“May I say, first, what an honor it is to have a television personality of your caliber as one of our customers.”
“Oh! Well — thank you!” I say, beaming at the phone. “It’s a pleasure, actually.”
This is great. I know exactly why he’s calling. They’re going to give me some free clothes, aren’t they? Or maybe… yes! They want me to design a new line for them! God, yes. I’ll be a designer. They’ll call it the Becky Bloomwood collection. Simple, stylish, wearable garments, with maybe one or two evening dresses…
“This is simply a courtesy call,” says David Barrow, interrupting my thoughts. “I just want to ensure that you are completely happy with our service and ask if you have any other needs we can help you with.”
“Well — thanks!” I say. “I’m very happy, thanks! I mean, I’m not exactly a regular customer but—”
“Also to mention the small matter of your outstanding La Rosa Card account,” adds David Barrow as though I haven’t spoken. “And to inform you that if payment is not received within seven days, further action will have to be taken.”
I stare at the phone, feeling my smile fade. This isn’t a courtesy call at all, is it? He doesn’t want me to design a collection of clothes. He’s phoning about money!
I feel slightly outraged. Surely people aren’t just allowed to telephone you in your own home and demand money with no warning? I mean, obviously I’m going to pay them. Just because I don’t send a check off the moment the bill comes through the letter box…
“It has been three months now since your first bill,” David Barrow is saying. “And I must inform you that our policy after the three-month period is to hand over all outstanding accounts to—”
“Yes, well,” I interrupt coolly. “My… accountants are dealing with all my bills at the moment. I’ll speak to them.”
“I’m so glad to hear it. And of course, we look forward to seeing you again in La Rosa very soon!”
“Yeah, well,” I say grumpily. “Maybe.”
I put the phone down as Suze comes past the door again, dragging another black bin bag. “Suze, what are you doing?” I say, staring at her.
“I’m decluttering!” she says. “It’s brilliant. So cleansing! You should try it! So — who was David Barrow?”
“Just some stupid bill I hadn’t paid,” I say. “Honestly! Phoning me at home!”
“Ooh, that reminds me. Hang on…”
She disappears for a moment, then appears again, holding a bundle of envelopes.
“I found these under my bed when I was tidying up, and this other lot were on my dressing table… I think you must have left them in my room.” She pulls a face. “I think they’re all bills, too.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say, and throw them onto the bed.
“Maybe…” says Suze hesitantly, “maybe you should pay some of them off? You know. Just one or two.”
“But I have paid them off!” I say in surprise. “I paid them all off in June. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh yes!” says Suze. “Yes, of course I do.” She bites her lip. “But the thing is, Bex…”
“What?”
“Well… that was a while ago, wasn’t it? And maybe you’ve built up a few debts since then.”
“Since June?” I give a little laugh. “But that was only about five minutes ago! Honestly, Suze, you don’t need to worry. I mean… take this one.” I reach randomly for an envelope. “I mean, what have I bought in M&S recently? Nothing!”
“Oh right,” says Suze, looking relieved. “So this bill will just be for… zero, will it.”
“Absolutely,” I say ripping it open. “Zero! Or, you know, ten quid. You know, for the odd pair of knickers —”
I pull out the account and look at it. For a moment I can’t speak.
“How much is it?” says Suze in alarm.
“It’s… it’s wrong,” I say, trying to stuff it back in the envelope. “It has to be wrong. I’ll write them a letter…”
“Let me see.” Suze grabs the bill and her eyes widen. “Three hundred sixty-five pounds? Bex—”
“It has to be wrong,” I say — but my voice is holding less conviction. I’m suddenly remembering those leather trousers I bought in the Marble Arch sale. And that dressing gown. And that phase I went through of eating M&S sushi every day.
Suze stares at me for a few minutes, her face creased anxiously.
“Bex — d’you think all of these other bills are as high as that?”
Silently I reach for the envelope from Selfridges, and tear it open. Even as I do so, I’m remembering that chrome juicer, the one I saw and had to have… I’ve never even used it. And that fur-trimmed dress. Where did that go?
“How much is it?”
“It’s… it’s enough,” I reply, pushing it quickly back inside, before she can see that it’s well over ?400.
I turn away, trying to keep calm. But I feel alarmed and slightly angry. This is all wrong. The whole point is, I paid off my cards. I paid them off. I mean, what’s the point of paying off all your credit cards if they all just go and sprout huge new debts again? What is the point?
“Look, Bex, don’t worry,” says Suze. “You’ll be OK! I just won’t cash your rent check this month.”
“No!” I exclaim. “Don’t be silly. You’ve been good enough to me already! I don’t want to owe you anything. I’d rather owe M&S.” I look round and see her anxious face. “Suze, don’t worry! I can easily put this lot off for a bit.” I hit the letter. “And meanwhile, I’ll get a bigger overdraft or something. In fact, I’ve just asked the bank for an extension — so I can easily ask for a bit more. In fact, I’ll phone them right now!”
“What, this minute?”
“Why not?”
I pick up the phone again, reach for an old bank statement, and dial the Endwich number.
“You see, there really isn’t a problem,” I say reassuringly. “One little phone call is all it’ll take.”
“Your call is being transferred to the Central Endwich Call Center,” comes a tinny voice down the line. “Kindly memorize the following number for future use: 0800…”
“What’s going on?” says Suze.
“I’m being transferred to some central system,” I say, as Vivaldi’s Four Seasons starts to play. “They’ll probably be really quick and efficient. This is great, isn’t it? Doing it all over the phone.”
“Welcome to Endwich Bank!” says a new woman’s voice in my ear. “Please key in your account number.”
What’s my account number? Shit! I’ve got no idea—
Oh yes. On my bank statement.
“Thank you!” says a voice as I finish pressing the numbers. “Now please key in your personal identification number.”
What?
Personal identification number? I didn’t know I had a personal identification number. Honestly! They never told me—
Actually… maybe that does ring a slight bell.
Oh God. What was it again? Seventy-three-something? Thirty-seven-something?
“Please key in your personal identification number,” repeats the voice pleasantly.
“But I don’t know my bloody personal identification number!” I say. “Quick, Suze, if you were me, what would you choose as a personal identification number?”
“Ooh!” says Suze. “Um… I’d choose… um… 1234?”
“Please key in your personal identification number,” says the voice, with a definite edge to it this time.
God, this is really stressful.
“Try my number for my bicycle lock,” suggests Suze. “It’s 435.”
“Suze — I need my number. Not yours.”
“You might have chosen the same! You never know!”
“Please key in—”
“All right!” I yell, and punch in 435.
“I’m sorry,” intones the voice. “This password is invalid.”
