'Then they'll do very well,' says Dad. 'The longer you've been with them, the more you get, apparently.'

He turns the page with a rustle, and I sit down at the table with my cup of tea and Good Housekeeping open at an article on making Easter cakes. It's not fair, I find myself thinking resentfully. Why can't I get a windfall payment? Why doesn't Endwich Bank get taken over? Then they could pay me a windfall big enough to wipe out my overdraft. And preferably sack Derek Smeath at the same time.

'Any plans for the day?' says Dad, looking up.

'Not really,' I say, and take a sip of tea.

Any plans for the rest of my life? Not really.

In the end, I spend a pleasant, unchallenging morning helping Mum sort out a pile of clothes for a jumble sale, and at 12.30 we go into the kitchen to make a sandwich. As I look at the clock, the fact that I was supposed to be at Endwich Bank three hours ago flickers through my mind – but very far off, like a distant sound. My whole London life seems remote and unreal now. This is where I belong. Away from the madding crowd; at home with Mum and Dad, having a relaxed uncomplicated time.

After lunch I wander out into the garden with one of Mum's mail-order catalogues, and go and sit on the bench by the apple tree. A moment later, I hear a voice from over the garden fence, and look up. It's Martin from next door. Hmm. I'm not feeling very well disposed towards Martin at the moment.

'Hello, Becky,' he says softly, 'Are you all right?'

'I'm fine thanks,' I say shortly And I don't fancy your son, I feel like adding. But then, they'd probably think I was in denial, wouldn't they?

'Becky,' says Janice, appearing beside Martin, holding a garden trowel. She gives me an awe-stricken look. 'We heard about your… stalker,' she whispers.

'It's criminal,' says Martin fiercely. 'These people should be locked up.'

'If there's anything we can do,' says Janice. 'Anything at all. You just let us know.'

'I'm fine, really,' I say, softening slightly towards them. 'I just want to stay here for a while. Get away from it all.'

'Of course you do,' says Martin. 'Wise girl.'

'I was saying to Martin this morning,' says Janice, 'you should hire a bodyguard.'

'Can't be too careful,' says Martin. 'Not these days.'

'The price of fame,' says Janice, sorrowfully shaking her head. 'The price of fame.'

'Well anyway,' I say, trying to get off the subject of my stalker. 'How are you?'

'Oh we're both well,' says Martin. 'I suppose.' To my surprise there's a slightly forced cheerfulness to his voice. There's a pause, and he glances at Janice, who frowns, and shakes her head slightly.

'Anyway, you must be pleased with the news,' I say brightly. 'About Flagstaff Life.'

There's silence.

'Well,' says Martin. 'We would have been.'

'No-one could have known,' says Janice, giving a little shrug. 'It's just one of those things. Just the luck of the draw.'

'What is?' I say puzzledly. 'I thought you were getting some huge great windfall.'

'It appears…' Martin rubs his face. 'It appears not in our case.'

'But… but why?'

'Martin phoned them up this morning,' says Janice. 'To see how much we would be getting. They were saying in the papers that long-term investors would be getting thousands. But…' She glances at Martin.

'But what?' I say, feeling a twinge of alarm.

'Apparently we're no longer eligible,' says Martin awkwardly. 'Since we switched our investment. Our old fund would have qualified, but…' He coughs. 'I mean, we will get something – but it'll only be about ?100.'

I stare at him blankly. 'But you only switched…'

'Two weeks ago,' he says. 'That's the irony. If we'd just held on a little bit longer… Still, what's done is done. No point whingeing about it.' He gives a resigned shrug, and smiles at Janice, who smiles back.

And I look away and bite my lip.

Because a nasty cold feeling is creeping over me.

They took the decision to switch their money based on my advice, didn't they? They asked me if they should switch funds, and I said go ahead. But now I come to think of it… hadn't I already heard a rumour about this takeover? Oh God. Did I already know? Could I have stopped this?

'We could never have known these windfalls would happen,' says Janice, and puts her hand comfortingly on his arm. 'They keep these things secret right up until the last minute, don't they, Becky?'

My throat's too tight to answer. I can remember exactly now. It was Alicia who first mentioned the takeover. The day before I came down here. And then Philip said something about it in the office. Something about with-profits holders doing well. Except… I wasn't really listening. I think I was doing my nails at the time.

