Seventeen 7 страница

'Hi! ' I say delightedly. 'How are you? '

'Fine! ' she says, and beams at me. 'Really getting along well. ' And she does look the part, I have to say. She's wearing a bright red suit (Karen Millen, no doubt), and some really nice square‑ toed shoes, and her hair's been tied back. The only thing I don't go for is the earrings. Why is she suddenly wearing pearl earrings? Maybe it's just to blend in with the others.

'God, I can't believe you're actually one of them! ' I say, lowering my voice slightly. 'I'll be interviewing you next! ' I tilt my head earnestly, like Martin Bashir on Panorama. '" Ms Davies, could you tell me the aims and principles of Wetherby's Investments? " '

Elly gives a little Laugh – then reaches into a box beside her.

'I'll give you this, ' she says, and hands me a brochure.

'Oh thanks, ' I say ironically, and stuff it into my bag. I suppose she has to look good in front of her colleagues.

'It's actually quite an exciting time at Wetherby's, ' continues Elly. 'You know we're launching a whole new range of funds next month? I think there are five altogether. UK Growth, UK Prospects, European Growth, European Prospects, and…'

Why is she telling me this, exactly?

'Elly…'

'And US Growth! ' she finishes triumphantly. There isn't a flicker of humour in her eyes.

'Right, ' I say after a pause. 'Well, that sounds… fab! '

'I could arrange for our PR people to give you a call, if you like, ' she says. 'Fill you in a bit more. '

What?

'No, ' I say hurriedly. 'No, it's OK. So, erm… what are you doing afterwards? Do you want to go for a drink? '

'No can do, ' she says apologetically. 'I'm going to look at a flat. '

'Are you moving? ' I say in surprise. Elly lives in the coolest flat in Camden, with two guys who are in a band and get her into loads of free gigs and stuff. I can't think why she'd want to move.

'Actually, I'm buying, ' she says. 'I'm looking around Streatham, Tooting… I just want to get on the first rung of that property ladder. '

'Right, ' I say feebly. 'Good idea. '

'You should do it yourself, you know, Becky, ' she says. 'You can't hang around in a student flat for ever. Real life has to begin some time! ' She glances at one of her men in suits, and he gives a little laugh.

It's not a student flat, I think indignantly. And anyway, who defines 'real life'? Who says 'real life' is property ladders and hideous pearl earrings? 'Shit boring tedious life', more like.

'Are yon going to the Barclays champagne reception? ' I say as a last gasp, thinking maybe we can go and get pissed together and have some fun. But she pulls a little face, and shakes her head.

'I might pop in, ' she says, 'but I'll be quite tied up here. '

'OK, ' I say. 'Well I'll… I'll see you later. '

I move away from the stand, and slowly start walking towards the corner where the champagne reception's being held, feeling slightly dispirited. In spite of myself, a part of me starts wondering if maybe Elly's right and I'm wrong. Maybe I should be talking about property ladders and growth funds, too. Oh God, maybe there's something wrong with me. I'm missing the gene which makes you grow up and buy a flat in Streatham and start visiting Homebase every weekend. Everyone's moving on without me, into a world I don't understand.

But as I get near the entrance to the champagne reception, I feel my spirits rising. Whose spirits don't rise at the thought of free champagne? It's being held in a huge tent, and there's a huge banner, and a band playing music, and a girl in a sash at the entrance, handing out Barclays keyrings. When she sees my badge, she gives me a wide smile, hands me a white glossy press pack, and says, 'Bear with me a moment. ' Then she walks off to a little group of people, murmurs in the ear of a man in a suit and comes back. 'Someone will be with you soon, she says. 'In the meantime, let me get you a glass of champagne. '

You see what I mean about being PSS? Everywhere you go, you get special treatment. I accept a glass of champagne, stuff the white press pack into my carrier bag and take a sip. Oh, it's delicious. Icy cold and sharp and bubbly. Maybe I'll stay here for a couple of hours, I think, just drinking champagne until there's none left. They won't dare chuck me out, I'm PSS. In fact, maybe I'll

'Rebecca. Glad you could make it. '

I look up and feel myself freeze. The man in the suit was Luke Brandon. Luke Brandon's standing in front of me, looking straight at me, with an expression I can't quite read. And suddenly I feel sick. All that stuff I planned about playing it cool and icy isn't going to work – because just seeing his face, I feel hot with humiliation, all over again.

