Three. Magazines – ? 6.40. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty‑One

Eighteen

The next morning, I wake at six in the morning. It's pathetic, I know, but I'm as excited as a little kid on Christmas Day (or as me on Christmas Day, to be perfectly honest).

I lie in bed, telling myself to be grown‑ up and laid back and not think about it – but I just can't resist it. My mind is swimming with images of all the piles of newspapers in all the newsagents, all over the country. Of all the copies of the Daily World being dropped on people's doormats this morning; all the people who are going to be opening their papers, yawning, wondering what's in the news.

And what are they going to see?

They're going to see my name! Rebecca Bloomwood in print in the Daily World! My first national by‑ line. 'By Rebecca Bloomwood. ' Doesn't that sound cool? 'By Rebecca Bloomood. '

I know the piece has gone in, because Eric Foreman phoned me up yesterday afternoon and told me the editor was really pleased with it. And they've got it on a colour page – so the picture of Janice and Martin will be in full colour. Really high profile. I can't quite believe it. The Daily World!

Even as I'm lying here, it occurs to me, there's already a whole pile of Daily Worlds at the newsagent in the parade of shops round the corner. A whole pile of pristine, unopened copies. And the newsagent opens at… what time? Six, I seem to remember. And now it's five past six. So in theory, I could go and buy one right now if I wanted to. I could just get up, slip on some clothes, go down to the newsagent and buy one.

Not that I would, of course. I'm not quite so sad and desperate that I'm going to rush down as soon as the shop's opened, just to see my name. I mean, what do you take me for? No, what I'll do is just saunter down casually later on – perhaps at eleven or midday – pick up the paper and flip through it in mild interest and then saunter home again. I probably won't even bother to buy a copy. I mean – I've seen my name in print before, haven't I? It's hardly a big deal. No need to make a song and dance about it.

I'm going to turn over now and go back to sleep. I can't think why I'm awake so early. Must be the birds or something. Hmm… close my eyes, plump up my pillow, think about something else… I wonder what I'll have for breakfast when I get up?

But I've never seen my name in the Daily World, have I? says a little voice in my head. I've never seen it in a national newspaper.

Oh God, this is killing me. I can't wait any longer, I've got to see it.

Abruptly I get out of bed, throw on my clothes and tiptoe down the stairs. As I close the door, I feel just like the girl in that Beatles song about leaving home. Outside the air is flesh and crisp, and the road is completely quiet. Gosh, it's nice being up early. Why on earth don't I get up at six more often? I should do this every day. A power walk before breakfast, like people do in New York. Burn off loads of calories and then return home to an energizing breakfast of oats and freshly squeezed orange juice… Perfect. This will be my new regime.

But as I reach the little parade of shops, my heart begins to thump, and without quite meaning to, I slow my walk to a funereal pace. Now that I'm here, I'm starting to feel a bit nervous. I'm not actually sure I want to see my name in print at all. Maybe I'll just buy myself a Mars Bar and go home again. Or a Mint Aero, if they've got them.

Cautiously, I push at the door and wince at the 'ping! ' as it opens. I really don't want to draw attention to myself this morning. What if the guy behind the counter has read my article and thinks it's rubbish? Oh God, this is nerve‑ racking. I should never have become a journalist. I should have become a beautician, like I always wanted to. Maybe it's not too late. I'll retrain, open my own boutique…

'Hello, Becky! '

I look up and feel my face jerk in surprise. Martin Webster's standing at the counter, holding a copy of the Daily World. 'I just happened to be awake, ' he explains sheepishly. 'Thought I'd just come down, have a little look…'

'Oh, ' I say. 'Erm… me too. ' I give a nonchalant shrug. 'Since I was awake anyway…'

My eye falls on the newspaper and I feel my stomach flip over. Oh God. I'm going to expire with nerves.

Please, just kill me quickly.

'So – what… what's it like? ' I say in a strangled voice.

'Well, ' says Martin, gazing at the page as though perplexed. 'It's certainly big. ' He turns the paper round to face me, and I nearly keel over. There, in full colour, is a picture of Martin and Janice staring miserably up at the camera, below the headline COUPLE CHEATED BY FAT CATS AT FLAGSTAFF LIFE.

Shaking slightly, I take the paper from Martin. My eye skips across the page to the first column of text… and there it is! 'By Rebecca Bloomwood. ' That's my name! That's me!

There's a ping at the door of the shop, and we both look round. And there, to my utter astonishment, is Dad.

'Oh, ' he says, and gives an embarrassed little cough. 'Your mother wanted me to buy a copy. And since I was awake anyway…'

'So was I, ' says Martin quickly.

'Yes, so was I, ' I say.

'Well, ' says Dad. 'So – is it in? '

'Oh yes, ' I say, 'it's in. ' I turn the paper round so he can see it.

'Gosh, ' he says. 'It's big, isn't it? '

'The photo's good, don't you think? ' says Martin enthusiastically. 'Brings out the flowers in our curtains beautifully. '

'Yes, the photo's great, ' I agree.

I'm not going to demean myself by asking what he thought of the article itself. If he wants to compliment my writing, he will. If he doesn't – then it really doesn't matter. The point is, I'm proud of it.

'And Janice looks very nice, I thought, ' says Martin, still gazing at the photograph.

'Very nice, ' agrees Dad. 'If a little mournful. '

'You see, these professionals, they know how to light a shot, ' says Martin. 'The way the sunlight falls just here, on her‑ '

'What about my article? ' I wail piteously. 'Did you like that? '

'Oh, it's very good! ' says Martin. 'Sorry, Becky, I should have said I haven't read it all yet, but it seems to capture the situation exactly. Makes me out to be quite a hero! ' He frowns. 'Although I never did fight in the Falklands, you know. '

'Oh well, ' I say hurriedly. 'That's neither here nor there, really. '

'So you wrote all this yesterday? ' says Dad. 'On my typewriter? ' He seems astounded.

'Yes, ' I say smugly. " It looks good, doesn't it? Have you seen my by‑ line? " By Rebecca Bloomwood". '

'Janice'll be thrilled, ' says Martin. 'I'm going to buy two copies. '

'I'm going to buy three, ' says Dad 'Your granny will love to see this. '

'And I'll buy one, ' I say. 'Or two, perhaps. ' I carelessly reach for a handful and plonk them on the counter.

'Six copies? ' says the assistant. 'Are you sure? '

'I need them for my records, " I say, and blush slightly.

When we get home, Mum and Janice are both waiting at our front door, desperate to see a copy.

'My hair! ' wails Janice as soon as she sees the picture.

'It looks terrible! What have they done to it? '

'No it doesn't, love! ' protests Martin. 'You look very nice. '

'Your curtains look lovely, Janice, ' says Mum, looking over her shoulder.

'They do, don't they? ' says Martin eagerly. 'That's just what I said. '

I give up. What kind of family have I got, that are more interested in curtains than top financial journalism?

Anyway, I don't care. I'm mesmerized by my byline. 'By Rebecca Bloomwood. ' 'By Rebecca Bloom wood. '

After everyone's peered at the paper, Mum invites Janice and Martin round to ours for breakfast, and Dad goes and puts on some coffee. There's a rather festive air to the proceedings, and everyone keeps laughing a lot. I don't think any of us can quite believe that Janice and Martin are in the Daily World. (And me, of course. 'By Rebecca Bloomwood'. )

At ten o'clock, I slope off and ring up Eric Foreman. Just casually, you know. To let him know I've seen it. 'Looks good, doesn't it? ' he says cheerfully. 'The editor's really going for this series, so if you come up with any more stories like this just give me a shout. I like your style. Just right for the Daily World. '

'Excellent, ' I say, although I'm not quite sure whether that's a compliment or not.

'Oh, and while I'm at it, ' he adds, 'you'd better give me your bank details. '

My stomach gives a nasty lurch. Why does Eric Foreman want my bank details? Shit, is he going to check that my own finances are in order or something? Is he going to run a credit check on me?

'Everything's done by transfer these days, ' he's saying.

'Four hundred quid. That all right? '

What? What's he‑

Oh my God, he's going to pay me. But of course he is. Of course he is!

'That's fine, ' I hear myself say. 'No problem. I'll just ahm… give you my account number, shall I? '

Four hundred quid! I think dazedly as I scrabble for my chequebook. Just like that! I can't quite believe it.

'Excellent, ' says Eric Foreman, writing the details down. 'I'll sort that out for you with Accounts. ' Then he pauses. 'Tell me, would you be in the market for writing general features? Human interest stories, that kind of thing? '

Would I be in the market? Is he kidding?

