“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—”
I’m really going to explode now.
“Don’t you bloody insult me!” I yell. “Don’t you bloody try and make this personal! This is about two innocent people being hoodwinked by one of your big-shot clients, nothing else. I told the truth, and if you didn’t have a chance to respond, it’s your own company’s incompetence that’s to blame. I was completely professional, I gave you every opportunity to put out your side of the story. Every opportunity. 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 shaken as I go back into the kitchen. To think I ever liked Luke Brandon. To think I table- hopped with him. To think I let him lend me twenty quid. He’s just an arrogant, self-centered, chauvinistic—
“Telephone!” says Mum. “Shall I get it?”
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? 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 program? 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 focused. But as his words slowly sink in, I’m a bit dazed. Rory and Emma 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’m going to be on television.
BANK OF HELSINKI
Helsinki House 124 Lombard Street
London EC2D 9YF
Rebecca Bloomwood c/o William Green Recruitment 39 Farringdon Square London EC4 7TD
27 March 2000
Dere Rebecca Bloomwood: Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish “Daily World” Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish More Finnish Finnish good-bye,Jan Virtanen
Nineteen
THE CAR TO TAKE me to the television studios arrives promptly at seven-thirty the next morning. When 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, 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? 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. 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 program, then she arranged 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! Maybe they’ll let me keep it afterward, 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 black car. My own private chauffeur! This just gets better and better.
“Miss Bloomwood?” says the driver.
“Yes,” I say, unable to stop myself from grinning 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,