'Hi, ' I mutter, looking down. Why am I even saying Hi to him?

'I was hoping you'd come, ' he says in a low, serious voice. 'I very much wanted to‑ '

'Yes, ' I interrupt. 'Well, I… I can't talk, I've got to mingle. I'm here to work, you know. '

I'm trying to sound dignified, but there's a wobble in my voice, and I can feel my cheeks slowly turning red as he keeps gazing at me. So I turn away before he can say anything else, and march off towards the other side of the tent. I don't quite know where I'm heading, but I've just got to keep walking until I find someone to talk to.

The trouble is, I can't see anyone I recognize. It's all just groups of bank‑ type people laughing loudly together and talking about golf. They all seem really tall and broad‑ shouldered, and I can't even catch anyone's eye. God, this is embarrassing. I feel like a six‑ year‑ old at a grown‑ ups' party. In the corner I spot Moira Channing from the Daily Herald, and she gives me a half‑ flicker of recognition – but I'm certainly not going to talk to her. OK, just keep walking, I tell myself. Pretend you're on your way somewhere.

Don't panic.

Then I see Luke Brandon on the other side of the tent. His head jerks up as he sees me, and he starts heading towards me. Oh God, quick. Quick. I've got to find somebody to talk to.

Right, how about this couple standing together? The guy's middle‑ aged, the woman's quite a lot younger, and they don't look as if they know too many people, either. Thank God. Whoever they are, I'll just ask them how they're enjoying the Personal Finance Fair and whether they're finding it useful, and pretend I'm making notes for my article. And when Luke Brandon arrives, I'll be too engrossed in conversation even to notice him. OK, go.

I take a gulp of champagne, approach the man and smile brightly.

'Hi there, ' I say. 'Rebecca Bloomwood, Successful Saving. '

'Hello, ' he says, turning towards me and extends his hand. 'Derek Smeath from Endwich Bank. And this is my assistant, Erica. '

Oh my God.

I can't speak. I can't shake his hand. I can't run. My whole body's paralysed.

'Hi! ' says Erica, giving me a friendly smile. 'I'm Erica Parnell. '

'Yes, ' I say, after a huge pause. 'Yes, hi. '

Please don't recognize my name. Please don't recognize my name.

'Are you a journalist, then? ' she says, looking at my name badge and frowning. 'Your name seems quite familiar. '

'Yes, ' I manage. 'Yes, you… you might have read some of my articles. '

'I expect I have, ' she says, and takes an unconcerned sip of champagne. 'We get all the financial mags in the office. Quite good, some of them. '

Slowly the circulation is returning to my body. It's going to be OK, I tell myself. They don't have a clue who I am.

'You journalists have to be expert on everything, I suppose, ' says Derek, who has given up trying to shake my hand and is swigging his champagne instead.

'Yes, we do really, ' I reply, and risk a smile. 'We get to know all areas of personal finance – from banking to unit trusts to life assurance. '

'And how do you acquire all this knowledge? '

'Oh, we just pick it up along the way, ' I say smoothly.

You know what? This is quite fun, now that I've relaxed. You don't know who I am! I feel like chanting. You don't know who I am! And Derek Smeath isn't at all scary in the flesh. In fact he's rather cosy and friendly, like some nice sitcom uncle.

'I've often thought, ' says Erica Parnell, 'that they should do a fly‑ on‑ the‑ wall documentary about a bank. ' She gives me an expectant look and I nod vigorously.