'Sure, ' I say, trying not to sound too thrilled. 'In fact…I'd probably prefer it to finance. '

'Oh right, ' he says. 'Well, I'll keep an eye out for bits that might suit you. As I say, I think you've got the right style for us. '

'Great, ' I say. 'Thanks. '

As I put the phone down, there's a huge smile on my face. I've got the right style for the Daily World! Ha! At last I've found my niche!

The phone rings again, and I pick it up, wondering if it's Eric Foreman offering me some more work already.

'Hello, Rebecca Bloomwood, ' I say in a businesslike voice.

'Rebecca, ' says Luke Brandon's curt voice – and my heart freezes. 'Could you please tell me what the fuck is going on? '

Shit.

Shit, he sounds really angry. For an instant I'm paralysed. My throat feels dry; my hand is sweaty round the receiver. Oh God. What am I going to say?

What am I going to say to him?

But hang on a minute. I haven't done anything wrong.

'I don't know what you mean, ' I say, playing for time. Keep calm, I tell myself. Calm and cool.

'Your tawdry effort in the Daily World, ' he says scathingly. 'Your one‑ sided, unbalanced, probably libellous little story. '

For a second I'm so shocked I can't speak. Tawdry? Libellous?

'It's not tawdry! ' I splutter at last. 'It's a good piece. And it's certainly not libellous. I can prove everything I said. '

'And I suppose getting the other side of the story would have been inconvenient, ' he snaps. 'I suppose you were too busy writing your purple prose to approach Flagstaff Life and ask for their version of events. You'd rather have a good story than spoil it by trying to give a balanced picture. '

'I tried to get the other side of the story! ' I exclaim furiously. 'I phoned your stupid PR company up yesterday and told them I was writing the piece! '

There's silence.

'Who did you speak to? ' says Luke.

'Alicia, ' I reply. 'I asked her a very clear question about Flagstaff's policy on switching funds, and she told me she'd get back to me. I told her I had an urgent deadline. '

Luke gives an impatient sigh.

'What the fuck were you doing, speaking to Alicia? Flagstaff's my client, not hers. '

'I know! I said that to her! But she said you were a very busy man and she could deal with me. '

'Did you tell her you were writing for the Daily World? '

'No, ' I say, and feel myself flush slightly red. 'I didn't specify who I was writing for. But I would have told her if she'd asked me. She just didn't bother. She just assumed I couldn't possibly be doing anything important. ' In spite of myself, my voice is rising in emotion. 'Well, she was wrong, wasn't she? You were all wrong. And maybe now you'll start treating everybody with respect. Not just the people you think are important. '

I break off, panting slightly, and there's a bemused silence.

'Rebecca, ' says Luke at last, 'if this is about what happened between us that day – if this is some kind of petty revenge'

God, I'm really going to explode now.

'Don't you bloody insult me! ' I yell. 'Don't you bloody try and make out this is some kind of personal thing! It's got nothing to do with that! It's your company's incompetence that's to blame! I was completely professional. I gave you every chance to put your side of the story. Every chance. And if you blew it, that's not my fault. '

And without giving him the chance to reply, I slam the phone down.

I'm feeling quite shaky as I go back into the kitchen. To think I ever liked Luke Brandon. To think I tablehopped with him. To think I let him lend me twenty quid. He's just an arrogant, self‑ centred, chauvinistic‑

'Telephone! ' says Mum. 'Shall I get it? '

Oh God. It'll be him again, won't it? Ringing back to apologize. Well, he needn't think I'm that easily won round. I stand by every word I said. And I'll tell him so. In fact, I'll add that‑

'It's for you Becky, ' says Mum.

'Fine, ' I say coolly, and make my way to the telephone. I don't hurry; I don't panic, I feel completely in control.

'Hello? ' I say.

'Rebecca? Eric Foreman here. '

'Oh! ' I say in surprise. 'Hi! '

'Bit of news about your piece. '

'Oh yes? ' I say, trying to sound calm. But my stomach's churning. What if Luke Brandon's spoken to him? What if I did get something wrong? Oh shit, I did check all the facts, didn't I?

'I've just had Morning Coffee on the phone, ' he says. 'You know, the TV programme? Rory and Emma. They're interested in your story. '

'What? ' I say stupidly.

'There's a new series they're doing on finance. " Managing your Money. " They get some financial expert in every week, tell the viewers how to keep tabs on their dosh. ' Eric Foreman lowers his voice. 'Frankly, they're running out of stuff to talk about. They've done mortgages, store cards, pensions, all the usual cobblers…'

'Right, ' I say, trying to sound intelligent. But as his words slowly sink in, I'm feeling a bit dazed. Rory and Emma have read my article? Rory and Emma themselves? I have a sudden vision of them holding the paper together, jostling for a good view. But of course, that's silly, isn't it? They'd have a copy each.

'So, anyway, they want to have you on the show tomorrow morning, ' Eric Foreman's saying. 'Talk about this windfall story, warn their viewers to take care. You interested in that kind of thing? If not, I can easily tell them you're too busy. '

'No! ' I say quickly. 'No. Tell them I'm…' I swallow. 'I'm interested. '

As I put down the phone, I feel faint. I can't quite believe it. I'm going to be on television.

***

BANK OF HELSINKI

HELSINKI HOUSE

124 Lombard st

London EC2D 9YF

Rebecca Bloomwood

c/o William Green Recruitment

39 Farringdon Square

London EC4 7TD

27 March 2000

Hyvi Rebecca Bloomwood

Oli erittiin hauska tavata teidit viime viikolla, vaikka tapaaminen jiikin lyhyeksi. Olitte selvisti hermostunut, miki on aivan ymmirrettivai. Siiti huolimatta mini ja kollegani ihailimme tavalli suudesta poikkeavaa luonteenlaatuanne. Olemme varmoja, etti tgisti olisi yhtiall emme paljon hyatyi, ja mielellimme tapaisimme teidit uudestaan, ehki lounaan merkeissi.

Haluaisin onnitella teiti suurenmoisesta artikkelis tanne Daily World ‑ lehdessi. Olette selvisti taitava ilmaisemaan ajatuksianne, ja on suuri ilo piisti pian keskustelemaan kanssanne iidinkielel lini. Toivoisin etta ottaisitte minuun yhteytta ylli mainitulla osoitteella.

Parhain terveisin

Ystivillisesti

Jan Virtanen

Nineteen

The car to take me to the television studios arrives promptly at 7. 30 the next morning. As the doorbell rings, Mum, Dad and I all jump, even though we've been waiting in a tense silence for ten minutes.

'Well, ' says Dad gruffly, glancing at his watch. 'They're here, anyway. '

Ever since I told him about the arrangements yesterday, Dad's been predicting that the car won't turn up and that he'll have to drive me to the studios himself. He even worked out a route last night, and phoned up Uncle Malcolm as a standby. (To be honest, I think he was quite looking forward to it. )

'Oh Becky, ' says Mum in a trembling voice. 'Good luck, darling. ' She looks at me, then shakes her head.

'Our little Becky, on television. I can't believe it. '

I start to get up, but Dad puts out a restraining arm.

'Now before you answer the door, Becky, ' he says. You are sure, aren't you? About the risk you're taking. '

He glances at Mum, who bites her lip.

'I'll be fine! ' I say, trying to sound as soothing as possible. 'Honestly, Dad, we've been over it all. '

Last night, it suddenly occurred to Dad that if I went on the telly, my stalker would know where I was. At first he was adamant I'd have to call the whole thing off – and it took an awful lot of persuasion to convince him and Mum I'd be perfectly safe in the TV studios.

They were even talking about hiring a bodyguard, can you believe it? I mean, what on earth would I look like, turning up with a bodyguard?

Actually, I'd look pretty cool and mysterious, wouldn't I? Damn. That might have been quite a good idea.

The doorbell rings again and I leap to my feet.

'Well, ' says Dad. 'You just be careful. '

'I will, don't worry! ' I say, picking up my bag. I walk to the door calmly, trying not to give away how excited I feel. But inside I feel as light as a bubble.

I just can't believe how well everything's going. Not only am I going to be on the telly – but everyone's being so nice to me! Yesterday I had several phone conversations with an assistant producer of Morning Coffee, who's a really sweet girl called Zelda. We went over exactly what I was going to say on the programme, then she fixed up for a car to come and pick me up – and when I told her I was at my parents' house with none of my clothes handy, she thought for a bit, then said I could choose something to wear from the wardrobe. I mean, how cool is that? Choosing any outfit I like from the wardrobe! I expect they'll let me keep it afterwards, too.

