I almost feel shaky as I stare at the sign. It's as though lightning has struck, or something. Why on earth haven't I thought of this before? It's pure genius. I'll get a Saturday job! I'll work in a clothes shop! That way, I'll make loads of extra money and I'll get a discount on all the clothes! And let's face it, working in a shop has got to be easier than becoming a fund manager, hasn't it? All you do is stand around and say 'Can I help you?' In fact, it'll be fun, because I can choose all my own clothes as I help the customers. I'll actually be getting paid to go shopping!

This is bloody fantastic, I think, striding into the shop with a friendly smile on my face. I knew something good was going to happen today. I just had a feeling about it.

Half an hour later, I come out with an even bigger smile on my face. I've got a job! I've got a Saturday job! I'm going to work from 8.30 to 5.30 every Saturday, and get ?4.80 an hour, and 10 per cent off all the clothes! And after three months, it goes up to 20 per cent! All my money troubles are over.

Thank God it was a quiet afternoon. They let me fill in the application form on the spot, and Danielle, the manager, gave me an interview straight away. At first she looked a bit dubious – especially when I said I had a full-time job as a financial journalist and was doing this to get extra money and clothes. 'It'll be hard work,' she kept saying. 'You do realize that? It'll be very hard work.' But I think what changed her mind was when we started talking about the stock. I love Ally Smith stuff – so of course I knew the price of every single item in the shop and whether they have anything similar in Jigsaw or French Connection.

Eventually Danielle gave me a funny look and said, 'Well, you obviously like clothes.' And then she gave me the job! I can't wait. I start this Saturday. Isn't it great?

As I arrive back at the office I feel exhilarated with my success. I look around – and suddenly this mundane office life seems far too boring and limited for a creative spirit like mine. I don't belong here, among fusty piles of press releases and grimly tapping computers. I belong out there, among the bright spotlights and cashmere cardigans of Ally Smith. Maybe I'll go into retail full time, I think, as I sit back down at my desk. Maybe I'll start my own chain of designer stores!

God, yes. I'll be one of those people featured in articles about incredibly successful entrepreneurs. 'Becky Bloomwood was working as a financial journalist when she devised the innovative concept of Bloomwood Stores. Now a successful chain around the country, the idea came to her one day as she…'

The phone rings and I pick it up.

'Yes?' I say absently. 'Rebecca Bloomwood here.' I nearly add, 'Of Bloomwood Stores', but maybe that's a tad premature.

'Ms Bloomwood, this is Derek Smeath from Endwich Bank.'

What? I'm so shocked, I drop the phone onto my desk with a clatter and have to scrabble around to pick it up. All the while, my heart's thumping like a rabbit. How does Derek Smeath know where I work? How did he get my number?

'Are you OK?' says Clare Edwards curiously.

'Yes,' I gulp. 'Yes, fine.'

And now she's looking at me. Now I can't just put the phone down and pretend it was a wrong number. I've got to talk to him. OK, what I'll do is be really brisk and cheerful and try and get rid of him as quickly as possible.

'Hi!' I say into the phone. 'Sorry about that! The thing is, I was just a bit busy with something else. You know how it is!'

'Ms Bloomwood, I've written you several letters,' says Derek Smeath. 'And to none of them have I had a satisfactory response.'

In spite of myself, I can feel my cheeks colouring. Oh God, he sounds really cross. This is horrible. What right has he got.to come along and spoil my day?

'I've been very busy, I'm afraid,' I say. 'My… my aunt was very ill. I had to go and be with her. You understand.'

'I see,' he says. 'Nevertheless…'

'And then she died,' I add.

'I'm sorry to hear that,' says Derek Smeath. He doesn't sound sorry. 'But that doesn't alter the fact that your current account stands at a balance of…'

Has this man got no heart? As he starts talking about balances and overdrafts and agreements, I deliberately tune out so I don't hear anything that will upset me. I'm staring at the fake-wood grain on my desk, wondering if I could pretend to drop the receiver accidentally back down onto the phone. Oh God, this is awful. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

'And if the situation is not resolved,' he's saying sternly, 'I'm afraid I will be forced to-'

'It's OK,' I hear myself interrupting. 'It's OK, because… I'm coming into some money soon.' Even as I say the words, I feel my cheeks flame guiltily. But I mean, what else am I supposed to do? I have to say some thing, otherwise he'll never leave me alone.

