'I’d snap it up, if I were you.' The girl smiles at me. 'There's only one of these left.'

Involuntarily, I clutch at it.

'I'll have it,' I gasp. 'I'll have it.'

As she's laying it out on tissue paper, I take out my purse, open it up and reach for my VISA card in one seamless, automatic action – but my fingers hit bare leather. I stop in surprise and start to rummage through all the pockets of my purse, wondering if I stuffed my card back in somewhere with a receipt or if it's hidden underneath a business card… And then, with a sickening thud, I remember. It's on my desk.

How could I have been so stupid? How could I have left my VISA card on my desk? What was I thinking of?

The nice blond girl is putting the wrapped scarf into a dark green Denny and George box. My heart is thumping. What am I going to do?

'How would you like to pay?' she says pleasantly.

My face flames red.

'I've just realized I've left my credit card at the office,' I stutter.

'Oh,' says the girl, and her hands pause.

'Can you hold it for me?' The girl looks dubious.

'For how long?'

'Until tomorrow?' I say desperately. Oh God. She's pulling a face. Doesn't she understand?

'I'm afraid not,' she says. 'We're not supposed to reserve sale stock.'

'Just until later this afternoon, then,' I say quickly. 'What time do you close?'

'Six.'

Six! I feel a combination of relief and adrenalin sweeping through me. Challenge Rebecca. I'll go to the press conference, leave as soon as I can, then take a taxi back to the office. I'll grab my VISA card, tell Philip I left my notebook behind, come here and buy the scarf.

'Can you hold it until then?' I say beseechingly. 'Please? Please?' The girl relents.

'OK. I'll put it behind the counter.'

'Thanks,' I gasp. I hurry out of the shop and down the road towards Brandon Communications. Please let the press conference be short', I pray. Please don't let the questions go on too long. Please God, please let me have that scarf.

As I arrive at Brandon Communications, I can feel myself begin to relax. I do have three whole hours, after all. And my scarf is safely behind the counter. No one's going to steal it from me.

There's a sign up in the foyer of Brandon Communications saying that the Foreland Exotic Opportunities press conference is happening in the Artemis Suite, and a man in uniform is directing everybody down the corridor. This means it must be quite big. Not television-cameras-CNN-world's press on tenterhooks big, obviously. But fairly-good-turnout big. A relatively important event in our dull little world.

As I enter the room, there's already a buzz of people milling around, and waitresses circulating with canapes. The journalists are knocking back the champagne as if they've never seen it before; the PR girls are looking supercilious and sipping water. A waiter offers me a glass of champagne and I take two. One for now, one to put under my chair for the boring bits.

In the far corner of the room I can see Elly Granger from Investor's Weekly News. She's been pinned into a corner by two earnest men in suits and is nodding at them, with a glassy look in her eye. Elly's great. She's only been on Investor's Weekly News for six months, and already she's applied for forty-three other jobs. What she really wants to be is a beauty editor on a magazine. What I really want to be is Fiona Phillips on GMTV. Sometimes, when we're very drunk, we make pacts that if we're not somewhere more exciting in three months, we'll both leave our jobs. But then the thought of no money – even for a month – is almost more terrifying than the thought of writing about pension plans for the rest of my life.

'Rebecca. Glad' you could make it.'

I look up, and almost choke on my champagne. It's Luke Brandon, head honcho of Brandon Communications, staring straight at me as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

I've only met him a few times, and I always feel slightly uneasy around him. For a start, he's got such a scary reputation. Everyone talks all the time about what a genius he is, even Philip, my boss. He started Brandon Communications from nothing, and now it's the biggest financial PR company in London. A few months ago he was listed in some newspaper as one of the cleverest entrepreneurs of his generation. It said his IQ was phenomenally high and he had a photographic memory. (I've always hated people with photographic memories.)

But it's not just that. It's that he always seems to have a frown on his face when he's talking to me. As if he knows what a complete fraud I am. In fact, it occurs to me, he probably does. It'll probably turn out that the famous Luke Brandon is not only a complete genius but he can read minds, too. He knows that when I'm staring up at some boring graph, nodding intelligently, I'm really thinking about a gorgeous black top I saw in Joseph and whether I can afford the trousers as well.

