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. I’m gripping my champagne glass so hard, I think I might break it.
“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. “Ha-ha-ha! It’s a small world. 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 feel a sudden trickle of fear. This man isn’t like a cozy sitcom uncle anymore. He’s like a scary exam monitor, 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 lurgey?”
“What’s this?” says Philip cheerfully.
“How is the leg, by the way?” says Erica sweetly.
“Fine,” I mumble. “Fine, thanks.”
“Good,” says Derek Smeath. “So we’ll say Monday at nine-thirty, 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. He gives me a jokey 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!”
OCTAGON — flair style • vision
Financial Services Department
8th Floor, Tower House
London Road, Winchester SO44 3DR
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood Charge Card Number 7854 4567
Flat 24 Burney Rd.London SW6 8FD
15 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood: FINAL REMINDER Further to my letter of 9 March, there is still an outstanding balance of ?235.76 on your Octagon Silver 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 savior; unfortunately this has no bearing on the matter.I look forward to receiving your payment shortly.Yours sincerely,Grant Ellesmore Customer Finance Manager
Thirteen
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 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 expenditures 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. Hmm. 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 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.
Option Four: Go to meeting with check for ?1,000.
Perfect. Waltz in, hand over the check, say “Will there be anything else?” and waltz out again.
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. As this check 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. p.s., I am copying this letter to your superiors.”
I love this idea so much, I lean back and 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? He’ll probably phone up and apologize. Try and keep my business and say he hadn’t meant to offend me. But it’ll be too late. Hah! Ha-ha-ha-ha. .
Oh blast. Missed my stop.
When I get home, Suze is sitting on the floor, surrounded by magazines.