'Good idea! ' I say. 'I think that would be fascinating. '

'You should see some of the characters we get in! People who have absolutely no idea about their finances. Don't we, Derek? '

'You'd be amazed, ' says Derek. 'Utterly amazed. The lengths people go to, just to avoid paying off their overdrafts! Or even talking to us! '

'Really? ' I say, as though astonished.

'You wouldn't believe it! ' says Erica. 'I sometimes wonder‑ '

'Rebecca! ' A voice booms behind me and I turn round in shock to see Philip, clutching a glass of champagne and grinning at me. What's he doing here?

'Hi, ' he says. 'Marketing cancelled the meeting, so I thought I'd pop along after all. How's it all going? '

'Oh, great! ' I say, and take a gulp of champagne.

'This is Derek, and Erica… this is my editor, Philip

'Endwich Bank, eh? ' says Philip, looking at Derek Smeath's name badge. 'You must know Martin Gollinger, then. '

'We're not head office, I'm afraid, ' says Derek, giving a little laugh. 'I'm the manager of our Fulham branch. '

'Fulham! ' says Philip. 'Trendy Fulham. '

And suddenly a warning bell goes off in my head. Dong‑ dong‑ dong! I've got to do something. I've got to say something; change the subject. But it's too late. I'm the spectator on the mountain, watching the trains collide in the valley below.

'Rebecca lives in Fulham, ' Philip's saying. 'Who do you bank with, Rebecca? You're probably one of Derek's customers! ' He laughs loudly at his own joke, and Derek laughs politely, too.

But I can't laugh. I'm frozen to the spot, watching Erica Parnell's face as it changes. As realization slowly dawns. She meets my eye, and I feel something icy drip down my spine.

'Rebecca Bloomwood, ' she says, in quite a different voice. 'I thought I knew that name. Do you live in Burney Road, Rebecca? '

'That's clever! ' says Philip. 'How did you know that? ' And he takes another swig of champagne.

Shut up, Philip, I think frantically. Shut up.

'So you do? ' Her voice is sweet but sharp. Oh God, now Philip's looking at me, waiting for me to answer.

'Yes, ' I say, in a strangled voice, aware that my cheeks are flaming.

'Derek, have you realized who this is? ' says Erica pleasantly. 'This is Rebecca Bloomwood, one of our customers. I think you spoke to her the other day. Remember? ' Her voice hardens. 'The one with the dead dog? '

There's silence. I don't dare look at Derek Smeath's face. I don't dare look at anything except the floor.

'Well, there's a coincidence! ' says Philip. 'More champagne, anyone? '

'Rebecca Bloomwood, ' says Derek Smeath. He sounds quite faint. 'I don't believe it. '

'Yes! ' I say, desperately slugging back the last of my champagne. 'Hahaha! It's a village. Well, I must be off and interview some more‑ '

'Wait! ' says Erica, her voice like a dagger. 'We were hoping to have a little meeting with you, Rebecca. Weren't we, Derek? '

'Indeed we were, says Derek Smeath. I look up and meet his gaze – and feel a sudden trickle of fear. This man isn't like a cosy sitcom uncle any more. He's like a scary exam invigilator, who's just caught you cheating.

'That is, ' he adds, pointedly, 'assuming your legs are both intact and you aren't suffering from any dreaded lurgy? '

'What's this? ' says Philip cheerfully.

'How is the leg, by the way? ' says Erica sweetly.

'Fine, ' I mumble. 'Fine, thanks. ' Stupid bitch.

'Good, ' says Derek Smeath. 'So we'll say Monday at 9. 30, shall we? ' He looks at Philip. 'You don't mind if Rebecca joins us for a quick meeting on Monday morning, do you? '

'Of course not! ' says Philip.

'And if she doesn't turn up, ' says Derek Smeath, 'we'll know where to find her, won't we? ' He gives me a sharp look, and I feel my stomach contract in fright.