'You know Alicia, don't you?' Luke is saying, and he gestures to the immaculate blond girl beside him.

I don't know Alicia, as it happens. But I don't need to. They're all the same, the girls at Brandon C, as they call it. They're well dressed, well spoken, are married to bankers and have zero sense of humour.

'Rebecca,' says Alicia coolly, grasping my hand. 'You're on Successful Saving, aren't you?'

'That's right,' I say, equally coolly.

'It's very good of you to come today,' says Alicia. 'I know you journalists are terribly busy.'

'No problem,' I say. 'We like to attend as many press conferences as we can. Keep up with industry events.'

I feel pleased with my response. I'm almost fooling myself.

Alicia nods seriously, as though everything I say is incredibly important to her.

'So, tell me, Rebecca. What do you think about today's news?' She gestures to the FT under my arm. 'Quite a surprise, didn't you think?'

Oh God. What's she talking about?

'It's certainly interesting,' I say, still smiling, playing for time. I glance around the room for a clue, but there's nothing. What's happened? Have interest rates gone up or something?

'I have to say, I think it's bad news for the industry,' says Alicia earnestly. 'But of course, you must have your own views.' sure I sound convincing.

'And now this rumour about Scottish Prime and Flagstaff Life going the same way!' She looks at me intently. 'Do you think that's really on the cards?'

'It's… it's difficult to say,' I reply, and take a gulp of champagne. What rumour? Oh God, why can't she leave me alone?

Then I make the mistake of glancing up at Luke Brandon. He's staring at me, with a strange expression on his face. Oh shit. He knows I don't have a clue, doesn't he? – -

'Alicia,' he says abruptly. 'That's Maggie Stevens coming in. Could you…'

'Absolutely,' she says, trained like a racehorse, and starts to move smoothly towards the door.

'And Alicia – ' adds Luke, and she quickly turns back. 'I want to know exactly who fucked up on those figures.'

'Yes,' gulps Alicia, and hurries off.

God he's scary. And now we're on our own. I think I might quickly run away.

'Well,' I say brightly. 'I must just go and-'

But Luke Brandon is leaning towards me.

'SBG announced that they've taken over Rutland Bank this morning,' he says quietly.

And of course, now he says it, I remember hearing something about it on the news this morning.

'I know they did,' I reply haughtily. 'I read it in the FT.' And before he can say anything else, I walk off, to talk to Elly.

As the press conference is about to start, Elly and I sidle towards the back and grab two seats together. I open my notebook, write 'Brandon Communications' at the top of the page, and start doodling swirly flowers down the side. Beside me, Elly's dialling her telephone horoscope on her mobile phone.

I take a sip of champagne, lean back and prepare to relax. There's no point listening at press conferences. The information's always in the press pack, and you can work out what they were talking about later. In fact, I'm wondering whether anyone would notice if I took out a pot of Hard Candy and did my nails, when suddenly the awful Alicia ducks her head down to mine.

'Rebecca?'

'Yes?' I say lazily.

'Phone call for you. It's your editor.'

'Philip?' I say stupidly. As though I've a whole array of editors to choose from.

'Yes.' She looks at me as though I'm a moron and gestures to a phone on a table at the back. Elly gives me a questioning look and I shrug back. Philip's never phoned me at a press conference before.

I feel rather excited and important as I walk to the back of the room. Perhaps there's an emergency at the office. Perhaps he's scooped an incredible story and wants me to fly to New York to follow up a lead.

'Hello, Philip?' I say into the receiver – then immediately I wish I'd said something thrusting and impressive, like a simple 'Yep'.

'Rebecca, listen, sorry to be a bore,' says Philip, 'but I've got a migraine coming on. I'm going to head off home.'

'Oh,' I say puzzledly.

'And I wondered if you could run a small errand for me.'

An errand? Who does he think I am? If he somebody to buy him paracetamol, he should get secretary.

'I'm not sure,' I say discouragingly. 'I'm a bit tied here.'

'When you've finished there. The Social Security Select Committee are releasing their report at five o'clock. Can you go and pick it up? You cab go straight to Westminster from your press conference.'