As I open the front door, my stomach gives an excited leap. There, waiting in the drive, is a portly, middle‑ aged man in a blue blazer and cap, standing next to a shiny saloon car. My own private chauffeur!

This just gets better and better.

'Miss Bloomwood? ' says the driver.

'Yes, ' I say, unable to stop myself grinning at him in delight. I'm about to reach for the door handle – but he gets there before me, opens the car door with a flourish and stands to attention, waiting for me to get in. God, this is like being a film star or something!

I glance back towards the house and see Mum and Dad standing on the front step, both looking utterly gobsmacked.

'Well – bye then! ' I say, trying to sound casual, as though I always ride around in a chauffeur‑ driven car.

'See you later! '

'Becky, is that you? ' comes a voice from next door, and Janice appears on the other side of the hedge in her dressing gown. Her eyes grow large as they take in the car and she glances at Mum, who raises her shoulders, as though to say, 'I know, isn't it unbelievable? '

'Morning, Janice, ' says Dad.

'Morning, Graham, ' says Janice dazedly. 'Oh Becky! I've never seen anything like it. In all the years… If Tom could only see you…' She breaks off and looks at Mum. 'Have you taken any photographs? '

'We haven't! ' says Mum in dismay. 'It didn't even occur to us. Graham, quick – go and get the camera. '

'No, wait, I'll get our camcorder! ' says Janice. 'It won't take me two ticks. We could have the car arriving in the drive, and Becky walking out of the front door… and maybe we could use The Four Seasons as the soundtrack, and then cut straight to‑ '

'No! ' I say hastily, seeing a flicker of amusement pass across the face of the driver. God, this is embarrassing. And I was doing so well at looking nonchalant and professional. 'We haven't got time for any pictures. I have to get to the studios! '

'Yes, ' says Janice, suddenly looking anxious. 'Yes, you don't want to be late. ' She glances fearfully at her watch as though afraid the programme might already have started. 'It's on at eleven, isn't it? '

'Eleven o'clock the programme starts, ' says Dad. 'Set the video for five too, that's what I've been telling people. '

'That's what we'll do, ' says Janice. 'Just in case. ' She gives a little sigh. 'I shan't dare to go to the loo, all morning, just in case I miss it! '

There's an awed silence as I get into the car. The driver closes the door smartly, then walks around to the driver's door. I press the button to lower my window and grin out at Mum and Dad.

'Becky, darling, what will you do afterwards? ' says Mum. 'Come back here or go back to the flat? '

Immediately I feel my smile falter, and look down, pretending to fiddle with the window controls. I don't want to think about afterwards.

In fact, I can't even visualize afterwards. I'm going to be on the telly… and that's as far as it goes. The rest of my life is shut securely away in a box at the back of my head and I don't want to remember it's there.

'I … I'm not sure, ' I say. 'I'll see what happens. '

'They'll probably take you out to lunch afterwards, ' says Dad knowledgeably. 'These showbiz types are always having lunch with each other. '

'Liquid lunches, ' puts in Janice, and gives a little laugh.

'At the Ivy, ' says Mum. 'That's where all the actors meet up, isn't it? '

'The Ivy's old hat! ' retorts Dad. 'They'll take her to the Groucho Club. '

'The Groucho Club! ' says Janice, clasping her hands. 'Isn't that where Kate Moss goes? '

This is getting ridiculous.

'We'd better go, ' I say, and the driver nods.

'Good luck, sweetheart, ' calls Dad. I close the window and lean back, and the car purrs out of the drive.

For a while, we drive in silence. I keep casually glancing out of the window to see if anyone's looking at me in my chauffeur‑ driven car and wondering who I am (that new girl on EastEnders, perhaps). Although we're whizzing along the dual carriageway so fast, I probably look like a blur.

'So, ' says the driver after a while. 'You're appearing on Morning Coffee, are you? '

'Yes, I am, ' I say, and immediately feel a joyful smile plaster itself over my face. God, I must stop this. I bet Jeremy Paxman doesn't start grinning inanely every time someone asks him if he's appearing on University Challenge. He probably just gives a little sneer, as if to say Of course I'm appearing on University Challenge, you brainless little…

'So what're you on for? ' says the driver, interrupting my thoughts.

I'm about to reply, 'To be famous and maybe get some free clothes' when I realize what he means.

'A financial story, ' I say coolly. 'I wrote a piece in the Daily World, and the producers read it, and wanted me on the show. '

'Been on television before? '

'No, ' I admit, slightly reluctantly. 'No, I haven't. '

We pull up at some lights and the driver turns round in his seat to survey me.

'You'll be fine, ' he says. 'Just don't let the nerves get to you. '

'Nerves? ' I say, and give a little laugh. 'I'm not nervous! I'm just… looking forward to it. '

'Glad to hear it, ' says the driver, turning back. 'You'll be OK, then. Some people, they get onto that sofa, thinking they're fine, relaxed, happy as a sandboy… then they see that red light, and it hits them that million people around the country are all watching them. Makes some people start to panic. Don't know why. '

'Oh, ' I say after a slight pause. 'Well… I'm nothing like them! I'll be fine! '

'Good, ' says the driver.

'Good, ' I echo, a little less certainly, and look out of the window.

I'll be fine. Of course I will. I've never been nervous in my life before, and I'm certainly not going to start…

2. 5 million people.

Gosh. When you think about it – that is quite a lot, isn't it? 2. 5 million people, all sitting at home, staring at the screen. Staring at my face. Waiting for what I'm going to say next.

Oh God. OK, don't think about it. The important thing is just to keep remembering how well prepared I am. I rehearsed for ages in front of the mirror last night and I know what I'm going to say practically by heart.

It all has to be at a very basic and simple level, Zelda said – because apparently 76 per cent of the Morning Coffee audience are housewives looking after toddlers, who have very short attention spans. She kept apologizing for what she called the 'dumbing down effect' and saying a financial expert like myself must feel really frustrated by it – and of course, I agreed with her.

But to be honest, I'm quite relieved. In fact, the more dumbed‑ down the better, as far as I'm concerned. I mean, writing a Daily World article with all my notes to hand was one thing, but answering tricky questions on live TV is quite another. (A scary thought, actually – not that I told Zelda that. I don't want her to think I'm a total durr‑ brain. )

So anyway, I'm going to start off by saying, 'If you were offered a choice between a carriage clock and? 20, 000, which would you choose? ' Rory or Emma will reply: '? 20, 000, of course! ' and I'll say, 'Exactly. Twenty thousand pounds'. I'll pause briefly, to let that figure sink into the audience's mind – and then I'll say, 'Unfortunately, when Flagstaff Life offered their customers a carriage clock to transfer their savings, they didn't tell them that if they did so, they would lose a? 20, 000 windfall! '

That sounds quite good, don't you think? Rory and Emma will ask a few very easy questions like 'What can people do to protect themselves? ', and I'll give nice simple answers. And right at the end, just to keep it light, we're going to talk about all the different things you could buy with? 20, 000.

Actually, that's the bit I'm looking forward to most of all. I've already thought of loads of things. Did you know, with? 20, 000 you could buy fifty‑ two Gucci watches, and have enough left over for a bag?

The Morning Coffee studios are in Maida Vale, and as we draw near to the gates, familiar from the opening credits of the show, I feel a dart of excitement. I'm actually here. I'm actually going to be on television!

The doorman waves us through the barrier; we pull up outside a pair of huge double doors, and the driver opens the door for me. As I get out my legs are shaking slightly, but I force myself to walk confidently up the steps, into the reception hall, and up to the desk.

'I'm here for Morning Coffee, ' I say, and give a little laugh as I realize what I've just said. 'I mean…' 'I know what you mean, ' says the receptionist, kindly but wearily. She looks my name up on a list, jabs a number into her phone, and says, 'Jane? Rebecca Bloomwood's here. ' Then she gestures to a row of squashy chairs and says, 'Someone will be with you shortly. '

I walk over to the seating area and sit down opposite a middle‑ aged woman with lots of wild dark hair and a big amber necklace round her neck. She's lighting up a cigarette, and even though I don't really smoke any more, I suddenly feel as though I could do with one myself.

Not that I'm nervous or anything. I just fancy a cigarette.

'Excuse me, ' calls the receptionist. 'This is a no smoking area. '

'Damn, ' says the woman in a raspy voice. She takes a long drag, then stubs the cigarette out on a saucer and smiles at me conspiratorially. 'Are you a guest on the show? ' she says.

