floods over me, like that feeling you get when a painkiller finally gets rid of your headache. I can relax. I’m going to be all right.
On the way out I pause in the hall to check my appearance in the mirror (Top: River Island, Skirt: French Connection, Tights: Pretty Polly Velvets, Shoes: Ravel) and reach for my coat (Coat: House of Fraser sale). Just then the post plops through the door, and I go to pick it up. There’s a handwritten letter for Suze and a postcard from the Maldives. And for me, there are two ominous-looking window envelopes. One from VISA, one from Endwich Bank.
For a moment, my heart stands still. Why another letter from the bank? And VISA. What do they want? Can’t they just leave me alone?
Carefully I place Suze’s post on the ledge in the hall and shove my own two letters in my pocket, telling myself I’ll read them on the way to work. Once I get on the tube, I’ll open them both and I’ll read them, however unpleasant they may be.
Honestly. As I’m walking along the pavement, I promise my intention is to read the letters.
But then I turn into the next street — and there’s a skip outside someone’s house. A huge great yellow skip, already half full of stuff. Builders are coming in and out of the house, tossing old bits of wood and upholstery into the skip. Loads of rubbish, all jumbled up together.
And a little thought creeps into my mind.
My steps slow down as I approach the skip and I pause, staring intently at it as though I’m interested in the words printed on the side. I stand there, trying to appear casual, until the builders have gone back into the house and no one’s looking. Then, in one motion, I reach for the two letters, pull them out of my pocket, and drop them over the side, into the skip.
Gone.
As I’m standing there, a builder pushes past me with two sacks of broken plaster, and heaves them into the skip. And now they really are gone. Buried beneath a layer of plaster, unread. No one will ever find them.
Gone for good.
Quickly I turn away from the skip and begin to walk on again. Already my step’s lighter and I’m feeling buoyant.
Before long, I’m feeling completely purged of guilt. I mean, it’s not my fault if I never read the letters, is it? It’s not my fault if I never got them, is it? As I bound along toward the tube station I honestly feel as though neither of those letters ever existed.
When I arrive at work, I switch on my computer, click efficiently to a new document, and start typing my piece on pensions. Perhaps if I work really hard, it’s occurred to me, Philip will give me a raise. I’ll stay late every night and impress him with my dedication to the job, and he’ll realize that I’m considerably undervalued. Perhaps he’ll even make me associate editor, or something.
“These days,” I type briskly, “none of us can rely on the government to take care of us in our old age. Therefore pension planning should be done as early as possible, ideally as soon as you are earning an income.”
“Morning, Clare,” says Philip, coming into the office in his overcoat. “Morning, Rebecca.”
Hah! Now is the time to impress him.
“Morning, Philip,” I say, in a friendly-yet-professional manner. Then, instead of leaning back in my chair and asking him how his weekend was, I turn back to my computer and start typing again. In fact, I’m typing so fast that the screen is filled with lots of splodgy typos. It has to be said, I’m not the best typist in the world. But who cares? I look very businesslike, that’s the point.
“The bwst ootion is oftwn yoor compaamy occupatinoa Ischeme, bt if tehis is not posibsle, a wide vareiety of peronanlas penion lans is on ther markte, ranign from. .” I break off, reach for a pension brochure, and flip quickly through it, as though scanning for some crucial piece of information.
“Good weekend, Rebecca?” says Philip.
“Fine, thanks,” I say, glancing up from the brochure as though surprised to be interrupted while I’m at work.
“I was round your neck of the woods on Saturday,” he says. “The Fulham Road. Trendy Fulham.”
“Right,” I say absently.
“It’s the place to be, these days, isn’t it? My wife was reading an article about it. Full of It-girls, all living on trust funds.”
“I suppose so,” I say vaguely.
“That’s what we’ll have to call you,” he says, and gives a little guffaw. “The office It-girl.”
“Right,” I say, and smile at him. After all, he’s the boss. He can call me whatever he—
Hang on a minute. Philip hasn’t got the idea that I’m rich, has he? He doesn’t think I’ve got a trust fund or something ridiculous, does he?
“Rebecca,” says Clare, looking up from her telephone. “I’ve got a call for you. Someone called Tarquin.”
Philip gives a little grin, as though to say “What else?” and ambles off to his desk. I stare after him in frustration. This is all wrong. If Philip thinks I’ve got some kind of private income, he’ll never give me a raise.
But what on earth could have given him that idea?
“Becky,” says Clare meaningfully, gesturing to my ringing phone.
“Oh,” I say. “Yes, OK.” I pick up the receiver, and say, “Hi. Rebecca Bloomwood here.”
“Becky” comes Tarquin’s unmistakable, reedy voice. He sounds rather nervous, as if he’s been gearing up to this phone call for ages. Perhaps he has. “It’s so nice to hear your voice. You know, I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”
“Really?” I say, trying not to sound too encouraging. I mean, he is Suze’s cousin and I don’t want to hurt the poor bloke.
“I’d. . I’d very much like to spend some more time in your company,” he says. “May I take you out to dinner?”
Oh God. What am I supposed to say to that? It’s such an innocuous request. I mean, it’s not as if he’s said, Can I sleep with you? or even Can I kiss you? If I say no to dinner, it’s like saying “You’re so unbearable, I can’t even stand sharing a table with you for two hours.”
And Suze has been so sweet to me recently, and if I turn her darling Tarkie down flat, she’ll be really upset.
“I suppose so,” I say, aware that I don’t sound too thrilled — and also aware that maybe I should just come clean and say “I don’t fancy you.” But somehow I can’t face it. To be honest, it would be a lot easier just to go out to dinner with him. I mean, how bad can it be?
And anyway, I don’t have to actually go. I’ll call at the last moment and cancel. Easy.
“I’m in London until Sunday,” says Tarquin.
“Let’s make it Saturday night, then!” I say brightly. “Just before you leave.”
“Seven o’clock?”
“How about eight?” I suggest.
“OK,” he says. “Eight o’clock.” And he rings off, without mentioning a venue. But since I’m not actually going to meet him, this doesn’t really matter. I put the phone down, give an impatient sigh, and start typing again.
“Although solid investment performance is important, flexibility is equally vital when choosing a pension plan, particularly for the younger investor. New on the market this year is the. .” I break off and reach for a brochure. “Sun Assurance ‘Later Years’ Retirement Plan, which. .”
“So, was that guy asking you out?” says Clare Edwards.
“Yes, he was, actually,” I say, looking up carelessly. And in spite of myself, I feel a little flip of pleasure. Because Clare doesn’t know what Tarquin’s like, does she? For all she knows, he’s incredibly good-looking and witty. “We’re going out on Saturday night.” I give her a nonchalant smile and start typing again.
“Oh right,” she says, and snaps an elastic band round a pile of letters. “You know, Luke Brandon was asking me if you had a boyfriend the other day.”
For an instant I can’t move. Luke Brandon wants to know if I’ve got a boyfriend?
