What? I stare at the phone in horror. No I can't pick up a bloody report. I need to pick up my VISA card! I need to secure my scarf.

'Can't Clare go?' I say. 'I was going to come back to the office and finish my research on…' What am I supposed to be writing about this month? 'On mortgages.'

'Clare's got a briefing in the City. And Westminster 's on your way home to trendy Fulham, isn't it?'

Philip always has to make a joke about me living in Fulham. Just because he lives in Harpenden.

'You can just hop off the tube,' he's saying, 'pick it up and hop back on again.'

Oh God. I can't think of any way to get out of this. I close my eyes and think quickly. An hour here. Rush back to the office, pick up my VISA card, back to Denny and George, get my scarf, rush to Westminster, pick up the report. I should just about make it.

'Fine,' I say. 'Leave it to me.'

I sit back down, just as the lights dim and the words FAR EASTERN OPPORTUNITIES appear on the screen in front of us. There is a colourful series of pictures from Hong Kong, Thailand and other exotic places, ' which would usually have me thinking wistfully about going on holiday. But today I can't relax, or even laugh at the new girl from Portfolio Week, who's frantically trying to write everything down and will probably ask five questions because she thinks she should. I'm too concerned about my scarf. What if I don't make it back in time? What if someone puts in a higher offer? The very thought makes me panic. Is it possible to gazump a Denny and George scarf?

Then, just as the pictures of Thailand disappear and the boring graphs begin, I have a flash of inspiration. 

Of course! I'll pay cash for the scarf. No-one can argue with cash. I can get ?100 out on my cashpoint card, so all I need is another twenty, and the scarf is mine.

I tear a piece of paper out of my notebook, write on it 'Can you lend me twenty quid?' and pass it to Elly, who's still surreptitiously listening to her mobile phone. I wonder what she's listening to. It can't still be her horoscope, surely? She looks down, shakes her head, and writes, 'No can do. Bloody machine swallowed my card. Living off Luncheon Vouchers at moment.'

Damn. I hesitate, then write, 'What about credit card? I'll pay you back, honest. And what are you listening to?'

I pass the page to her and suddenly the lights go up. The presentation has ended and I didn't hear a word of it. People shift around on their seats and a PR girl starts handing out glossy brochures. Elly finishes her call and grins at me.

'Love life prediction,' she says, tapping in another number. 'It's really accurate stuff.'

'Load of old bullshit, more like.' I shake my head disapprovingly. 'I can't believe you go for all that rubbish. Call yourself a financial journalist?'

'No,' says Elly. 'Do you?' And we both start to giggle, until some old bag from one of the nationals turns round and gives us an angry glare.

'Ladies and gentlemen.' A piercing voice interrupts us and I look up. It's Alicia, standing up at the front of the room. She's got very good legs, I note resentfully.

'As you can see, the Foreland Exotic Opportunities Savings Plan represents an entirely new approach to investment.' She looks around the room, meets my eye and smiles coldly.

(I always turn to the charges first. Just like I look at the price tag first.)

Elly rolls her eyes sympathetically, still listening the phone.

'Foreland Investments are all about adding value,' Alicia is saying in her snooty voice. 'Foreland Invest' merits offer you more.'

'They charge more, you lose more,' I say aloud without thinking, and there's a laugh around the room. 

God, how embarrassing. And now Luke Brandon's staring at me, too. Quickly I look down and pretend to be writing notes.

Although to be honest, I don't know why I even pretend to write notes. It's not as if we ever put anything in the magazine except the puff that comes on the press release. Foreland Investments takes out a whopping double-page spread advertisement every month, and they took Philip on some fantastic research (haha) trip to Thailand last year – so we're never allowed to say anything except how wonderful they are.

As Alicia carries on speaking, I lean towards Elly.

'So, listen,' 'I whisper 'Can I borrow your credit card?'

'All used up,' hisses Elly apologetically. 'I'm up to my limit. Why do you think I'm living off LVs?'

'But I need money!' I whisper. 'I'm desperate! I need twenty quid!'

I've spoken more loudly than I intended and Alicia stops speaking.

'Perhaps you should have invested with Foreland Investments, Rebecca,' says Alicia, and another titter goes round the room. A few faces turn round to gawp at me, and I stare back at them lividly. They're fellow journalists, for God's sake. They should be on my side. NUJ solidarity and all that.