'Yes, ' I say. 'Are you? '

The woman nods. 'Promoting my new novel, Blood Red Sunset. ' She lowers her voice to a thrilling throb. 'A searing tale of love, greed and murder, set in the ruthless world of South American money launderers. '

'Gosh, ' I say. 'That sounds really‑ '

'Let me give you a copy, ' interrupts the woman. She reaches into a Mulberry holdall by her side and pulls out a vividly coloured hardback book. 'Remind me of your name? '

Remind her?

'It's Rebecca, ' I say. 'Rebecca Bloomwood. '

'To Becca, ' the woman says aloud, as she scrawls inside the front page. 'With love and great affection. '

She signs with a flourish and hands the book to me.

'Gosh, ' I say. 'Thanks…' quickly I look at the cover 'Elisabeth. '

Elisabeth Plover. To be honest, I've never heard of her.

'I expect you're wondering how I came to know such a lot about such a violent, dangerous world, ' says Elisabeth. She leans forward and gazes at me with huge green eyes. 'The truth is, I lived with a money launderer for three long months. I loved him, I learned from him… and then I betrayed him. ' Her voice dies to a trembling whisper. 'I still remember the look he gave me as the police dragged him away. He knew what I'd done. He knew I was his Judas Iscariot. And yet, in a strange kind of way, I think he loved me for it. '

'Wow, ' I say, impressed in spite of myself. 'Did all this happen in South America? '

'Have, ' she says, after a slight pause. 'But money launderers are the same the world over. '

'Rebecca? ' says a voice, before I can think of a reply to this, and we both look up to see a girl with smooth dark hair, in jeans and a black polo‑ neck, walking swiftly towards us. 'I'm Zelda. We spoke yesterday? '

'Zelda! ' exclaims Elisabeth, getting to her feet. 'How have you been, my darling? ' She holds out her arms, and Zelda stares at her.

'I'm sorry, ' she says, 'have we…' She stops as her gaze falls on my copy of Blood Red Sunset. 'Oh yes, that's right. Elisabeth Plummer. One of the researchers will be down for you a minute. Meanwhile, do help yourself to coffee. ' She flashes her a smile, then turns to me. 'Rebecca, are you ready? '

'Yes! ' I say eagerly, leaping up from my chair. (I have to admit, I feel quite flattered that Zelda's come down to get me herself. I mean, she obviously doesn't come down for everyone. )

'Great to meet you, ' says Zelda, shaking my hand. 'Great to have you on the show. Now, as usual, we're completely frantic – so if it's OK by you, I thought we'd just head straight off to hair and makeup and we can talk on the way. '

'Absolutely, ' I say, trying not to sound too excited. 'Good idea. '

Hair and makeup! This is so cool!

'There's been a slight change of plan which I need to fill you in on, ' says Zelda. 'Nothing to worry about…

Any word from Belle yet? ' she adds to the receptionist.

The receptionist shakes her head, and Zelda mutters something which sounds like 'Stupid cow'.

'OK, let's go, ' she says, heading off towards a pair of swing doors. 'I'm afraid it's even more crazy than usual today. One of our regulars has let us down, so we're searching for a replacement, and there's been an accident in the kitchen…' She pushes through the swing doors and now we're striding along a green‑ carpeted corridor buzzing with people. 'Plus we've got Heaven Sent 7 in today, ' she adds over her shoulder. 'Which means the switchboard gets jammed with fans calling in, and we have to find dressing‑ room space for seven enormous egos. '

'Right, ' I say nonchalantly. But suddenly I can't quite breathe. Heaven Sent 7? But I mean… they're really famous! And I'm appearing on the same show as them! I'll get to meet them and everything, won't I? Maybe we'll all go out 'for a drink afterwards and become really good friends. They're all a bit younger than me, but that won't matter. I'll be like their older sister.

Or maybe I'll go out with one of them! God, yes. That nice one with the dark hair. Nathan. (Or is it Ethan? Whatever he's called. ) He'll catch my eye after the show, and quietly ask me out to dinner without the others. We'll go to some tiny little restaurant, and at first it'll be all quiet and discreet, but then the press will find out and we'll become one of those really famous couples who go to premieres all the time. And I'll wear…

'OK, here we are, ' says Zelda, and I look up dazedly.

We're standing in the doorway of a room lined with mirrors and spotlights. Three people are sitting in chairs in front of the mirrors, wearing capes and having makeup applied by trendy‑ looking girls in jeans; another is having her hair blow‑ dried. Music is playing in the background, there's a friendly level of chatter, and in the air are the mingled scents of hairspray, face powder and coffee.

It's basically my idea of heaven.

'So, ' says Zelda, leading me towards a girl with red hair. 'Chloe will do your makeup, and then we'll pop you along to wardrobe. OK? '

'Fine, ' I say, unable to stop a delighted grin spreading over my face as I take in Chloe's collection of makeup. There's about a zillion brushes, pots and tubes littered over the counter in front of us, all really good brands like Chanel and MAC.

God, what a great job. I always knew I should have become a makeup artist.

'Now, about your slot, ' continues Zelda as I sit down on a swivel chair. 'As I say, we've gone for a rather different format from the one we talked about previously…'

'Zelda! ' comes a man's voice from outside. 'Bella's on the line for you! '

'Oh shit, ' says Zelda. 'Look, Rebecca, I've got to go and take this call, but I'll come back as soon as I can. OK? '

'Fine! ' I say happily, as Chloe drapes a cape round me and pulls my hair back into a wide towelling band. In the background, the radio's playing my favourite song by Lenny Kravitz. This couldn't be more perfect.

'I'll just cleanse and tone, and then give you a base, ' says Chloe. 'If you could shut your eyes…'

I close my eyes, and after a few seconds, feel a cool, creamy liquid being massaged into my face. It's the most delicious sensation in the world. I could sit here all day.

'So, ' says Chloe after a while. 'What are you on the show for? '

'Errm.. finance, ' I say vaguely. 'A piece on finance. '

To be honest, I'm feeling so relaxed, I can hardly remember what I'm doing here.

'Oh yeah, ' says Chloe, efficiently smoothing foundation over my face. 'They were talking earlier about some financial thing. ' She reaches for a palette of eye shadows, blends a couple of colours together, then picks up a brush. 'So, are you a financial expert, then? '

'Well, ' I say, and give a modest little shrug. 'You know. '

'Wow, ' says Chloe, starting to apply eyeshadow to my eyelids. 'I don't understand the first thing about money. '

Me neither! ' chimes in a dark‑ haired girl from across the room. 'My accountant's given up trying to explain it all to me. As he says the word " tax‑ year", my mind glazes over. '

I'm about to reply sympathetically, The too! ' and launch into a nice girly chat. But just in time I realize that might not sound too good. I am supposed to be a financial expert, after all.

'It's all quite simple, really, ' I say instead, and flash a confident little smile. 'Once you get the hang of the three basic principles. '

'Really? ' says the dark‑ haired girl, and pauses, hair drier in hand. 'What are they, then? '

'Oh, ' I say, clearing my throat. 'Erm, well, the first one is…' I pause, and rub my nose. God, my mind's completely blank.

'Sorry, Rebecca, ' says Chloe, 'I'm going to have to interrupt. ' Thank goodness for that. 'Now, I was thinking a raspberry red for the lips. Is that OK by you? '

What with all this chatting, I haven't really been paying attention to what she's been doing to my face. But as I look at my reflection properly, I can't quite believe it. My eyes are huge; I've suddenly got amazing cheekbones… honestly, I look like a different person. Why on earth don't I wear makeup like this every day?

'Wow! ' I breathe. 'That's fantastic! '

'It's easier because you're so calm, ' observes Chloe, reaching into a black vanity case. 'We get some people in here, really trembling with nerves. Even celebrities. We can hardly do their makeup. '

'Really? ' I say, and lean forward, ready to hear some insider gossip. But Zelda's voice interrupts us.

