'So,' says Emma. 'You think that once Fran faces up to reality, she'll be able to get her life in order.'

'That's right,' I say like an automaton, and force myself to smile brightly at Emma. But underneath, my confident happiness is evaporating. Derek Smeath is here. I can't block him out of my vision; I can't forget about him.

And now all the parts of my life I'd so carefully buried at the back of my mind are starting to worm their way out again. I don't want to remember any of them – but I've got no choice. Here they come, wriggling into my mind, one piece of horrible reality after another.

'Well,' says Rory. 'Let's all hope Fran takes Rebecca's very good advice.'

My row with Suze. My disastrous date with Tarquin. A nasty cold feeling starts trickling down my spine.

'Now our next caller,' says Emma, 'is John from Luton. John?'

'Hi, Rebecca,' 'comes a voice down the line. 'Thing is, I was given an insurance policy when I was a child, but I've lost all the papers. And now I'd like to get hold of the dosh, know what I mean?'

My VISA card, cancelled. My Octagon card, confiscated in front of that whole crowd. God, that was humiliating.

OK, stop it. Concentrate. Concentrate.

'This is actually quite a common problem,' I hear myself saying. 'Do you remember which company the policy was with?'

'No,' says John. 'Not a clue.'

My bank account. Thousands of pounds of debt.

Derek Smeath.

Oh God. I feel sick. I want to run and hide somewhere.

'Well, you still should be able to trace it,' I continue, forcing myself to keep smiling. 'You could start with an agency which specializes in this sort of thing. I can check this for you, but I think their name is…'

My whole terrible, disorganized life. It's all there, isn't it? Waiting for me, like a great big spider. Just waiting to pounce, as soon as this phone-in ends.

'We're out of time, I'm afraid,' says Emma, as I come to an end. 'Many thanks to our financial expert, Rebecca Bloomwood, and I'm sure we'll all be heeding her wise words. Coming up after the break, the results of our makeover in Newcastle and Heaven Sent 7, live in the studio.'

There's a frozen pause – then everyone relaxes.

'Right,' says Emma, consulting her piece of paper. 'Where are we next?'

'Good work, Rebecca,' says Rory cheerfully. 'Excellent stuff.'

'Oh Zelda!' says Emma, leaping up. 'Could I have a quick word? That was fab, Rebecca,' she adds. 'Really fab.'

Suddenly they're both gone. And I'm left alone on the set, exposed and vulnerable, desperately avoiding Derek Smeath's eye and thinking as quickly as I can. Maybe I could slip out at the back.

Or maybe I could stick it out here on the sofa. Just sit here until he gets bored and leaves. I mean, he won't dare to come onto the actual set, will he?

Maybe I could pretend to be someone else. God, yes. I mean, with all this makeup on, I practically look like someone else, anyway.

Anyway – it suddenly occurs to me.– who’s to say he's even noticed me? He's probably here for some completely other reason. He's probably going to appear on the show or something. Exactly. Nothing to do with me. So I'll just get up and walk briskly past, and it'll all be fine.

'Excuse me, love,' says a man in jeans, coming onto the set. 'I need to shift this sofa along.'

'Oh, right,' I say, leaping up. As I do, I mistakenly catch the eye of Derek Smeath again. He's still looking right at me. He's waiting for me.

Oh God.

OK, it'll be fine – just keep walking. Just keep walking and pretend you don't recognize him.

Deliberately avoiding his gaze, I stand up, take a deep breath and walk briskly across the set. My pace doesn't falter; my expression doesn't waver. My eyes are fixed firmly on the double doors, and I'm doing well. Just a few more steps now. Just a few more…

'Miss Bloomwood.' His voice hits the back of my head like a bullet and for an instant I consider ignoring it. Possibly even diving for the doors. But Zelda and Emma are standing nearby. They'll have heard him calling my name. I can't get out of it.

So I turn round, and give what I think is a very convincing double-take, as though recognizing him for the first time.

'Oh, hello, it's you!' I say brightly. 'What a surprise. How are you?'

A technician gestures to us to keep our voices down, and Derek Smeath firmly ushers me out of the studio, into a foyer area. He turns to me and I give him a confident smile. Perhaps we can keep it all at a social level.

'Miss Bloomwood-'

'Lovely weather we're having,' I say. 'Don't you think?'

'Miss Bloomwood, our meeting,' says Derek Smeath tightly.

Oh God. I was hoping he might have forgotten about that.

