“Becky, don’t be alarmed,” he says, “but I’ve just had that Derek Smeath chap on the phone.”
“What?” I say, feeling my face drain in horror.
“The stalker?” exclaims Janice, and Dad gives a sober nod.
“Quite an unpleasant fellow, I would say. He was really quite aggressive toward me.”
“But how does he know Becky’s here?” says Janice.
“Obviously just taking potluck,” says Dad. “I was very civil, simply told him you weren’t here and that I had no idea where you were.”
“And. . and what did he say?” I say in a strangled voice.
“Came out with some nonsense about a meeting you’d set up with him.” Dad shakes his head. “The chap’s obviously deluded.”
“You should change your number,” advises Martin. “Go ex-directory.”
“But where was he phoning from?” says Janice, her voice rising in alarm. “He could be anywhere!” She starts looking agitatedly around the garden as though expecting him to jump out from behind a bush.
“Exactly,” says Dad. “So, Becky, I think maybe you should come inside now. You never know with these characters.”
“OK,” I say numbly. I can’t quite believe this is happening. I look at Dad’s kind, concerned face and suddenly I can barely meet his eye. Oh, why didn’t I tell him and Mum the truth? Why did I let myself get into this situation?
“You look quite shaken up, dear,” says Janice, and pats me on the shoulder. “You go and have a nice sit down.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I think I will.”
And Dad leads me off gently toward the house, as though I were some kind of invalid.
This is all getting out of hand. Now not only do I feel like an utter failure, I don’t feel safe anymore, either. I feel exposed and edgy. I sit on the sofa next to Mum, drinking tea and watching Countdown, and every time there’s a sound outside, I jump.
What if Derek Smeath’s on his way here? How long would it take him to drive here from London? An hour and a half? Two, if the traffic’s bad?
He wouldn’t do that. He’s a busy man.
But he might.
Or send the bailiffs round. Oh God. Threatening men in leather jackets. My stomach is squeezed tight with fear. In fact, I’m beginning to feel as though I genuinely am being stalked.
As the commercial break begins, Mum reaches for a catalogue full of gardening things. “Look at this lovely birdbath,” she says. “I’m going to get one for the garden.”
“Great,” I mutter, unable to concentrate.
“They’ve got some super window boxes, too,” she says. “You could do with some nice window boxes in your flat.”
“Yes,” I say. “Maybe.”
“Shall I put you down for a couple? They’re not expensive.”
“No, it’s OK.”
“You can pay by check, or VISA. .” she says, flipping over the page.
“No, really, Mum,” I say, my voice sharpening slightly.
“You could just phone up with your VISA card, and have them delivered—”
“Mum, stop it!” I cry. “I don’t want them, OK?”
Mum gives me a surprised, slightly reproving look and turns to the next page of her catalogue. And I gaze back at her, full of a choking panic. My VISA card doesn’t work. My debit card doesn’t work. Nothing works. And she has no idea.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. I grab for an ancient copy of the Radio Times on the coffee table and begin to leaf through it blindly.
“It’s a shame about poor Martin and Janice, isn’t it?” says Mum, looking up. “Fancy switching funds two weeks before the takeover! Such bad luck!”
“I know,” I mumble, staring down at a page of listings. I don’t want to be reminded about Martin and Janice.
“It seems a terrible coincidence,” says Mum, shaking her head. “That the company should launch this new fund just before the takeover. You know, there must be a lot of people who did exactly what Martin and Janice did, who have lost out. Dreadful, really.” She looks at the television. “Oh look, it’s starting again.”
The cheery Countdown music begins to play, and a round of applause rattles noisily from the television. But I’m not listening to it, or even paying any attention to the vowels and consonants. I’m thinking about what Mum has just said. A terrible coincidence — but it wasn’t exactly a coincidence, was it? The bank actually wrote to Janice and Martin, suggesting that they switch funds. They even offered an incentive, didn’t they? A carriage clock.
Suddenly I feel alert. I want to see the letter from Flagstaff Life — and find out exactly how long before the takeover they sent it.
“ ‘ending,’ ” says Mum, staring at the screen. “That’s six. Ooh, there’s an S. Can you have ‘endings’?”
“I’m just. . popping next door,” I say, getting to my feet. “I won’t be a minute.”
As Martin opens the front door, I see that he and Janice have also been sitting in front of the telly, watching Countdown.
“Hi,” I say sheepishly. “I was just wondering — could I have a quick chat?”
“Of course!” says Martin. “Come on in! Would you like a sherry?”
“Oh,” I say, a little taken aback. I mean, not that I’m against drinking, obviously — but it isn’t even five o’clock yet. “Well — OK then.”
“Never too early for a sherry!” says Martin.
“I’ll have another one, thanks, Martin,” comes Janice’s voice from the sitting room.
Blow me down. They’re a pair of alcoholics!
Oh God, perhaps this is my fault too. Perhaps their financial mishap has driven them to seek solace in alcohol and daytime television.
“I was just wondering,” I say nervously as Martin pours dark brown sherry into a schooner. “Just out of interest, could I have a look at that letter you got from Flagstaff Life, asking you to switch funds? I was wondering when they sent it.”
“It arrived the very day we saw you,” says Martin. “Why do you want to see it?” He raises his glass. “Your good health.”
“Cheers,” I say, and take a sip. “I’m just wondering—”
“Come into the living room,” he interrupts, and ushers me through from the hall. “Here you are, my love,” he adds, and gives Janice her sherry. “Bottoms up!”
“Sssh,” she replies. “It’s the numbers game! I need to concentrate.”
“I thought I might do a little investigation into this,” I whisper to Martin as the Countdown clock ticks round. “I feel so bad about it.”
“Fifty times 4 is 200,” says Janice suddenly. “Six minus 3 is 3, times 7 is 21 and add it on.”
“Well done, love!” says Martin, and roots about in a carved oak sideboard. “Here’s the letter,” he says. “So — do you want to write an article or something?”
“Possibly,” I say. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
“Mind?” He gives a little shrug. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”
“Sssh!” says Janice. “It’s the Countdown Conundrum.”
“Right,” I whisper. “Well, I’ll just. . I’ll just take this, shall I?”
“Explicate!” yells Janice. “No, exploited!”
“And. . thanks for the sherry.” I take a huge gulp, shuddering slightly at its sticky sweetness, then put my glass down and tiptoe out of the room.