'Sorry about that, Rebecca! ' she exclaims. 'Right, how are we doing? Makeup looks good. What about hair? '

'It's nicely cut, ' says Chloe, picking up a few strands of my hair and dropping them back down again, just like Nicky Clarke on a makeover. 'I'll just give it a blow‑ dry for sheen. '

'Fine, ' says Zelda. 'And then we'll get her along to wardrobe. ' She glances at something on her clipboard, then sits down on a swivel chair next to me. 'OK, so Rebecca, we need to talk about your item. '

'Excellent, ' I say, matching her businesslike tone. 'Well, I've prepared it all just as you wanted. Really simple and straightforward. '

'Yup, ' says Zelda. 'Well, that's the thing. We had a talk at the meeting yesterday, and you'll be glad to hear, we don't need it too basic, after all. ' She smiles. 'You'll be able to get as technical as you like! Graphs … figures…'

'Oh right, ' I say, taken aback. 'Well… good! That's great! Although I might still keep it fairly low‑ '

'We want to avoid talking down to the audience. I mean, they're not morons! ' Zelda lowers her voice slightly. 'Plus we had some new audience research in yesterday – and apparently 80 per cent feel patronized by some or all of the show's content. Basically, we need to redress that balance. So we've had a complete change of plan for your item! ' She beams at me. 'What we thought is, instead of a simple interview, we'd have more of a high‑ powered debate. '

'A high‑ powered debate? ' I echo, trying not to sound as alarmed as I feel.

'Absolutely! ' says Zelda. 'What we want is a really heated discussion! Opinions flying, voices raised. That kind of thing. '

Opinions? But I don't have any opinions.

'So is that OK? ' says Zelda, frowning at me. 'You look a bit‑ '

'I'm fine! ' I force myself to smile brightly. 'Just… looking forward to it! A high‑ powered debate. Great! ' I clear my throat. 'And… and who will I be debating with? '

'A representative from Flagstaff Life, ' says Zelda triumphantly. 'Head‑ to‑ head with the enemy. It'll make great television! '

'Zelda! ' comes a voice from outside the room. 'Bella again! '

'Oh, for Christ's sake! ' says Zelda, leaping up.

'Rebecca, I'll be back in a sec. '

'Fine, ' I manage. 'See you in a minute. '

'OK, ' says Chloe cheerfully. 'While she's gone, let me put on that lipstick. ' She reaches for a long brush and begins to paint in my lips, and I stare at my reflection, trying to keep calm; trying not to panic. But my heart's thumping hard and my throat's so tight, I can't swallow. I've never felt so frightened in all my life. I can't talk in a high‑ powered debate! I just can't do it. I don't have any opinions, I don't have any facts, I don't know anything…

Oh God, why did I ever want to be on television?

'Rebecca, could you try to keep your lips still? ' says Chloe with a puzzled frown. 'They're really shaking. '

'Sorry, ' I whisper, staring at my reflection like a frozen rabbit. She's right, I'm trembling all over. Oh God, this is no good. I've got to calm down. Think Zen.

Think happy thoughts.

In an effort to distract myself, I focus on the reflection in the mirror. In the background I can see Zelda standing in the corridor, talking into a phone with a furious expression on her face.

'Yup, ' I can hear her saying curtly. 'Yup. But the point is, Bella, we pay you a retainer to be available.

What the fuck am I supposed to do now? ' She looks up, sees someone, and lifts a hand in greeting. 'OK, Bella, I do see that…'

A blond woman and two men appear in the corridor, and Zelda nods to them apologetically. I can't see their faces, but they're all wearing smart overcoats and holding briefcases, and one of the men has a folder bulging with papers. The blond woman's coat is rather nice, I find myself thinking. And she's got a ponyskin Fendi baguette. I wonder who she is.

'Yup, ' Zelda's saying. 'Yup. Well, if you can suggest an alternative phone‑ in subject…'

She raises her eyebrows at the blond woman, who shrugs and turns away to look at a poster on the wall. And as she does so, my heart nearly stops dead. Because I recognize her. It's Alicia. It's Alicia from Brandon Communications, standing five yards away from me.

I almost want to laugh at the incongruity of it. What's she doing here? What's Alicia Bitch Long‑ legs doing here, for God's sake?

One of the men turns round to say something to her – and as I see his face, I think I recognize him, too. He's another one of the Brandon C lot, isn't he? One of those young, eager, baby‑ faced types, But what on earth are they all doing here? What's going on? Surely it can't be‑

They can't all be here because

No. Oh no. Suddenly I feel rather cold.

'Luke! ' comes Zelda's voice from the corridor, and my stomach starts to churn. 'So glad you could make it. We always love having you on the show. You know, I had no idea you represented Flagstaff Life, until Sandy said…'

In the mirror, I can see my face draining of colour.

This isn't happening. Please tell me this isn't happening.

'The journalist who wrote the piece is already here, ' Zelda's saying, 'and I've primed her on what's happening. I think it's going to make really great television, the two of you arguing away! '

She starts moving down the corridor, and in the mirror I see Alicia and the eager young man begin to follow her. Then the third overcoated man starts to come into view. And although my stomach's churning painfully, I can't stop myself. I slowly turn my head as he passes the door.

I meet Luke Brandon's grave, dark eyes and he meets mine, and for a few still seconds, we just stare at each other. Then abruptly he looks away and strides off down the corridor. And I'm left, gazing helplessly at my painted reflection, feeling sick with panic.

POINTS FOR TELEVISION INTERVIEW

SIMPLE AND BASIC FINANCIAL ADVICE

1. Prefer clock/twenty grand? Obvious.

2. Flagstaff Life ripped off innocent customers. Beware.

Ermm..

3. Always be very careful with your money.

4. Don't put it all in one investment but diversify.

5. Don't lose it by mistake

6. Don't

THINGS YOU CAN BUY WITH Ј20, 000

1. Nice car eg small BMW

2. Pearl and diamond necklace from Asprey's plus big diamond ring

3. 3 couture evening dresses eg from John Galliano

4. Steinway grand piano

5. 5 gorgeous leather sofas from the Conran shop

6. 52 Gucci watches, plus bag

7. Flowers delivered every month for forty‑ two years

8. 55 pedigree… labrador puppies

9. 80 cashmere jumpers

10. 666 Wonderbras

11. 454 pots Helena Rubinstein moisturizer

12. 800 bottles of champagne

13. 2, 860 Fiorentina pizzas

14. 15, 384 tubes of Pringles

15. 90, 909 packets of Polos

Twenty

By 11. 25 I'm sitting on a brown upholstered chair in the green room. I'm dressed in a midnight‑ blue Jasper Conran suit, sheer tights and a pair of suede high heels.

What with my makeup and blown‑ dry hair, I've never looked smarter in my life. But I can't relish my appearance. I can't enjoy any of it. All I can think of is the fact that in fifteen minutes, I've got to sit on a sofa and discuss high‑ powered finance with Luke Brandon on live television.

The very thought of it makes me feel like crying. Or laughing. I mean, it's like some kind of sick joke. Luke Brandon against me. Luke Brandon, with his genius IQ and bloody photographic memory – against me. He'll walk all over me. He'll massacre me.

'Darling, have a croissant, ' says Elisabeth Plover, who's sitting opposite me, munching a pain au chocolat. 'They're simply sublime. Every bite like a ray of golden Provencal sun. '

'No thanks, ' I say. 'I… I'm not really hungry. '

I don't understand how she can eat. I honestly feel as though I'm about to throw up at any moment. How on earth do people appear on television every day? How does Fiona Phillips do it? No wonder they're all so thin.

'Coming up! ' comes Rory's voice from the television monitor in the corner of the room, and both our heads automatically swivel round to see the screen filled with a picture of a beach at sunset. 'What is it like, to live with a gangster and then, risking everything, betray him? Our next guest has written an explosive novel based on her dark and dangerous background…'

'… And we introduce a new series of in‑ depth discussions, ' chimes in Emma. The picture changes to one of pound coins raining onto the floor, and my stomach gives a nasty flip. 'Morning Coffee turns the spotlight on the issue of financial scandal, with two leading industry experts coming head‑ to‑ head in debate. '

Is that me? Oh God, I don't want to be a leading industry expert. I want to go home and have a nice cup of tea.

'But first! ' says Rory cheerily. 'Scott Robertson's getting all fired up in the kitchen. '

The picture switches abruptly to a man in a chef's hat grinning and brandishing a blow‑ torch. I stare at him for a few moments, then look down again, clenching my hands tightly in my lap. I can't quite believe that soon it'll be me up on that screen. Sitting on the sofa. Trying to think of something intelligent to say.

To distract myself, I unscrew my crappy piece of A4 paper for the thousandth time and read through my paltry notes. Maybe it won't be so bad, I find myself thinking hopefully, as my eyes circle the same few sentences again and again. Maybe I'm worrying about nothing. We'll probably keep the whole thing at the level of a casual chat. Keep it simple and friendly. After all…

'Good morning, Rebecca, ' comes a voice from the door. Slowly I look up – and as I do so, I feel my heart sink. Luke Brandon is standing in the doorway. He's wearing an immaculate dark suit, his hair is shining, and his face is bronze with makeup. And there isn't an ounce of friendliness in his face. His jaw is tight; his eyes are hard and businesslike. As they meet mine, they don't even flicker.