'Rebecca'll turn up! ' says Philip. 'Or if she doesn't, there'll be trouble! ' He gives me a joky grin, lifts his glass and wanders off. Oh God, I think in panic. Don't leave me alone with them.

'Well, I'll look forward to seeing you, ' says Derek Smeath. He pauses, and gives me a beady look. 'And if I remember rightly from our telephone conversation the other day, you'll be coming into some funds by then. '

Oh shit. I thought he'd have forgotten about that.

'That's right, ' I say after a pause. 'Absolutely. My aunt's money. Well remembered! My aunt left me some money recently, ' I explain to Erica Parnell.

Erica Parnell doesn't look impressed.

'Good, ' says Derek Smeath. 'Then I'll expect you on Monday. '

'Fine, ' I say, and smile even more confidently at him. 'Looking forward to it already! '

***

Financial Services Department

8th floor

Tower House

London Road

3nchester SO44 3DR

Ms Rebecca Blomwood

Charge Card Number 7854 4567

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd

London SW6 8FD

20 March 2000

Dear Ms Blomwood

FINAL REMINDER

Further to my letter of 3rd March, there is still an Outstanding balance of? 245. 57 on your Octagon Charge Card. Should payment not arrive within the next seven days, your account will be frozen and further action will be taken.

I was glad to hear that you have found the Lord and accepted Jesus Christ as your saviour; unfortunately this has no bearing on the matter.

I look forward to receiving your payment shortly.

Yours sincerely

Grant Ellesmore

Customer Finance Manager

Thirteen

Oh God. This is bad. I mean – I'm not just being paranoid, am I? This is really bad.

As I sit on the tube on my way home, I stare at my reflection – outwardly calm and relaxed. But inside, my mind's scurrying around like a spider, trying to find a way out. Round and round and round, legs flailing, no escape… OK, stop. Stop! Calm down and let's go through the options one more time.

Option One: Go to meeting and tell the truth.

I can't. I just can't. I can't go along on Monday morning and admit that there isn't? 1, 000 from my aunt and there never will be. What will they do to me? They'll get all serious, won't they? They'll sit me down and start going through all my expenditure and… Oh God, I feel sick at the thought of it. I can't do it. I can't go.

End of story.

Option Two: Go to meeting and lie.

So – what – tell them the? 1, 000 is absolutely on its way, and that further funds will be coming through soon. Hmmm. Possible. The trouble is, I don't think they'll believe me. So they'll still get all serious, sit me down, give me a lecture. No. No way.

Option Three: Don't go to meeting.

But if I don't, Derek Smeath will phone Philip and they'll start talking. Maybe the whole story will come out, and he'll find out I didn't actually break my leg. Or have glandular fever. And after that I won't ever be able to go back into the office. I'll be unemployed. My life will be over at the age of twenty‑ five. But then, maybe that's a price worth paying.

Option Four: Go to meeting with cheque for? 1, 000.

Perfect. Waltz in, hand over the cheque, say 'Will there be anything else? ' and waltz out again. Perfect. But how do I get? 1, 000 before Monday morning?

How?

Option Five: Run away.

Which would be very childish and immature. Not worth considering. I wonder where I could go? Maybe abroad somewhere.

Las Vegas. Yes, and I could win a fortune at the casinos. A million pounds or something. Even more, perhaps. And then – yes – then I'd fax Derek Smeath, saying I'm closing my bank account due to his lack of faith in me.

God yes! Wouldn't that be great? 'Dear Mr Smeath, I was a little surprised at your recent implication that I have insufficient funds to cover my overdraft and indeed by your sarcastic manner. As this cheque for? 1. 2 million shows, I have ample funds at my disposal – which I will shortly be moving to one of your competitors.

Perhaps they will treat me with more respect.

PS I am copying this letter to your superiors. '

I love this idea so much, I wallow in it for a while, amending the letter over and over in my head. 'Dear Mr Smeath, as I tried to inform you discreetly at our last encounter, I am in fact a millionairess. If only you had trusted me, things might have been different. '

God, he'll be sorry, won't he? That'll teach him. He'll probably phone up and apologize. Try and grovel for my business and say he hadn't meant to offend me. But it'll be too late. Far too late. Hah! Hahahaha…

Oh blast. Missed my stop.