'Oh yes?'

'Yes,' I say, and swallow. 'The thing is, my… my aunt left me some money in her will.'

Which is kind of almost true. I mean, obviously Aunt Ermintrude would have left me some money. After all, I was her favourite niece, wasn't I? Did anyone else buy her Denny and George scarves? 'I'll get it in a couple of weeks,' I add, for good measure. 'A thousand pounds.'

Then I realize I should have made it ?10,000 – that would have really impressed him. Oh well, too late now.

'You're saying that in two weeks' time you'll be paying a cheque for ?1,000 into your account,' says Derek Smeath.

'Erm… yes,' I say after a pause. 'I suppose I am.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' he says. 'I've made a note of our conversation, Ms Bloomwood, and I'll be expecting the arrival of ?1,000 into your account on Monday, 27 March.'

'Good,' I say boldly. 'Is that it?'

'For the moment. Goodbye, Ms Bloomwood.'

'Goodbye,' I say, and put the phone down.

Thank God. Got rid of him.


***

Brompton's Store

CUSTOMER ACCOUNTS


1 Brompton Street

London SW4 7TH


Ms Rebecca Bloomwood

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd

London SW6 8FD

10 March 2000


Dear Ms Bloomwood

Thank you for your prompt return of a signed cheque for ?43.

Unfortunately, although this cheque is signed, it appears to be dated 14 February 2200. No doubt just an oversight on your part.

Brompton's Store cannot accept post-dated cheques as payment, and I am therefore returning it to you with the request that you return to us a signed cheque, dated with the date of signature.

Alternatively you can pay by cash or on the enclosed bank giro credit slip. A leaflet is enclosed for your information.

I look forward to receiving your payment.


Yours sincerely

John Hunter

Customer Accounts Manager

Nine

When I get home that night, there's a pile of post in the hall for me – but I ignore it because my package from Fine Frames has arrived! It cost me ?100 to buy, which I suppose is quite expensive, but apparently it will give you a return of ?300 in only a few hours. Inside the package there's a leaflet full of photographs of people who make fortunes from doing Fine Frames – and some of them make a hundred thousand a year! It makes me wonder what I'm doing, being a journalist. So after supper, I sit down in front of EastEnders and open the kit. Suze is out tonight, so it's nice and easy to concentrate.

'Welcome to the best-kept secret in Britain…' says the leaflet. 'The Fine Frames home-working family! Join other members and earn ??? in the comfort of your own home. Our easy-to-follow instructions will aid you as you embark on the biggest moneymaking enterprise of your life. Perhaps you will use your earnings to buy a car, or a boat – or to treat someone special. And remember – the amount you earn is completely up to you!'.

I'm utterly gripped. Why on earth haven't I done this before? This is a fantastic scheme! I'll work incredibly hard for two weeks, then pay off all my debts, go on holiday, buy loads of new clothes. God, I can't wait.

I start ripping at the packaging, and suddenly a pile of fabric strips falls onto the floor. Some are plain, and some are a flowered pattern. It's a pretty hideous pattern actually – but then, who cares? My job is just to make the frames and collect the money. I reach for the instructions and find them under a load of cardboard pieces. And sure enough, they're incredibly simple.

What you have to do is glue wadding onto the cardboard flame, put the fabric over the top for that luxury upholstered effect, then glue braid along the back to hide the join. And that's it! It's completely simple and you get ?2 a flame. There are 150 in the package – so if I do thirty a night for a week I'll have made three hundred quid just like that in my spare time!

OK, let's get started. Frame, wadding, glue, fabric, braid.

Oh God. Oh God. Who designed these bloody things? There just isn't enough fabric to fit over the frame and the wadding. Or at least you have to stretch it really hard – and it's such flimsy fabric, it rips. I've got glue on the carpet, and I've bent two of the cardboard frames from pulling them, and the only frame I've actually completed looks really wonky. And I've been doing it for…

I yawn, look at the time and feel a jolt of shock. It's 11.30, which means I've been working for three hours. And in that time I've made one dodgy-looking frame which I'm not sure they'll accept, and ruined two. I hate the sight of the bloody things. What do people want stupid upholstered photo flames for, anyway?