For a few moments we gaze at each other without speaking. I can hear my heart beating loudly in my ears; my face feels hot beneath all the makeup. Then, summoning all my inner resources, I force myself to say calmly,

'Hello, Luke. '

There's an interested silence as he walks into the room. Even Elisabeth Plover seems intrigued by him.

'I know that face, ' she says, leaning forward. 'I know it. You're an actor, aren't you? Shakespearian, of course. I believe I saw you in Lear three years ago. '

'I don't think so, ' says Luke shortly.

'You're right! ' says Elisabeth, slapping the table. 'It was Hamlet. I remember it well. The desperate pain, the guilt, the final tragedy…' She shakes her head solemnly. 'I'll never forget that voice of yours. Every word was like a stab wound. '

'I'm sorry to hear it, ' says Luke eventually, and looks at me. 'Rebecca‑ '

'Luke, here are the final figures, ' interrupts Alicia, hurrying into the room and handing him a piece of paper. 'Hello, Rebecca, ' she adds, giving me a snide look. 'All prepared? '

'Yes, I am, actually, ' I say, crumpling my A4 paper into a ball in my lap. 'Very well prepared. '

'Glad to hear it, ' says Alicia, raising her eyebrows. 'It should be an interesting debate. '

'Yes, ' I say defiantly. 'Very. '

God she's a cow.

'I've just had John from Flagstaff on the phone, ' adds Alicia to Luke in lowered voice. 'He was very keen that you should mention the new Foresight Savings Series. Obviously, I told him‑ '

'This is a damage limitation exercise, ' says Luke curtly. 'Not a bloody plug‑ fest. He'll be bloody lucky if he…' He glances at me and I look away as though I'm not remotely interested in what he's talking about. Casually I glance at my watch and feel a leap of fright as I see the time. Ten minutes. Ten minutes to go.

'OK, ' says Zelda, coming into the room. 'Elisabeth, we're ready for you. '

'Marvellous, ' says Elisabeth, taking a last mouthful of pain au chocolat. 'Now, I do look all right, don't I? '

She stands up and a shower of crumbs falls off her skirt.

'You've got a piece of croissant in your hair, ' says Zelda, reaching up and removing it. 'Other than that what can I say? ' She catches my eye and I have a hysterical desire to giggle.

'Luke! ' says the baby‑ faced guy, rushing in with a mobile phone. 'John Bateson on the line for you. And a couple of packages have arrived…'

'Thanks, Tim, ' says Alicia, taking the packages and ripping them open. She pulls out a bunch of papers and begins scanning them quickly, marking things every so often in pencil. Meanwhile, Tim sits down, opens a laptop computer and starts typing.

'Yes, John, I do see your bloody point, ' Luke's saying in a low, tight voice. 'But if you would listen to me for just one moment‑ '

'Tim, ' says Alicia, looking up. 'Can you quickly check the return on the Flagstaff Premium Pension over the last three, five and ten? '

'Absolutely, ' says Tim, and starts tapping at his computer. ’

'Tim, ' says Luke, looking up from the phone. 'Can you print out the Flagstaff Foresight draft press release for me ASAP? Thanks. '

I can't quite believe what I'm seeing. They've practically set up an office, here in the Morning Coffee green room. An entire office of Brandon Communications staff complete with computers and modems and phones… pitted against me and my crumpled piece of A4.

As I watch Tim's laptop efficiently spewing out pages, and Alicia handing sheets of paper to Luke, a cold feeling starts to creep over me. I mean, let's face it. I'll never beat this lot, will I? I haven't got a chance. I should just give up now. Tell them I'm ill or something. Run home and hide under my duvet.

'OK, everyone? ' says Zelda, poking her head round the door. 'On in seven minutes. '

'Fine, ' says Luke.

'Fine, ' I echo in a wobbly voice.

'Oh, and Rebecca, there's a package for you, ' says Zelda. She comes into the room and hands me a large, square box. 'I'll be back in a minute. '

'Thanks, Zelda, ' I say in surprise and, with a sudden lift of spirits, begin to rip the box open. I've no idea what it is or who it's from – but it's got to be something helpful, hasn't it? Special last‑ minute information from Eric Foreman, maybe. A graph, or a series of figures that I can produce at the crucial moment. Or some secret document that Luke doesn't know about.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see that all the Brandonites have stopped what they're doing, and are watching, too. Well, that'll show them. They're not the only ones to get packages delivered to the green room. They're not the only ones to have resources. Finally I get the sticky tape undone and open the flaps of the box. And as everyone watches, a big red helium balloon, with GOOD LUCK emblazoned across it, floats up to the ceiling. There's a card attached to the string, and, without looking anyone in the eye, I rip it open. Immediately, I wish I hadn't.

'Good luck to you, good luck to you, whatever you're about to do, ' sings a tinny electronic voice.

I slam the card shut and feel my cheeks flame red.

God, how embarrassing. From the other side of the room I can hear little sniggers, and I look up to see Alicia smirking. She whispers something into Luke's ear, and an amused expression spreads across his face. He's laughing at me. They're all laughing at Rebecca Bloomwood and her singing balloon. For a few moments I can't move for mortification. My face is hot; my throat feels tight; I've never felt less like a leading industry expert in my life.

Then, on the other side of the room, I hear Alicia murmur some malicious little comment and give a snort of laughter – and deep inside me, something snaps. Sod them, I think suddenly. Sod them all. They're probably only jealous, anyway. They wish they had balloons, too.

Defiantly, I open the card again to read the message.

'No matter if it rain or shine, we all know that you'll be fine, ' sings the card's tinny voice at once. 'Hold your head up, keep it high – all that matters is you try. '

To Becky, I read. With love and thanks for all your wonderful help. We're so proud to know you. From your friends Janice and Martin.

I stare down at the card, reading the words over and over, and feel my eyes grow foolishly hot. Janice and Martin have been good friends over the years – even if their son is a bit of a prat. They've always been kind to me, even when I gave them such disastrous advice. I owe this to them. And I'm bloody well not going to let them down.

I blink a few times, take a deep breath and look up to see Luke Brandon gazing at me, his eyes dark and expressionless.

'Friends, ' I say coolly. 'Sending me their‑ good wishes. '

Carefully I place the card on the coffee table, making sure it stays open so it'll keep singing, then pull my balloon down from the ceiling and tie it to the back of my chair.

'OK, ' comes Zelda's voice from the door. 'Luke and Rebecca. Are you ready? '

'Couldn't be readier, ' I say calmly, and walk past Luke to the door.

Twenty‑ One

As we stride along the corridors to the set, neither Luke nor I say a word. I dart a glance at him as we turn a corner – and his face is even steelier than it was in the green room.

Well, that's fine. I can do steely, too. I can do hard and businesslike. Firmly I lift my chin and begin to take longer strides, pretending to be Alexis Carrington in Dynasty.

'So, do you two already know each other? ' says Zelda, who's walking along between us.

'We do, as it happens, ' says Luke shortly.

'In a business context, ' I say, equally shortly. 'Luke's always trying to promote some pathetic financial product or other. And I'm always trying to avoid his calls. '

Zelda gives an appreciative laugh and I see Luke's eyes flash angrily. But I really don't care. I don't care how angry he gets. In fact, the angrier he gets, the better I feel.

'So – Luke, you must have been quite pissed off at Rebecca's article in the Daily World, ' says Zelda.

'I wasn't pleased, ' says Luke.

'He phoned me up to complain, can you believe it? ' I say airily. 'Can't cope with the truth, eh Luke? Can't cope with seeing what's under the PR gloss? You know, perhaps you should change jobs. '

There's silence and I turn to look at Luke. He looks so furious, I think for a terrifying moment that he's going to hit me. Then his face changes and in an icily calm voice, he says,

'Let's just get on the fucking set and get this little charade over with, shall we? '

Zelda raises her eyebrows at me and I grin back. I've never seen Luke so rattled before.

'OK, ' says Zelda as we approach a set of double swing doors. 'Here we are. Keep your voices down when we go in. '

She pushes open the doors and ushers us in, and for a moment my cool act falters. I feel all shaky and awed, like Laura Dern in Jurassic Park when she saw the dinosaurs for the first time. Because there it is, in real life. The real live Morning Coffee set. With the sofa and all the plants and everything, all lit up by the brightest, most dazzling lights I've ever seen in my life.