'Twenty thousand pounds, they reckon we would have got if we'd stayed,' says Martin gloomily. 'Makes you sick to think about it. Still, Janice is right. We couldn't have known. Nobody knew.'

Oh God. This is all my fault. It's all my fault. If I'd just used my brain and thought for once in my life…

'Oh Becky, don't look so upset!' says Janice. 'This isn't your fault! You didn't know! Nobody knew! None of us could have-'

'I knew,' I hear myself saying miserably.

There's a flabbergasted silence.

'What?' says Janice faintly.

'I didn't know, exactly,' I say, staring at the ground. 'But I heard a sort of rumour about it a while ago. I should have said something when you asked me. I should have warned you to wait. But I just… didn't think. I didn't remember.' I force myself to look up and meet Martin's astonished gaze. 'I… I'm really sorry. It's all my fault.'

There's silence, during which Janice and Martin glance at each other and I hunch my shoulders, loathing myself. Inside, I can hear the phone ringing, and footsteps as someone goes to answer it.

'I see,' says Martin eventually. 'Well… not to worry. These things happen.'

'Don't blame yourself, Becky,' says Janice kindly. 'It was our decision to switch funds, not yours.'

'And remember, you've been under a lot of pressure yourself recently,' adds Martin, putting a sympathetic hand on my arm. 'What with this dreadful stalking business.'

Now I really think I'm going to cry. I don't deserve these people's kindness. I've just lost them ?20,000, through being too bloody lazy to keep up with events I'm supposed to know about. I'm a financial journalist, for God's sake.

And suddenly, standing there in my parents' garden, I'm plunged to the lowest ebb of my life. What have I got going for me? Nothing. Not one thing. I can't control my money, I can't do my job and I haven't got a boyfriend. I've hurt my best friend, I've lied to my parents – and now I've mined my neighbours. I should just give up and go to a Buddhist monastery or something.

'Becky?'

My father's voice interrupts us all, and I look up in surprise. He's striding across the lawn towards us, a perturbed look on his face.

'Becky, don't be alarmed,' he says, 'but I've just had that Derek Smeath chap on the phone.'

'What?' I say, feeling my face drain in horror.

'The stalker?' exclaims Janice, and Dad gives a sober nod.

'Quite an unpleasant fellow, I would say. He was really quite aggressive towards me.'

'But how does he know Becky's here?' says Janice.

'Obviously just taking pot luck,' says Dad. 'I was very civil, simply told him you weren't here and that I had no idea where you were.'

'And… and what did he say?' I say in a strangled voice.

'Came out with some nonsense about a meeting you'd set up with him.' Dad shakes his head. 'The chap's obviously deluded.'

'You should change your number,' advises Martin. 'Go ex-directory.'

'But where was he phoning from?' says Janice, her voice rising in alarm. 'He could be anywhere!' She starts looking agitatedly around the garden as though expecting him to jump out from behind a bush.

'Exactly,' says Dad. 'So, Becky, I think maybe you should come inside now. You never know with these characters.'

'OK,' I say numbly. I can't quite believe this is happening. I look at Dad's kind, concerned face and suddenly feel like crumpling into tears. Oh why didn't I tell him and Mum the truth? Why did I let myself get into this situation?

'You look quite shaken up, dear,' says Janice, and pats rne on the shoulder. 'You go and have a nice cup of tea.'

'Yes,' I say. 'Yes, I think I will.'

And Dad leads me off gently towards the house, as though I'm some kind of invalid.

This is all getting out of hand. Now, not only do I feel like an utter failure, I don't feel safe any more either. I don't feel cocooned and secure; I feel exposed and edgy. I sit on the sofa next to Mum, drinking tea and watching Countdown, and every time there's a sound outside, I jump with nerves.

What if Derek Smeath's on his way here? How long would it take him to drive here from London? An hour and a half? Two, if the traffic's bad?

He wouldn't do that. He's a busy man.

But he might.

Or send the bailiffs round. Oh God. Threatening men in leather jackets. My stomach is squeezed tight with fear. I'm beginning to feel as though I genuinely do have a stalker.

As the advert break begins, Mum reaches for a catalogue full of gardening things. 'Look at this lovely birdbath,' she says. 'I'm going to get one for the garden.'

'Great,' I mutter, unable to concentrate.

'They've got some super windowboxes, too,' she says. 'You could do with some nice windowboxes in your flat.'