number into her phone, and says, “Jane? Rebecca Bloomwood’s here.” Then she gestures to a row of squashy chairs and says, “Someone will be with you shortly.”
I walk over to the seating area and sit down opposite a middle-aged woman with lots of wild dark hair and a big amber necklace round her neck. She’s lighting up a cigarette, and even though I don’t really smoke anymore, I suddenly feel as though I could do with one myself.
Not that I’m nervous or anything. I just fancy a cigarette.
“Excuse me,” calls the receptionist. “This is a no-smoking area.”
“Damn,” says the woman in a raspy voice. She takes a long drag, then stubs the cigarette out on a saucer and smiles at me conspiratorially. “Are you a guest on the show?” she says.
“Yes,” I say. “Are you?”
The woman nods. “Promoting my new novel, Blood Red Sunset.” She lowers her voice to a thrilling throb. “A searing tale of love, greed, and murder, set in the ruthless world of South American money launderers.”
“Gosh,” I say. “That sounds really—”
“Let me give you a copy,” interrupts the woman. She reaches into a Mulberry holdall by her side and pulls out a vividly colored hardback book. “Remind me of your name?”
Remind her?
“It’s Rebecca,” I say. “Rebecca Bloomwood.”
“To Becca,” the woman says aloud, as she scrawls inside the front page. “With love and great affection.” She signs with a flourish and hands the book to me.
“Thanks very much. .” Quickly I look at the cover. “Elisabeth.”
Elisabeth Plover. To be honest, I’ve never heard of her.
“I expect you’re wondering how I came to know such a lot about such a violent, dangerous world,” says Elisabeth. She leans forward and gazes at me with huge green eyes. “The truth is, I lived with a money launderer for three long months. I loved him; I learned from him. . and then I betrayed him.” Her voice dies to a trembling whisper. “I still remember the look he gave me as the police dragged him away. He knew what I’d done. He knew I was his Judas Iscariot. And yet, in a strange kind of way, I think he loved me for it.”
“Wow,” I say, impressed in spite of myself. “Did all this happen in South America?”
“Brighton,” she says after a slight pause. “But money launderers are the same the world over.”
“Rebecca?” says a voice, before I can think of a reply to this, and we both look up to see a girl with smooth dark hair, in jeans and a black polo neck, walking swiftly toward us. “I’m Zelda. We spoke yesterday?”
“Zelda!” exclaims Elisabeth, getting to her feet. “How have you been, my darling?” She holds out her arms, and Zelda stares at her.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “have we—” She stops as her gaze falls on my copy of Blood Red Sunset. “Oh yes, that’s right. Elisabeth Plover. One of the researchers will be down for you in a minute. Meanwhile, do help yourself to coffee.” She flashes her a smile, then turns to me. “Rebecca, are you ready?”
“Yes!” I say eagerly, leaping up from my chair. (I have to admit, I feel quite flattered that Zelda’s come down to get me herself. I mean, she obviously doesn’t come down for everyone.)
“Great to meet you,” says Zelda, shaking my hand. “Great to have you on the show. Now, as usual, we’re completely frantic — so if it’s OK by you, I thought we’d just head straight off to hair and makeup and we can talk on the way.”
“Absolutely,” I say, trying not to sound too excited. “Good idea.”
Hair and makeup! This is so cool!
“There’s been a slight change of plan which I need to fill you in on,” says Zelda. “Nothing to worry about. . Any word from Bella yet?” she adds to the receptionist.
The receptionist shakes her head, and Zelda mutters something which sounds like “Stupid cow.”
“OK, let’s go,” she says, heading off toward a pair of swing doors. “I’m afraid it’s even more crazy than usual today. One of our regulars has let us down, so we’re searching for a replacement, and there’s been an accident in the kitchen. .” She pushes through the swing doors and now we’re striding along a green-carpeted corridor buzzing with people. “Plus, we’ve got Heaven Sent 7 in today,” she adds over her shoulder. “Which means the switchboard gets jammed with fans calling in, and we have to find dressing room space for seven enormous egos.”
