And I sit in the taxi all the way back to Fulham with a jumpy stomach, wondering what exactly he saw. As the taxi pulls in front of our house, I say goodnight to the taxi driver and reach for my keys. I'm thinking that I'll go and run a hot bath and sit in it, and calmly try to work out exactly what happened back there. Did Tarquin really see me looking through his chequebook? Maybe he just saw me pushing it back towards his place in a helpful manner. Maybe he saw nothing at all.

But then why did he suddenly become all stiff and polite? He must have seen something; suspected something. And then he'll have noticed the way I flushed and couldn't meet his eye. Oh God, why do I always have to look so guilty? I wasn't even doing anything. I was just curious. Is that such a crime?

Perhaps I should have quickly said something made some joke about it. Turned it into a lighthearted, amusing incident, But what kind of joke can you make about leafing through someone's private chequebook? Oh God, I'm so stupid. Why did I ever touch the bloody thing? I should have just sat, quietly sipping my drink.

But in my defence… he left it on the table, didn't he? He can't be that secretive about it… And I don't know that he saw me looking through it, do I? Maybe he didn't. Maybe I'm just paranoid.

As I put my key into the lock, I'm actually feeling quite positive. OK, so Tarquin wasn't that friendly just now – but he might have been feeling ill or something.

Or maybe he just didn't want to rush me. What I'll do is, tomorrow I'll send a nice chatty note to him, saying thanks again, and suggesting we go and see some Wagner together. Excellent idea. And I'll mug up a bit about the Preludes, so that if he asks me which one again, I'll know exactly what to say. Yes! This is all going to be fine. I need never have worried.

I swing the door open, unbuttoning my coat – and then my heart gives a flip. Suze is waiting for me in the hall. She's sitting on the stairs, waiting for me – and there's a funny expression on her face.

'Oh Bex,' she says, and shakes her head reproachfully. 'I've just been speaking to Tarquin.'

'Oh right,' I say, trying to sound natural, but aware that my voice is a frightened squeak. I turn away, take my coat and slowly unwind my scarf, playing for time. What exactly has he said to her?

'I don't suppose there's any point asking you why?' she says after a pause. 'Well,' I falter, feeling sick. God, I could do with a cigarette.

'I'm not blaming you, or anything. I just think you should have. ' She shakes her head and sighs. 'Couldn't you have let him down more gently? He sounded quite upset. The poor thing was really keen on you, you know.'

This isn't quite making sense. Let him down more gently?

'What exactly…' I lick my dry lips. 'What exactly did he say?'

'Well, he was only really phoning to tell me you'd left your umbrella behind,' says Suze. 'Apparently one of the waiters came rushing out with it. But of course I asked him how the date had gone…'

'And… and what did he say?'

'Well,' says Suze, and gives a little shrug. 'He said you'd had a really nice time – but you'd pretty much made it clear you didn't want to see him again.'

'Oh.'

I sink down onto the floor, feeling rather weak. So that's it. Tarquin did see me leafing through his chequebook. I've ruined my chances with him completely. But he didn't tell Suze what I'd done. He protected me. Pretended it was my decision not to carry things on. He was a gentleman.

In fact – he was a gentleman all evening, wasn't he? He was kind to me, and charming, and polite. And all I did, all throughout the date, was tell him lies. Suddenly I want to cry.

'I just think it's such a shame,' says Suze. 'I mean, I know it's up to you and everything – but he's such a sweet guy. And he's had a crush on you for ages! You two would go perfectly together.' She gives me a wheedling look. 'Isn't there any chance you might go out with him again?'

'I… I honestly don't think so,' I say in a scratchy voice. 'Suze… I'm a bit tired. I think I'll go to bed.'

And without meeting her eye I get up and slowly walk down the corridor to my room.


***

BANK OF LONDON

London House

Mill Street EC3R 4DW


Ms Rebecca Boomwood

Flat2

4 Burney Rd

London SW6 8FD

23 March 2000


Dear Ms Boomwood

Thank you very much for your application for a Bank of London Easyfone Loan.

Unfortunately 'buying clothes and makeup' was not deemed a suitable purpose for such a substantial unsecured loan, and your application has been turned down by our credit team.

Thank you very much for considering Bank of London.