This is just unreal. How many zillion times have I sat at home, watching this on the telly? And now I'm actually going to be part of it. I can't quite believe it.

'We've got a couple of minutes till the commercial break, ' says Zelda, leading us across the floor, across a load of trailing cables. 'Rory and Emma are still with Elisabeth in the library set. '

She gestures to us to sit down on opposite sides of the coffee table, and, gingerly, I do so. The sofa's harder than I was expecting, and kind of… different.

Everything's different. God, this is weird. The lights are so bright on my face, I can hardly see anything, and I'm not quite sure how to sit. A girl comes and threads a microphone cable under my shirt and clips it to my lapel. Awkwardly, I lift my hand to push my hair back, and immediately Zelda comes hurrying over.

'Try not to move too much, OK, Rebecca? ' she says. 'We don't want to hear a load of rustling. '

'Right, ' I say. 'Sorry. '

Suddenly my voice doesn't seem to be working properly. I feel as though a wad of cotton wool's been stuffed into my throat. I glance up at a nearby camera and, to my horror, see it zooming towards me.

'OK, Rebecca, ' says Zelda, hurrying over again, 'one more golden rule – don't look at the camera, all right? Just behave naturally! '

'Fine, ' I say huskily.

Behave naturally. Easy‑ peasy.

'Thirty seconds till the news bulletin, ' she says, looking at her watch. 'Everything OK, Luke? '

'Fine, ' says Luke calmly. He's sitting on his sofa as though he's been there all his life. Typical. It's all right for men, they don't care what they look like.

I shift on my seat, tug nervously at my skirt and smooth my jacket down. They always say that television puts ten pounds on you, which means my legs will look really fat. Maybe I should cross them the other way. Or not cross them at all? But then maybe they'll look even fatter.

'Hello! ' comes a high‑ pitched voice from across the set before I can make up my mind. My head jerks up, and I feel an excited twinge in my stomach. It's Emma March in the flesh! She's wearing a pink suit and hurrying towards the sofa, closely followed by Rory, who looks even more square‑ jawed than usual. God, it's weird seeing celebrities in real life. They don't look quite real, somehow.

'Hello! ' Emma says cheerfully, and sits down on the sofa. 'So you're the finance people, are you? Gosh, I'm dying for a wee. ' She frowns into the lights. 'How long is this slot, Zelda? '

'Hi there! ' says Rory and shakes my hand. 'Roberta. '

'It's Rebecca! ' says Emma, and rolls her eyes at me sympathetically. 'Honestly, he's hopeless. ' She wriggles on the sofa. 'Gosh, I really need to go. '

'Too late now, ' says Rory.

'But isn't it really unhealthy not to go when you need to? ' Emma wrinkles her brow anxiously. 'Didn't we have a phone‑ in on it once? That weird girl phoned up who only went once a day. And Dr James said… what did he say? '

'Search me, ' says Rory cheerfully. 'These phone‑ ins always go over my head. Now I'm warning you, Rebecca, ' he adds, turning to me, 'I can never follow any of this finance stuff. Far too brainy for me. ' He gives me a wide grin and I smile weakly back.

'Ten seconds, ' calls Zelda from the side of the set, and my stomach gives a tweak of fear. Over the loudspeakers I can hear the Morning Coffee theme music, signalling the end of a commercial break.

'Who starts? ' says Emma, squinting at the autocue.

'Oh, me. '

So this is it. I feel almost lightheaded with fear. I don't know where I'm supposed to be looking; I don't know when I'm supposed to speak. My legs are trembling and my hands are clenched tightly in my lap.

The lights are dazzling my eyes; a camera's zooming in on my left, but I've got to try to ignore it.

'Welcome back! ' says Emma suddenly to the camera. 'Now, which would you rather have? A carriage clock or? 20, 000? '

What? I think in shock. But that's my line. That's what I was going to say.

'The answer's obvious, isn't it? ' continues Emma blithely. 'We'd all prefer the? 20, 000. '

'Absolutely! ' interjects Rory with a cheerful smile.

'But when some Flagstaff Life investors received a letter inviting them to move their savings recently, ' says Emma, suddenly putting on a sober face, 'they didn't realize that if they did so, they would lose out on a? 20, 000 windfall. Rebecca Bloomwood is the journalist who uncovered this story – Rebecca, do you think this kind of deception is commonplace? '

And suddenly everyone's looking at me, waiting for me to reply. The camera's trained on my face; the studio's silent.

2. 5 million people, all watching at home.

Oh God. I can't breathe.

'Do you think investors need to be cautious? ' prompts Emma.

'Yes, ' I manage, in a strange, woolly voice. 'Yes, I think they should. '

'Luke Brandon, you represent Flagstaff Life, ' says Emma, turning away. 'Do you think‑ '

Shit, I think miserably. That was pathetic. Pathetic!

What's happened to my voice, for God's sake? What's happened to all my prepared answers?

Now I'm not even listening to Luke's reply. Come on, Rebecca. Focus your mind. Concentrate.

'What you must remember, ' Luke's saying smoothly, 'is that nobody's entitled to a windfall. This isn't a case of deception! ' He smiles at Emma. 'This is simply a case of a few investors being a little too greedy for their own good. They believe they've missed out – so they're deliberately stirring up bad publicity for the company. Meanwhile, there are thousands of people who have benefited from Flagstaff Life. '

What? What's he saying?

'I see, ' says Emma, nodding her head. 'So, Luke, would you agree that‑ '

'Wait a minute! ' I hear myself interrupting. 'Just… just wait a minute. Mr Brandon, did you just call the investors greedy? '

'Not all, ' says Luke. 'But some, yes. '

I stare at him in disbelief, my skin prickling with outrage. An image of Janice and Martin comes into my mind – the sweetest, least greedy people in the world – and for a few moments I'm so angry, I can't speak.

'The truth is, the majority of investors with Flagstaff Life have seen record returns over the last five years, ' Luke's continuing to Emma, who's nodding intelligently. 'And that's what they should be concerned with. Good quality investment. Not flash‑ in‑ the‑ pan windfalls. After all, Flagstaff Life was originally set up to provide‑ '

'Correct me if I'm wrong, Luke, ' I cut in, forcing myself to speak calmly. 'Correct me if I'm wrong – but I believe Flagstaff Life was originally set up as a mutual company? For the mutual benefit of all its members. Not to benefit some at the expense of others. '

'Absolutely, ' replies Luke without flickering. 'But that doesn't entitle every investor to a? 20, 000 windfall, does it? '

'Maybe not, ' I say, my voice rising slightly. 'But surely it entitles them to believe they won't be misled by a company they've put their money with for fifteen years? Janice and Martin Webster trusted Flagstaff Life. They trusted the advice they were given. And look where that trust got them! '

'Investment is a game of luck, ' says Luke blandly. 'Sometimes you win‑ '

'It wasn't luck! ' I hear myself crying furiously. 'Of course it wasn't luck! Are you telling me it was complete coincidence that they were advised to switch their funds two weeks before the windfall announcements? '

'My clients were simply making available an offer that they believed would add value to their customers' portfolios, ' says Luke, giving me a tight smile. 'They have assured me that they were simply wishing to benefit their customers. They have assured me that‑ '

'So you're saying your clients are incompetent, then? ' I retort. 'You're saying they had all the best intentions – but cocked it up? '

Luke's eyes flash in anger and I feel a thrill of exhilaration. 'I fail to see‑ '

'Well, we could go on debating all day! ' says Emma, shifting slightly on her seat. 'But moving on to a slightly more‑ '

'Come on, Luke, ' I say, cutting her off. 'Come on. You can't have it both ways. ' I lean forward, ticking points off on my hand. 'Either Flagstaff Life were incompetent, or they were deliberately, trying to save money. Whichever it is, they're in the wrong. The Websters were loyal customers and they should have got that money. In my opinion, Flagstaff Life deliberately encouraged them out of the with‑ profits fund to stop them receiving the windfall. I mean, it's obvious, isn't it? '

I look around for support and see Rory gazing blankly at me.

'It all sounds a bit technical for me, ' he says with a little laugh. 'Bit complicated. '

'OK, let's put it another way, ' I say quickly. 'Let's…' I close my eyes, searching for inspiration. 'Let's… suppose I'm in a clothes shop! ' I open my eyes again. 'I'm in a clothes shop, and I've chosen a wonderful cashmere Nicole Farhi coat. OK? '

'OK, ' says Rory cautiously.

