So anyway, we're both feeling rather pleased with ourselves, and decide to go for a cup of tea. Then, on the way out, we pass one of those really sad stalls which no-one is going near; the kind people glance at once, then quickly walk past. The poor guy behind it looks really sorry for himself, so I pause to have a look. And no wonder no-one's stopping. He's selling weird-shaped wooden bowls, and matching wooden cutlery. What on earth is the point of wooden cutlery?

'That's nice!' I say brightly, and pick one of the bowls up.

'Hand-crafted applewood,' he says. 'Took a week to make.'

Well, it was a waste of a week, if you ask me. It's shapeless, it's ugly, and the wood's a nasty shade of brown. But as I go to put it back down again, he looks so doleful I feel sorry for him and turn it over to look at the price, thinking if it's a river I'll buy it. But it's eighty quid! I show the price to Mum, and she pulls a little face.

'That particular piece featured in Elle Decoration last month,' says the man mournfully, and produces a cut-out page. And at his words, I freeze. Elle Decoration? Is he joking?

He's not joking. There on the page, in full colour, is a picture of a room, completely empty except for a suede bean bag, a low table, and a wooden bowl. I stare at it incredulously.

'Was it this exact one?' I ask, trying not to sound too excited. 'This exact bowl?' As he nods, my grasp tightens round the bowl. I can't believe it. I'm holding a piece of Elle Decoration. How cool is that? I suddenly feel incredibly stylish and trendy – and wish I was wearing white linen trousers and my hair slicked back like Yasmin Le Bon to match.

It just shows I've got good taste. Didn't I pick out this bowl – sorry, this piece – all by myself? Didn't I spot its

quality? Already I can see our sitting room redesigned entirely around it, all pale and minimalist. Eighty quid. That's nothing for a timeless piece of style like this.

'I'll have it,' I say determinedly, and reach inside my bag for my chequebook. The thing is, I remind myself, buying cheap is actually a false economy. It's much better to spend a little more and make a serious purchase that'll last a lifetime. And this bowl is quite clearly a classic. Suze is going to be so impressed.

When we get back home, Mum goes straight inside, but I stay in the driveway, carefully transferring my purchases from her car to mine.

'Becky! What a surprise!'

Oh God. It's Martin Webster from next door, leaning over the fence with a rake in his hand and a huge friendly smile on his face. Oh God. Martin has this way of always making me feel guilty, I don't know why.

Actually I do know why. It's because I know he was always hoping I would grow up and marry Tom, his son. And I haven't. The history of my relationship with Tom is: he asked me out once when we were both about sixteen and I said no, I was going out with Adam Moore. That was the end of it, and thank God for that.

To be perfectly honest, I would rather marry Martin himself than marry Tom. (That's not to say that I do really want to marry Martin. Or that I like older men or anything. It was just to make a point. Anyway, Martin's happily married.)

'Hi!' I say over-enthusiastically. 'How are you?'

'Oh, we're all doing well,' says Martin. 'You heard Tom's bought a house?'

'Yes,' I say. 'In Reigate. Fantastic!'

'It's got two bedrooms, shower room, reception room and open-plan kitchen,' he recites. 'Lime oak units in the kitchen.'

'Gosh,' I say. 'How fab.'

'Tom's thrilled with it,' says Martin. 'Janice!' he adds in a yell. 'Come and see who's here!'

A moment later, Janice appears on the front door step, wearing her floral apron.

'Becky!' she says. 'What a stranger you've become! How long is it?'

Oh God, now I feel guilty for not visiting my parents more often.

'Well,' I say, trying to give a nonchalant smile. 'You know. I'm quite busy with my job and everything.'

'Oh yes,' says Janice, giving an awe-stricken nod. 'Your Job.'

Somewhere along the line, Janice and Martin have got it into their heads that I'm this high-powered financial whiz-kid. I've tried telling them that really, I'm not – but the more I deny it, the more high powered they think I am. It's a catch-22. So the upshot is, they now think I'm high-powered and modest.

Still, who cares? It's quite fun, pretending to be a financial genius.

'Yes, we've been quite busy lately,' I say coolly. 'What with the merger of SBG and Rutland.'

'Of course,' breathes Janice.

'You know, that reminds me,' says Martin. 'Becky, wait there. Back in two ticks.' He disappears before I can say anything, and I'm left awkwardly with Janice.

'So,' I say inanely. 'I hear Tom's got limed oak units in his kitchen!'