Yours sincerely

Margaret Hopkins

Loans adviser


***

Endwich Bank

FULHAM BRANCH

3 Fulham Road

London SW6 9Jl-I


Ms Rebecca Bloomwood

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd

London SW6 8FD

24 March 2000


Dear Ms Bloomwood

I am writing to confirm our meeting at 9.30 am on Monday, 27 March, here at our Fulham office. Please ask for me at reception.

I look forward to seeing you then.


Yours sincerely

Derek Smeath

Manager


ENDWICH BECAUSE WE CARE

Fifteen

I have never in my life felt as terrible as I do when I wake up the next morning. Never.

The first thing I feel is pain. Exploding sparks of pain as I try to move my head; as I try to open my eyes; as I try to work out a few basics like: Who am I? What day is it? Should I be somewhere else by now?

For a while I lie quite still, panting with the exertion of just being alive. In fact, my face is growing scarlet and I'm almost starting to hyperventilate, so I force myself to slow down and breathe regularly. In… out, in… out. And then surely everything will come back to me and I will feel better. In… out, in… out.

OK.. Rebecca. That's right. I'm Rebecca Bloomwood, aren't I? In… out…in out.

What else? Dinner. I had dinner somewhere last night. In… out, in… out.

Pizza. I had pizza. And who was I with, again? In… out. In… Tarquin. Out.

Oh God. Tarquin.

Leafing through chequebook. Everything ruined. All my own fault.

A familiar wave of despair floods over me and I close my eyes, trying to calm my throbbing head. At the same time, I remember that last night, when I went back to my room, I found the half-bottle of malt whisky which Scottish Prudential once gave me, still sitting on my dressing table. I opened it up – even though I don't like whisky – and drank… well, certainly a few toothmugfuls. Which might possibly explain why I'm feeling so ill now.

Slowly I struggle to a sitting position and listen for sounds of Suze, but I can't hear anything. The flat's empty. It's just me.

Me and my thoughts.

Which, to be honest, I can't endure. My head's pounding and I feel pale and shaky – but I've got to get moving; distract myself. I'll go out, have a cup of coffee somewhere quiet and try to get myself together. Somehow I manage to get out of bed, stagger to my chest of drawers and stare at myself in the mirror. I don't like what I see. My skin's green, my mouth is dry and my hair's sticking to my skin in clumps. But worst of all is the expression in my eyes: a blank, miserable self-loathing. Last night I was given a chance – a fantastic opportunity on a silver platter. And I threw it in the bin. God, I'm a disaster. I don't deserve to live. I head to the King's Road, to lose myself in the anonymous bustle. The air's crisp and fresh, and as I stride along it's almost possible to forget about last night. Almost, but not quite.

I go into Aroma and order a large cappuccino, and try to drink it normally. As if everything's fine and I'm just another girl out on a Sunday for some shopping. But I can't do it. I can't escape my thoughts. They're churning round in my head, like a record that won't stop, over and over and over.

If only I hadn't picked up his chequebook. If only I hadn't been so stupid. It was all going so well. He really liked me. We were holding hands. He was planning to ask me out again. Oh God, if only I could go back; if only I could play the evening again…

Don't think about it. Don't think about what could have been. It's too unbearable. If I'd played it right, I'd probably be sitting here drinking coffee with Tarquin, wouldn't I? I'd probably be well on my way to becoming the fifteenth-richest woman in the country.

Instead of which… what?

I have debts up to my eyeballs. I have a meeting with my bank manager on Monday morning. I have no idea what I'm going to do. No idea at all.

Miserably I take a sip of coffee and unwrap my little chocolate. I'm not in the mood for chocolate, but I stuff it into my mouth anyway.

The worst thing – the very worst thing of all – is that I was actually starting to quite like Tarquin. Maybe he isn't God's gift in the looks department, but he's very kind, and quite funny, in his own way. And that brooch – it's really quite sweet.

And the way he didn't tell Suze what he'd seen me doing. And the way he believed me when I told him I liked dogs and Wagner and bloody violinists in Malawi. The way he was so completely, utterly unsuspicious.

Oh God, now I really am going to start crying.

Roughly I brush at my eyes, drain my cup and stand up. Out on the street I hesitate, then begin walking briskly again. Maybe the breeze will blow these unbearable thoughts out of my head. Maybe I'll feel better in a while.