'I love Nicole Farhi! ' says Emma, perking up. 'Beautiful knitwear. '

'Exactly, ' I say. 'OK, so imagine I'm standing in the checkout queue, minding my own business, when a sales assistant comes up to me and says, " Why not buy this other coat instead? It's better quality than this one – and I'll throw in a free bottle of perfume. " I've got no reason to distrust the sales assistant, so I think, wonderful, and I buy the other coat. '

'Right, ' says Rory, nodding. 'With you so far. '

'But when I get outside, ' I say carefully. 'I discover that this other coat isn't Nicole Farhi, and isn't real cashmere. I go back in – and the shop won't give me a refund. '

'You were ripped off! ' exclaims Rory, as though he's just discovered gravity.

'Exactly, ' I say. 'I was ripped off. And the point is – so were thousands of Flagstaff Life customers. They were persuaded out of their original choice of investment, into a fund which left them? 20, 000 worse off. ' I pause, marshalling my thoughts. 'Perhaps Flagstaff Life didn't break the law. Perhaps they didn't contravene any regulations. But there's a natural justice in this world, and they didn't just break that, they shattered it. Those customers deserved that windfall. They were loyal, long‑ standing customers, and they deserved it. And if you're honest, Luke Brandon, you know they deserved it. '

I finish my speech breathlessly and look at Luke.

He's staring at me with an unreadable expression on his face – and in spite of myself, I feel my stomach give a nervous flip. I swallow, and try to shift my gaze away from his – but somehow I can't move my head. It's as though our eyes are glued together.

'Luke? ' says Emma. 'Do you have a response to Rebecca's point? '

Luke doesn't respond. He's staring at me, and I'm staring back, feeling my heart thump like a rabbit.

'Luke? ' repeats Emma slightly impatiently. 'Do you have‑ '

'Yes, ' says Luke. 'Yes I do. Rebecca…' He shakes his head, almost smiling to himself, then looks up again at me. 'Rebecca, you're right. '

There's a sudden still silence around the studio.

I open my mouth, but I can't make a sound.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rory and Emma glancing at each other, puzzled.

'Sorry, Luke, ' says Emma. 'Do you mean‑ '

'She's right, ' says Luke, and gives a shrug. 'Rebecca's absolutely right. ' He reaches for his glass of water, leans back on iris sofa and takes a sip. 'If you want my honest opinion, those customers deserved that wind fall. I very much wish they had received it. '

This can't be happening. Luke's agreeing with me. How can he be agreeing with me?

'I see, ' says Emma, sounding a bit affronted. 'So, you've changed your position, then? '

There's a pause, while Luke stares thoughtfully into his glass of water. Then he looks up and says,

'My company is employed by Flagstaff Life to maintain their public profile. But that doesn't mean that personally I agree with everything they do – or even that I know about it. ' He pauses. 'To tell you the truth, I had no idea any of this was going on until I read about it in Rebecca's article in the Daily World. Which, by the way, was a fine piece of investigative journalism, ' he adds, nodding to me. 'Congratulations. '

I stare back helplessly, unable even to mutter 'Thank you'. I've never felt so wrong‑ footed in all my life. I want to stop, and bury my head in my hands and think all of this through slowly and carefully – but I can't, I'm on live television. I'm being watched by 2. 5 million people, all around the country.

Shit, I hope my legs look OK.

'If I were a Flagstaff customer and this had happened to me, I'd be very angry, ' Luke continues. 'There is such a thing as customer loyalty; there is such a thing as playing straight. And I would hope that any client of mine, whom I represent in public, would abide by both of those principles. '

'I see, ' says Emma and turns to the camera. 'Well – this is quite a turn‑ around! Luke Brandon, here to represent Flagstaff Life, now says that what they did was wrong. Any further comment, Luke? '

'To be honest, ' says Luke, with a wry smile, 'I'm not sure I'll be representing Flagstaff Life any more after this. '

'Ah, ' says Rory, leaning forward intelligently. 'And can you tell us why that is? '

'Oh, honestly, Rory! ' says Emma impatiently. She rolls her eyes and Luke gives a little snort of laughter.

Suddenly everyone's laughing, and I join in too, slightly hysterically. I catch Luke's eye and feel something flash in my chest, then quickly look away again.

'Right, well, anyway, ' says Emma abruptly, pulling herself together and smiling at the camera. 'That's it from the finance experts – but, coming up after the break – the return of hot‑ pants to the catwalk…'

'… and cellulite creams – do they really work? ' adds Rory.

'Plus our special guests – Heaven Sent 7 – singing live in the studio. '

The theme music blares out of the loudspeakers and both Emma and Rory leap to their feet.

'Wonderful debate, ' says Emma, hurrying off. 'Sorry, I'm dying for a wee. '

'Excellent stuff, ' adds Rory earnestly. 'Didn't understand a word – but great television. ' He slaps Luke on the back, raises his hand to me and then hurries off the set.

And all at once it's over. All finished. It's just me and Luke, sitting opposite each other on the sofas, with bright lights still shining in our eyes and microphones still clipped to our lapels. I feel slightly shell‑ shocked. Slightly dizzy.

Did all that really just happen?

'So, ' I say eventually, and clear my throat.

'So, ' echoes Luke, with a tiny smile. 'Well done. '

'Thanks, ' I say, and bite my lip awkwardly in the silence.

I'm wondering if he's in big trouble now. If attacking one of your clients on live TV is the PR equivalent of hiding clothes from the customers. If he really changed his mind because of my article. Because of me. But I can't ask that. Can I?

The silence is growing louder and louder and at last I take a deep breath.

'Did you‑ '

'I was‑ '

We both speak at once.

'No, ' I say, flushing red. 'You go. Mine wasn't… You go. '

'OK, ' says Luke, and gives a little shrug. 'I was just going to ask if you'd like to have dinner tonight. '

I stare at him, taken aback.

What does he mean, have dinner? Does he mean

'To discuss a bit of business, ' he continues. 'I very much liked your idea for a unit trust promotion along the lines of the January sales. '

My what?

What idea? What's he…

Oh God, that. is he serious? That was just one of my stupid, speak‑ aloud, brain‑ not‑ engaged moments.

'I think it could be a good promotion for a particular client of ours, ' he's saying, 'and I was wondering whether you'd like to consult on the project. On a freelance basis, of course. '

Consult. Freelance. Project.

I don't believe it. He's serious.

'Oh, ' I say, and swallow, inexplicably disappointed.

'Oh, I see. Well, I. I suppose I might be free tonight. '

'Good, ' says Luke. 'Shall we say the Ritz? '

'If you like, ' I say offhandedly, as though I go there all the time.

'Good, ' says Luke again, and his eyes crinkle into a smile. 'I look forward to it. '

And then – oh God. To my utter horror, before I can stop myself, I hear myself saying bitchily, 'What about Sacha? Doesn't she have plans for you tonight? '

Even as the words hit the air, I feel myself redden.

Oh shit. What did I say that for?

There's a long silence during which I want to slink off somewhere and die.

'Sacha left, a week ago, ' says Luke finally, and my head pops up.

'Oh, ' I say feebly. 'Oh dear. '

'No warning – she packed up her suitcase and went. ' Luke looks up. 'Still – it could be worse. ' He gives a deadpan shrug. 'At least I didn't buy the holdall as well. '

Oh God, now I'm going to giggle. I mustn't giggle. I mustn't

'I'm really sorry, ' I manage at last.

'I'm not, ' says Luke, gazing at me seriously, and the laughter inside me dies away. I stare back at him nervously and feel my heart begin to pound.

'Rebecca! Luke! '

Our heads jerk round to see Zelda approaching the set, clipboard in hand.

'Fantastic! ' she exclaims. 'Just what we wanted. Luke, you were great. And Rebecca…' She comes and sits next to me on the sofa and pats my shoulder. 'You were so wonderful, we were thinking – how would you like to stand in as our phone‑ in expert later in the show? '

'What? ' I stare at her. 'But… but I can't! I'm not an expert on anything. '

'Hahaha, very good! ' Zelda gives an appreciative laugh. 'The great thing about you, Rebecca, is you've got the common touch. We see you as finance guru meets girl‑ next‑ door. Informative but approachable. Knowledgeable but down‑ to‑ earth. The financial expert people really want to talk to. What do you think, Luke? '

'I think Rebecca will do the job perfectly, ' says Luke. 'I can't think of anyone better qualified. I also think I'd better get out of your way. ' He stands up and smiles at me. 'See you later, Rebecca. Bye, Zelda. '

I watch in a daze as he picks his way across the cable‑ strewn floor towards the exit, half wishing he would look back.

'Right, ' says Zelda, and squeezes my hand. 'Let's get you sorted. '