“Really?” I say, trying to sound normal. “When. . when was this?”
“Oh, just the other day,” she says. “I was at a briefing at Brandon Communications, and he asked me. Just casually. You know.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said no,” said Clare, and gives me a little grin. “You don’t fancy him, do you?”
“Of course not,” I say, and roll my eyes.
But I have to admit, I feel quite cheerful as I turn back to my computer and start typing again. Luke Brandon. I mean, not that I like him or anything — but still. “This plan,” I type, “offers full death benefits and an optional lump sum on retirement. For example, assuming 7 percent growth, a typical woman aged 30 who invested ?100 a month would receive. .”
You know what? I suddenly think, stopping midsentence. This is boring. I’m better than this.
I’m better than sitting here in this crappy office, typing out the details from a brochure, trying to turn them into some kind of credible journalism. I deserve to do something more interesting than this. Or more well paid. Or both.
I stop typing and rest my chin on my hands. It’s time for a new start. Why don’t I do what Elly’s doing? I’m not afraid of a bit of hard work, am I? Why don’t I get my life in order, go to a City head-hunter, and land myself a new job? I’ll have a huge income and a company car and wear Karen Millen suits every day. And I’ll never have to worry about money again.
I feel exhilarated. This is it! This is the answer to everything. I’ll be a. .
“Clare?” I say casually. “Who earns the most in the City?”
“I don’t know,” says Clare, frowning thoughtfully. “Maybe futures brokers?”
That’s it, then. I’ll be a futures broker. Easy.
And it is easy. So easy that ten o’clock the next morning sees me walking nervously up to the front doors of William Green, top City head-hunters. As I push the door open I glimpse my own reflection and feel a little thrill go through my stomach. Am I really doing this?
You bet I am. I’m wearing my smartest black suit, and tights and high heels, with an FT under my arm, obviously. And I’m carrying the briefcase with the combination lock, which my mum gave me one Christmas and which I’ve never used. This is partly because it’s really heavy and bumpy — and partly because I’ve forgotten the combination, so I can’t actually open it. But it looks the part. And that’s what counts.
Jill Foxton, the woman I’m meeting, was really nice on the phone when I told her about wanting to change careers, and sounded pretty impressed by all my experience. I quickly typed up a curriculum vitae and e-mailed it to her — and, OK, I padded it a bit, but that’s what they expect, isn’t it? It’s all about selling yourself. And it worked, because she phoned back only about ten minutes after receiving it, and asked if I’d come in and see her, as she thought she had some interesting opportunities for me.
I was so excited, I could barely keep still. I went straight into Philip and told him I wanted to take tomorrow off to take my nephew to the zoo — and he didn’t suspect a thing. He’s going to be gobsmacked when he finds out I’ve turned overnight into a high-flying futures broker.
“Hi,” I say confidently to the woman at reception. “I’m here to see Jill Foxton. It’s Rebecca Bloomwood.”
“Of. .”
I can’t say Successful Saving. It might get back to Philip that I’ve been looking for a new job.
“Of. . just of nowhere, really,” I say and give a relaxed little laugh. “Just Rebecca Bloomwood. I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
“Fine,” she says, and smiles. “Take a seat.”
I pick up my briefcase and walk over to the black leather chairs, trying not to give away how nervous I feel. I sit down, run my eye hopefully over the magazines on the coffee table (but there’s nothing interesting, just things like The Economist), then lean back and look around. This foyer is pretty impressive, I have to admit. There’s a fountain in the middle, and glass stairs rising in a curve — and, what seems like several miles away, I can see lots of state-of-the-art lifts. Not just one lift, or two — but about ten. Blimey. This place must be huge.
“Rebecca?” A blond girl in a pale trouser suit is suddenly in front of me. Nice suit, I think. Very nice suit.
“Hi!” I say. “Jill!”
“No, I’m Amy,” she smiles. “Jill’s assistant.”
Wow. That’s pretty cool. Sending your assistant to pick up your visitors, as if you’re too grand and busy to do it yourself. Maybe that’s what I’ll get my assistant to do when I’m an important futures broker and Elly comes over for lunch. Or maybe I’ll have a male assistant — and we’ll fall in love! God, it would be just like a movie. The high-flying woman and the cute but sensitive. .
“Rebecca?” I come to and see Amy staring at me curiously. “Are you ready?”
“Of course!” I say gaily, and pick up my briefcase. As we stride off over the glossy floor, I surreptitiously run my gaze over Amy’s trouser suit again — and find my eye landing on an Emporio Armani label. I can’t quite believe it. The assistants wear Emporio Armani! So what’s Jill herself going to be in? Couture Dior? God, I love this place already.
We go up to the sixth floor and begin to walk along endless carpeted corridors.
“So you want to be a futures broker,” says Amy after a while.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s the idea.”
“And you already know a bit about it.”
“Well, you know.” I give a modest smile. “I’ve written extensively on most areas of finance, so I do feel quite well equipped.”
“That’s good,” says Amy, and gives me a smile. “Some people turn up with no idea. Then Jill asks them a few standard questions, and. .” She makes a gesture with her hand. I don’t know what it means, but it doesn’t look good.
“Right!” I say, forcing myself to speak in an easy tone. “So — what sort of questions?”
“Oh, nothing to worry about!” says Amy. “She’ll probably ask you. . oh, I don’t know. Something like ‘How do you trade a butterfly?’ or, ‘What’s the difference between open outlay and OR?’ Or, ‘How would you calculate the expiry date of a futures instrument?’ Really basic stuff.”
“Right,” I say, and swallow. “Great.”
Something in me is telling me to turn and run — but we’ve already arrived at a pale blond-wood door.
“Here we are,” says Amy, and smiles at me. “Would you like tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please,” I say, wishing I could say “A stiff gin, please.” Amy knocks on the door, opens it and ushers me in, and says, “Rebecca Bloomwood.”
“Rebecca!” says a dark-haired woman behind the desk, and gets up to shake my hand.
To my slight surprise, Jill is not nearly as well dressed as Amy. She’s wearing a blue, rather mumsy-looking suit, and boring court shoes. But still, never mind, she’s the boss. And her office is pretty amazing.
“It’s very good to meet you,” she says, gesturing to a chair in front of her desk. “And let me say straight away, I was extremely impressed by your CV.”
“Really?” I say, feeling relief creep over me. That can’t be bad, can it? Extremely impressed. Maybe it won’t matter I don’t know the answers to those questions.
“Particularly by your languages,” adds Jill. “Very good. You do seem to be one of those rare breeds, an all- rounder.”
“Well, my French is really only conversational,” I say modestly. “Voici la plume de ma tante, and all that!”
Jill gives an appreciative laugh, and I beam back at her.
“But Finnish!” she says, reaching for the cup of coffee on her desk. “That’s quite unusual.”
I keep smiling and hope we move off the subject of languages. To be honest, “fluent in Finnish” went in because I thought “conversational French” looked a bit bare on its own. And after all, who speaks Finnish, for God’s sake? No one.
“And your financial knowledge,” she says, pulling my CV toward her. “You seemed to have covered a lot of