When I get home, Suze is sitting on the floor, surrounded by glossy magazines.

'Hi! ' she says brightly. 'Guess what? I'm going to be in Vogue! '

'What? ' I say disbelievingly. 'Were you spotted on the streets or something? ' Then I realize I shouldn't sound quite so surprised. I mean, Suze has got an excellent figure. She could easily be a model. But still… Vogue!

'Not me, silly! ' she says. 'My frames. '

'Your frames are going to be in Vogue? ' Now I really am disbelieving.

'In the June issue! I'm going to be in a piece called " Just relax – designers who are bringing the fun back into interiors". It's cool, isn't it? The only thing is, I've only made two frames so far, so I need to make a few more in case people want to buy them. '

'Right, ' I say, trying to get my head round all this. 'So – how come Vogue are doing a piece about you? Did they… hear about you? '

How can they have heard about her? I'm thinking. I mean, she only started making frames four days ago!

'No silly! ' she says, and laughs. 'I phoned up Lally. Have you met Lally? ' I shake my head. 'Well, she's fashion editor of Vogue now, and she spoke to Perdy, who's the interiors editor, and Perdy phoned me back – and when I told her what my frames were like, she just went wild. '

'Gosh, ' I say. 'Well done. '

'She told me what to say in my interview, too, ' Suze adds, and clears her throat importantly. 'I want to create spaces for people to enjoy, not admire. There's a bit of the child in all of us. Life's too short for minimalism. '

'Oh right, ' I say. 'Great! '

'No, wait, there was something else, too. ' Suze frowns thoughtfully. 'Oh yes, my designs are inspired by the imaginative spirit of Gaudi. I'm going to phone up Charlie now, ' she adds happily. 'I'm sure he's something on Tatler. '

'Great, ' I say again.

And it is great.

I'm really glad for Suze. Of course I am.

But there's a part of me that's thinking – how come everything happens so easily for her? I bet she's never had to face a nasty bank manager in her life. And I bet she never will have to, either. Dispiritedly, I sink down onto the floor and begin to flip through a magazine.

'By the way, ' says Suze, looking up from the phone. 'Tarquin rang about an hour ago, to arrange your date. ' She grins wickedly. 'Are you looking forward to it? '

'Oh, ' say dully. 'Of course I am. '

I'd forgotten all about it, to be honest. But it's OK I'll just wait until tomorrow afternoon and say I've got period pain. Easy. No‑ one ever questions that, especially not men.

'Oh yes, ' says Suze, gesturing to a Harpers and Queen open on the floor. 'And look who I came across just now in the Hundred Richest Bachelors list! Oh hi, Charlie, ' she says into the phone. 'It's Suze! Listen…'

I look down at the open Harpers and Queen and freeze. Luke Brandon is staring out of the page at me, an easy smile on his face. Number 31, reads the caption. Age 32. Estimated wealth: ? 10 million. Scarily intelligent entrepreneur. Lives in Chelsea; currently dating Sacha de Bonneville, daughter of the French billionaire.

I don't want to know this. Why would I be interested in who Luke Brandon is dating? Savagely I flip the page backwards and start reading about Number 17, who sounds much nicer. Dave Kington. Age 28. Estimated wealth: ? 20 million. Former striker for Manchester United, now management guru and sportswear entrepreneur… Lives in Hertfordshire, recently split from girlfriend, model Cherisse.

And anyway, Luke Brandon's boring. Everyone says so. All he does is work. Obsessed by money, probably.

Number 16. Ernest Flight. Age 52. Estimated wealth: ? 22 million. Chairman and major shareholder of the Flight Foods Corporation. Lives in Nottinghamshire, recently divorced from third wife Susan.

I don't even think he's that good‑ looking. Too tall.