This is literally the only thing I can think of to say. I smile at Janice, and wait for her to reply. But instead, she's beaming at me delightedly. Her face is all lit up – and suddenly I realize I've made a huge mistake. I shouldn't have mentioned Tom's bloody starter home. I shouldn't have mentioned the limed oak units. Now Janice'll think I'm hankering after those units myself, won't she? She'll think I suddenly fancy Tom, now he's got a starter home to his name.

'It's limed oak and Mediterranean tiles,' she says proudly. 'It was a choice of Mediterranean or Farmhouse Quarry, and Tom chose Mediterranean.'

For an instant I consider saying I would have chosen Farmhouse Quarry. But that seems a bit mean.

'Lovely,' I say. 'And two bedrooms!'

Why can't I get off the subject of this bloody starter home?

'He wanted two bedrooms,' says Janice. 'After all, you never know, do you?' She smiles coyly at me, and ridiculously, I feel myself start to blush. Oh God. Why am I blushing? This is so stupid. Now she thinks I fancy Tom. She's picturing us together in the starter home, making supper together in the limed oak kitchen.

I should say something. I should say, 'Janice, I don't fancy Tom. He's too tall and his breath smells.' But how on earth can I?

'Well, do give him my love,' I hear myself saying instead.

'I certainly will,' she says, and pauses. 'Does he have your London number?'

Aarrgh!

'I think so,' I lie, smiling brightly. 'And he can always get me here if he wants.' Now everything I say sounds like some saucy double entendre. I can just imagine how this conversation will be reported back to Tom. 'She was asking all about your starter home. And she asked you to call her!'

Life would le a lot easier if conversations were rewindable and erasable, like videos. Or if you could instruct people to disregard what you just said, like in a courtroom. Please strike from the record all references to starter homes and limed oak kitchens.

Luckily, at that moment, Martin reappears, clutching a piece of paper.

'Thought you might cast your eye over this,' he says. 'We've had this with-profits fund with Flagstaff Life for fifteen years. Now we're thinking of transferring to their new unit-linked growth fund. What do you think?'

I don't know. What's he talking about, anyway?

Some kind of savings plan? I run my eye over the piece of paper in what I hope looks like a knowledgeable fashion and nod several times.

'Yes,' I say vaguely. 'Well, I should think that's quite a good idea.'

'The company wrote to us, saying we might want a higher return in our retirement years,' says Martin. 'There's a guaranteed sum, too.'

'And they'll send us a carriage clock,' chimes in Janice. 'Swiss made.'

'Mrm,' I say, studying the letterhead intently.

Flagstaff Life, I'm thinking. I'm sure I've heard something about them recently. Which ones are Flagstaff Life? Oh yes! They're the ones who threw a champagne party at Soho. And Elly got incredibly pissed and told David Salisbury from The Times that she loved him. It was a bloody good party, come to think of it.

One of the best.

'D'you rate them as a company?' says Martin.

'Absolutely,' I say. 'They're very well regarded among the profession.'

'Well then,' says Martin, looking pleased. 'I think we should take their advice. Go for growth.'

'I would think the more growth, you have, the better," I say in my most professional-sounding voice. 'But that's just one view.'

'Oh well,' says Martin, and glances at Janice. 'If Becky thinks it's a good idea…'

'Well, I really wouldn't listen to me!' I say hurriedly.

'Listen to her!' says Martin with a little chuckle. 'The financial expert Herself.'

'You know, Tom sometimes buys your magazine,' puts in Janice. 'Not that he's got much money now, what with the mortgage and everything… But he says your articles are very good! He says-'

'How nice!' I cut in. 'Well, look, I really must go. Lovely to see you. And love to Tom!'

I turn into the house so quickly, I bump my knee on the door frame. Then I feel a bit bad, and wish I'd said goodbye nicely. But honestly! If I hear one more word about bloody Tom and his bloody kitchen, I'll go mad.

By the time I sit down in front of the National Lottery, however, I've forgotten all about them. We've had a nice supper – chicken provenale from Marks and Spencer, and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio, which I brought. I know the chicken provenale comes from Marks and Spencer because I've bought it myself, quite a few times. I recognized the sun-dried tomatoes and the olives, and everything. Mum, of course, still pretended she'd made it from scratch, to her own recipe.

I don't know why she bothers. It isn't like anyone would care – especially when it's just me and Dad.