a few new clothes, and a better hairstyle. But his hands are still all huge and clammy — and frankly, he’s not Brad Pitt.

Still, that’s the point of love, I think, closing my car door with a bang. You love people despite their flaws. Lucy obviously doesn’t mind that Tom’s got clammy hands — and he obviously doesn’t mind that her hair’s all flat and boring. It’s quite romantic, I suppose.