And he probably doesn't go to the gym or anything. Too busy. He's probably hideous underneath his clothes.

Number 15. Tarquin Cleath‑ Stuart. Age 26. Estimated wealth: ? 25 million. Landowner since inheriting huge family estate at age of 19. V. publicity shy. Lives in Perthshire and London with old nanny; currently single.

Anyway, what kind of man buys luggage as a present? I mean, a suitcase, for God's sake, when he had the whole of Harrods to choose from. He could have bought his girlfriend a necklace, or some clothes. Or he could have… He could have…

Hang on a moment, what was that?

What was that?

No. That can't be – Surely that's not‑

Oh my God.

And suddenly I can't breathe. I can't move. My entire frame is concentrated on the blurry picture in front of me. Tarquin Cleath‑ Stuart? Tarquin Suze's Cousin? Tarquin?

Tarquin… has… 25… million… pounds?

I think I'm going to pass out, if I can ever ungrip my hand from this page. I'm staring at the fifteenth‑ richest bachelor in Britain – and I know him.

Not only do I know him, he's asked me out on a date.

I'm having dinner with him tomorrow night.

OH‑ MY‑ GOD.

I'm going to be a millionairess. A multimillionairess. I knew it. Didn't I know it? I knew it. Tarquin's going to fall in love with me and ask me to marry him and we'll get married in a gorgeous Scottish castle just like in Four Weddings (except with nobody dying on us). And I'll have? 25 million.

And what will Derek Smeath say then? Hah!

Hah!

'D'you want a cup of tea? ' says Suze, putting down the phone. 'Charlie's such a poppet. He's going to feature me in Britain's Up‑ And‑ Coming‑ Talent. '

'Excellent, ' I say vaguely, and clear my throat. 'Just… just looking at Tarquin here. '

I have to check. I have to check there isn't some other Tarquin Cleath‑ Stuart, some cousin I don't know about. Please God, please let me be going out with the rich one.

'Oh yes, ' says Suze casually. 'He's always in those things. ' She runs her eyes down the text and shakes her head. 'God, they always exaggerate everything. ? 25 million! '

My heart stops.

'Hasn't he got? 25 million, then? ' I say carelessly.

'Oh no! ' She laughs as though the idea's ridiculous.

'The estate's worth about… Oh, I don't know. ? 18 million. '

? 18 million. Well, that'll do. That'll do nicely.

'These magazines! ' I say, and roll my eyes sympathetically.

'Earl Grey? ' says Suze, getting up. 'Or normal? '

'Earl Grey, ' I say, even though I actually prefer Typhoo. Becaus I'd better start acting posh, hadn't I, if I'm going to be the girlfriend of someone called Tarquin Cleath‑ Stuart.

Rebecca Cleath‑ Stuart.

Becky Cleath‑ Stuart.

Hi, it's Rebecca Cleath‑ Stuart here. Yes, Tarquin's wife. We met at… Yes, I was wearing Chanel. How clever of you!

'By the way, ' I add, 'did Tarquin say where I should meet him? '

'Oh, he's going to come and pick you up, ' says Suze. But of course he is. The fifteenth‑ richest bachelor in Britain doesn't just meet you at a tube station, does he? He doesn't just say, 'See you under the big clock at Waterloo'. He comes and picks you up.

Oh, this is it. This is it! My new life has finally begun.

I have never spent so long on getting ready for a date in my life. Never. The process starts at eight on Saturday morning when I look at my open wardrobe and realize that I don't have a single thing to wear – and only ends at 7. 30 that evening when I give my lashes another layer of mascara, spray myself in Coco Chanel and walk into the sitting room for Suze's verdict.

'Wow! ' she says, looking up from a frame she is upholstering in distressed denim. 'You look… bloody amazing! '

And I have to say, I agree. I'm wearing all black – but expensive black. The kind of deep, soft black you fall into. A simple sleeveless dress from Whistles, the highest of Jimmy Choos, a pair of stunning uncut amethyst earrings. And please don't ask how much it all cost, because that's irrelevant. This is investment shopping. The biggest investment of my life.