Not that I've ever actually got round to joining the NUJ. But still.

'What do you need twenty quid for?' says Luke Brandon, from the front of the room.

'I… my aunt,' I say defiantly. 'She's in hospital and I wanted to get her a present.'

The room is silent. Then, to my disbelief, Luke Brandon reaches into his pocket, takes out a ?20 note, and gives it to a guy in the front row of journalists. He hesitates, then passes it back to the row behind. And so it goes on, a twenty-quid note being passed from hand to hand, making its way to me like a fan at a gig being passed over the crowd. As I take hold of it, a round of applause goes round the room and I blush.

'Thanks,' I say awkwardly. 'I'll pay you back, of course.'

'My best wishes to your aunt,' says Luke Brandon. 

'Thanks,' I say again. Then I glance at Alicia, and feel a little dart of triumph. She looks utterly deflated.

Towards the end of the question-and-answer session, people begin slipping out to get back to their offices. This is usually the point at which I go and buy a cappuccino and browse in a few shops. But today I don't. Today I decide I will stick it out until the last dismal question about tax structures. Then I'll go up to the front and thank Luke Brandon in person for his kind, if embarrassing, gesture. And then I'll go and get my scarf. Yippee!

But to my surprise, after only a few questions, Luke Brandon gets up, whispers something to Alicia, and heads for the door.

'Thanks,' I mutter as he passes my chair, but I'm not sure he even hears me.

Still, who cares? I've got the twenty quid and that's all that matters.

On the way back from Westminster, the tube stops in a tunnel for no apparent reason. Five minutes go by, then ten minutes. I can't believe my bad luck. Normally, course, I long for the tube to break down, so I've got an excuse to stay out of the office for longer. But today I behave like a stressed businessman with an ulcer. I tap my fingers and sigh, and peer out of the window into the blackness.

Part of my brain knows that I've got plenty of time to get to Denny and George before it closes. Another part knows that even if I don't make it, it's unlikely the blond girl will sell my scarf to someone else. But the possibility is there. So until I've got that scarf in my hands I won't be able to relax.

As the train finally gets going again I sink into my seat with a dramatic sigh and look at the pale, silent man on my left.

'Thank God!' I say. 'I was getting desperate there.'

'It's frustrating,' he agrees quietly.

'They just don't think, do they?' I say. 'I mean, some of us have got crucial things we need to be doing. I'm in a terrible hurry!'

'I'm in a bit of a hurry myself,' says the man.

'If that train hadn't started moving, I don't know what I would have done.' I shake my head. 'You feel so… impotent!'

'I know exactly what you mean,' says the man intensely 'They' don't realize that some of us…' He gestures towards me. 'We aren't just idly travelling. It matters whether we arrive or not.'

'Absolutely!' I say. 'Where are you off to?'

'My wife's in labour,' he says. 'Our fourth.'

'Oh,' I say, taken aback 'Well Gosh. Congratulations. I hope you-'

'She took an hour and a half last time,' says the man, rubbing his damp forehead. 'And I've been on this tube for forty minutes already. Still. At least we're moving now.'

He gives a little shrug, then smiles at me. 'How about you? What's your urgent business?'

Oh God.

'I… ohm… I'm going to…'

I stop feebly and clear my throat, feeling myself blushing red. I can't tell this man that my urgent business consists of picking up a scarf from Denny and George. I mean, a scarf. It's not even a suit or a coat, or something worthy like that.

'It's not that important,' I hear myself mumbling.

'I don't believe that,' he says nicely.

Oh, now I feel awful. I glance up – and thank goodness, it's my stop.

'Good luck,' I say, hastily getting up. 'I really hope you get there in time.'

As I walk along the pavement I'm feeling a bit shamefaced. Maybe I should have got out my hundred and twenty quid and given it to that man for his baby, instead of buying a pointless scarf. I mean, when you think about it, what's more important? Clothes – or the miracle of new life?

As I ponder this issue, I feel quite deep and philosophical. In fact I'm so engrossed, I almost walk past my turning. But I look up just in time and turn the corner – and feel a jolt. There's a girl coming towards me and she's carrying a Denny and George carrier bag. And suddenly everything is swept from my mind.