'Our meeting,' I echo thoughtfully. 'Erm…' Then I have a sudden inspiration. 'That's right. It's tomorrow, isn't it? I'm really looking forward to it.'

Derek Smeath looks as though he's going to explode.

'It is not tomorrow! It was on Monday morning. And you failed to turn up!'

'Oh,' I say. 'Oh, that meeting. Yes, sorry about that. I meant to come, honestly. It's just… It's just that…'

But I can't think of a single good excuse. I've used them all up. So I tail off feebly, and bite my lip, feeling like a naughty child.

'Miss Bloomwood,' says Derek Smeath wearily. 'Miss Bloomwood…' He rubs his face with his hand, then looks up. 'Do you know quite how long I have been writing letters to you? Do you know how long I've been trying to get you into the bank for a meeting?'

'Ahm… I'm not quite-'

'Six months,' says Derek Smeath, and pauses. 'Six long months of excuses and prevarication. Now, I'd just like you to think about what that means for me. It means endless letters. Numerous phone calls. Hours of time and effort on my part and that of my assistant, Erica. Resources which, quite frankly, could be better spent elsewhere.' He gestures sharply with his polystyrene cup and some coffee slops out of the side onto the floor. 'Then finally I pin you down to a cast-iron appointment. Finally I think you're taking your situation seriously. And you don't turn up. You disappear completely. I telephone your home to find out where you are – and get accused most unpleasantly of being some kind of stalker!'

'Oh yes,' I say, and pull an apologetic face. 'Sorry about that. It's just my dad, you know. He's a bit weird.'

'I'd all but given up on you,' says Derek Smeath, his voice rising. 'I'd all but given up. And then I'm passing a television shop this morning – and what should I see, on six different screens, but the missing, vanished Rebecca Bloomwood, advising the nation… And what are you advising them on?' He begins to shake with laughter. (At least, I think it's laughter,) 'Finance! You are advising the British public… on finance!'

I stare at him crossly. It's not that funny.

'Look, I'm very sorry I couldn't make the last meeting,' I say, trying to sound businesslike. 'Things were a bit difficult for me at that time. But if we could reschedule…'

'Reschedule!' cries Derek Smeath, as though I've just cracked a hysterical joke. 'Reschedule!'

I gaze at him indignantly. He's not taking me seriously at all, is he? He's not even listening to what I'm saying. I'm telling him I want to come in for a meeting – I actually want to – and he's just treating me like a joke. He's treating me like some sort of comedy act.

And no wonder, interrupts a tiny voice inside me. Look at the way you've behaved. Look at the way you've treated him. Frankly it's a wonder he's being civil to you at all.

I look up at his face, still crinkled in laughter… and feel rather chastened.

Because the truth is, he could have been a lot nastier to me than he has been. He could have taken my card away a long time ago. Or sent the bailiffs round. Or had me blacklisted. He's actually been very nice to me, one way or another.

'Listen,' I say quickly. 'Please. Give me another chance. I really want to sort my finances out. I want to repay my overdraft. But I need you to help me. I'm…' I swallow. 'I'm asking you to help me, Mr Smeath.'

There's a long pause. Derek Smeath looks around for a place to put his coffee cup, takes a white handkerchief out of his pocket and rubs his brow with it. Then he puts it away and gives me a long look.

'You're serious,' he says at last.

'Yes.'

'You'll really make an effort?'

'Yes. And…' I bite my lip. 'And I'm very grateful for all the allowances you've made for me. I really am.'

Suddenly I feel almost tearful. I want to be good… I want to get my life in order. I want him to tell me what to do.

All right,' says Derek Smeath at last. 'Let's see what we can sort out. You come into the office tomorrow, 9.30 sharp and we'll have a little chat.'

'Thanks,' I say, my whole body subsiding in relief. 'Thank you so much. I'll be there. I promise.'

'You'd better be,' he says. 'No more excuses.' Then a faint smile passes over his features. 'By the way,' he adds, gesturing to the set. 'I thought you did very well up there. Spot on with all your advice.'

'Oh,' I say in surprise. 'Well… thanks. That's really…' I clear my throat. 'How did you get into the studio, anyway? I thought they had quite tight security.'

'They do,' replies Derek Smeath. 'But my daughter works in television.' He smiles fondly. 'She used to work on this very show.'

'Really?' I say incredulously.

God, how amazing. Derek Smeath has got a daughter. He's probably got a whole family, come to that. A wife, and everything. Who would have thought it?