I haven't eaten anything all day so I'm nice and thin, and for once my hair has fallen perfectly into shape. I look… well, I've never looked better in my life.

But of course, looks are only part of the package, aren't they? Which is why I cannily stopped off at Waterstone's on the way home and bought a book on Wagner. I've been reading it all afternoon, while I waited for my nails to dry, and have even memorized a few little passage to throw into the conversation.

I'm not sure what else Tarquin is into, apart from Wagner. Still, that should be enough to keep us going. And anyway, I expect he's planning to take me some where really glamorous with a jazz band, so we'll be too busy dancing cheek to cheek to make conversation.

The doorbell rings and I give a little start. I have to admit, my heart is pounding with nerves. But at the same time I feel strangely cool. This is it. Here begins my new multimillion‑ pound existence. Luke Brandon, eat your heart out.

'I'll get it, ' says Suze, grinning at me, and disappears out into the hall. A moment later I hear her saying, 'Tarkie! '

'Suze! '

I glance at myself in the mirror, take a deep breath and turn to face the door, just as Tarquin appears. His head is as bony as ever, and he's wearing another of his ancient, odd‑ looking suits. But somehow none of that seems to matter any more. In fact, I'm not really taking in the way he looks. I'm just staring at him. Staring and staring at him, unable to speak; unable to flame any thought at all except: twenty‑ five million pounds.

Twenty‑ five million pounds. The sort of thought that makes you feel dizzy and elated, like a fairground ride. I suddenly want to run around the room, yelling 'Twenty‑ five million! Twenty‑ five million! ' throwing banknotes up in the air as if I were in some Hollywood comedy caper.

But I don't. Of course I don't. I say, 'Hi Tarquin, ' and give him a dazzling smile.

'Hi, Becky, ' he says. 'You look wonderful. '

'Thanks, ' I say, and look bashfully down at my dress.

'D'you want to stay for a titchy? ' says Suze, who is looking on fondly – as if she's my mother and this is senior prom night" and I'm dating the most popular boy in school.

'Ermm… no, I think we'll just get going, ' says Tarquin, meeting my eye. 'What do you think, Becky? '

'Absolutely, ' I say. 'Let's go. '

Fourteen

A taxi is chugging outside in the road, and Tarquin ushers me inside. To be honest, I'm a bit disappointed it isn't a chauffeur‑ driven limousine – but still. This is pretty good, too. Being whisked off in a taxi by one of Britain's most eligible bachelors to… " who knows where? The Savoy? Claridges? Dancing at Annabel's?

Tarquin hasn't told me yet where we're going. Oh God, maybe it'll be one of those mad places where everything is served under a silver dome and there's a million knives and forks and snooty waiters looking on, just waiting to catch you out. But that's OK. As long as I don't panic. Just keep calm and remember the rules. Right. What are they, again? Cutlery: start from the outside and work your way in. Bread: do not slice your bread roll but break into little bits and butter each one individually. Tomato ketchup: do not ask for under any circumstances.

What if it's lobster? I've never eaten a lobster in my life. Shit. It's going to be lobster, isn't it? And I won't know what to do and it'll be hideously embarrassing. Why haven't I ever eaten lobster? Why? It's all my parents' fault. They should have taken me to expensive restaurants from an early age so I would develop a nonchalant savoir‑ faire with tricky food.

'I thought we'd just have a nice quiet supper, ' says Tarquin, looking over at me.

'Lovely, ' I say. 'Nice quiet supper. Perfect. '

Thank God. That probably means we're not heading for lobster and silver domes. We're going to some tiny tucked‑ away place that hardly anyone knows about. Some little private club where you have to knock on an anonymous‑ looking door in a back street, and you get inside and it's packed with celebrities sitting on sofas, behaving like normal people. Yes! And maybe Tarquin knows them all!