“Right,” I say nonchalantly. But underneath I’m jumping with excitement. Heaven Sent 7? But I mean. . they’re really famous! And I’m appearing on the same show as them! I mean — I’ll get to meet them and everything, won’t I? Maybe we’ll all go out for a drink afterward and become really good friends. They’re all a bit younger than me, but that won’t matter. I’ll be like their older sister.
Or maybe I’ll go out with one of them! God, yes. That nice one with the dark hair. Nathan. (Or is it Ethan? Whatever he’s called.) He’ll catch my eye after the show and quietly ask me out to dinner without the others. We’ll go to some tiny little restaurant, and at first it’ll be all quiet and discreet, but then the press will find out and we’ll become one of those really famous couples who go to premieres all the time. And I’ll wear. .
“OK, here we are,” says Zelda, and I look up dazedly.
We’re standing in the doorway of a room lined with mirrors and spotlights. Three people are sitting in chairs in front of the mirrors, wearing capes and having makeup applied by trendy-looking girls in jeans; another is having her hair blow-dried. Music is playing in the background, there’s a friendly level of chatter, and in the air are the mingled scents of hair spray, face powder, and coffee.
It’s basically my idea of heaven.
“So,” says Zelda, leading me toward a girl with red hair. “Chloe will do your makeup, and then we’ll pop you along to wardrobe. OK?”
“Fine,” I say, my eyes widening as I take in Chloe’s collection of makeup. There’s about a zillion brushes, pots, and tubes littered over the counter in front of us, all really good brands like Chanel and MAC.
“Now, about your slot,” continues Zelda as I sit down on a swivel chair. “As I say, we’ve gone for a rather different format from the one we talked about previously. .”
“Zelda!” comes a man’s voice from outside. “Bella’s on the line for you!”
“Oh shit,” says Zelda. “Look, Rebecca, I’ve got to go and take this call, but I’ll come back as soon as I can. OK?”
“Fine!” I say happily, as Chloe drapes a cape round me and pulls my hair back into a wide towel band. In the background, the radio’s playing my favorite song by Lenny Kravitz.
“I’ll just cleanse and tone, and then give you a base,” says Chloe. “If you could shut your eyes. .”
I close my eyes and, after a few seconds, feel a cool, creamy liquid being massaged into my face. It’s the most delicious sensation in the world. I could sit here all day.
“So,” says Chloe after a while. “What are you on the show for?”
“Errm. . finance,” I say vaguely. “A piece on finance.”
To be honest, I’m feeling so relaxed, I can hardly remember what I’m doing here.
“Oh, yeah,” says Chloe, efficiently smoothing foundation over my face. “They were talking earlier about some financial thing.” She reaches for a palette of eyeshadows, blends a couple of colors together, then picks up a brush. “So, are you a financial expert, then?”
“Well,” I say, a little awkwardly. “You know.”
“Wow,” says Chloe, starting to apply eyeshadow to my eyelids. “I don’t understand the first thing about money.”
“Me neither!” chimes in a dark-haired girl from across the room. “My accountant’s given up trying to explain it all to me. As soon he says the word ‘tax-year,’ my mind glazes over.”
I’m about to reply sympathetically “Me too!” and launch into a nice girly chat — but then I stop myself. The memory of Janice and Martin is a bit too raw for me to be flippant.
“You probably know quite a lot more about your finances than you realize,” I say instead. “If you really don’t know. . then you should take advice from someone who does.”
“You mean a financial expert like you?” says the girl.
I smile back, trying to look confident — but all this talk of my being a “financial expert” is unnerving me. I feel as though any minute now, someone’s going to walk in, ask me an impossible question about South African bond yields, and then denounce me as a fraud. Thank goodness I know exactly what I’m going to say on air.
“Sorry, Rebecca,” says Chloe, “I’m going to have to interrupt. Now, I was thinking a raspberry red for the
