just what you should have done to prevent this catastrophe. But now — just to put our viewers straight… could you tell us exactly how much in debt you are?”
“I’d be glad to, Emma,” I say, and take a deep breath. “At the present moment, my debt amounts to…” I pause, and I can feel the whole studio bracing itself for a shock. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Emma looks at Rory as though to check she’s heard correctly. “Nothing?”
“My overdraft facilities director, John Gavin, will be glad to confirm that this morning, at nine thirty, I paid off my overdraft completely. I’ve paid off every single debt I had.”
I allow myself a tiny smile as I remember John Gavin’s face this morning, as I handed over wads and wads of cash. I so wanted him to wriggle and squirm and look pissed off. But to give him his due, after the first couple of thousand he started smiling, and beckoning people round to watch. And at the end, he shook my hand really quite warmly — and said now he understood what Derek Smeath meant about me.
I wonder what old Smeathie can have said?
“So you see, I’m not really in a plight at all,” I add. “In fact, I’ve never been better.”
“Right…” says Emma. “I see.” There’s a distracted look in her eye — and I know Barry must be yelling something in her earpiece.
“But even if your money situation is temporarily sorted out, your life must still be in ruins.” She leans forward sympathetically again. “You’re unemployed… shunned by your friends…”
“On the contrary, I’m not unemployed. This afternoon I’m flying to the States, where I have a new career waiting for me. It’s a bit of a gamble… and it’ll certainly be a challenge. But I genuinely think I’ll be happy there. And my friends…” My voice wobbles a little, and I take a deep breath. “It was my friends who helped me out. It was my friends who stood by me.”
Oh God, I don’t believe it. After all that, I’ve got bloody tears in my eyes. I blink them back as hard as I can, and smile brightly at Emma.
“So really, my story isn’t one of failure. Yes, I got myself into debt; yes, I was fired. But I did something about it.” I turn to the camera. “And I’d like to say to anyone out there who’s got themselves in a mess like I did… you can get out of it, too. Take action. Sell all your clothes. Apply for a new job. You can start again, like I’m going to.”
There’s silence around the studio. Then suddenly, from behind one of the cameras, there’s the sound of clapping. I look over in shock — and it’s Dave, the cameraman. He grins at me and mouths “Well done.” Suddenly Gareth the floor manager joins in… and someone else… and now the whole studio is applauding, apart from Emma and Rory, who are looking rather nonplussed — and Zelda, who’s talking frantically into her mouthpiece.
“Well!” says Emma, over the sound of the applause. “Um… We’re taking a short break now — but join us in a few moments to hear more on our lead story today: Becky’s… Tragic… umm…” She hesitates, listening to her earpiece. “… or rather, Becky’s… um, Triumphant… um…”
The signature tune blares out of a loudspeaker and she glances at the producer’s box in irritation. “I wish he’d make up his bloody mind!”
“See you,” I say, and get up. “I’m off now.”
“Off?” says Emma. “You can’t go yet!”
“Yes, I can.” I reach toward my microphone, and Eddie the sound guy rushes forward to unclip it.
“Well said,” he mutters as he unthreads it from my jacket. “Don’t take their shit.” He grins at me. “Barry’s going ballistic up there.”
“Hey, Becky!” Zelda’s head jerks up in horror. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve said what I came to say. Now I’ve got a plane to catch.”
“You can’t leave now! We haven’t finished!”
“I’ve finished,” I say, and reach for my bag.
“But the phone lines are all red!” says Zelda, hurrying toward me. “The switchboard’s jammed! The callers are all saying…” She stares at me as though she’s never seen me before. “I mean, we had no idea. Who would ever have thought…”
“I’ve got to go, Zelda.”
“Wait! Becky!” says Zelda as I reach the door of the studio. “We… Barry and I… we were having a quick little chat just now. And we were wondering whether…”
“Zelda,” I interrupt gently. “It’s too late. I’m going.”
It’s nearly three by the time I arrive at Heathrow Airport. I’m still a little flushed from the farewell lunch I had in the pub with Suze, Tarquin, and my parents. To be honest, there’s a small part of me that feels like bursting into tears and running back to them all. But at the same time, I’ve never felt so confident in my life. I’ve never been so sure I’m doing the right thing.
There’s a promotional stand in the center of the terminus, giving away free newspapers, and as I pass it, I reach for a Financial Times. Just for old times’ sake. Plus, if I’m carrying the FT, I might get upgraded. I’m just folding it up to place it neatly under my arm, when I notice a name which makes me stop dead.
Brandon in bid to save company. Page 27.
With slightly shaky fingers, I unfold the paper, find the page, and read the story.
Financial PR entrepreneur Luke Brandon is fighting to keep his investors on board after severe loss of confidence following the recent defection of several senior employees. Morale is said to be low at the formerly groundbreaking PR agency, with rumors of an uncertain future for the company causing staff to break ranks. In crisis meetings to be held today, Brandon will be seeking to persuade backers to approve his radical restructuring plans, which are said to involve…
I read to the end of the piece, and gaze for a few seconds at Luke’s picture. He looks as confident as ever — but I remember Michael’s remark about him being hurled across the paddock. His world’s crashed around him, just like mine did. And chances are, his mum won’t be on the phone telling him not to worry.
For a moment I feel a twinge of pity for him. I almost want to call him up and tell him things’ll get better. But there’s no point. He’s busy with his life — and I’m busy with mine. So I fold the paper up again, and resolutely walk forward to the checkin desk.
“Anything to check?” says the checkin girl, smiling at me.
“No,” I say. “I’m traveling light. Just me and my bag.” I casually lift my FT to a more prominent position. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of an upgrade?”
“Not today, sorry.” She pulls a sympathetic face. “But I can put you by the emergency exit. Plenty of legroom there. If I could just weigh your bag, please?”
“Sure.”
And I’m just bending down to put my little case on the belt, when a familiar voice behind me exclaims, “Wait!”
I feel a lurch inside as though I’ve just dropped twenty feet. I turn disbelievingly — and it’s him.
It’s Luke, striding across the concourse toward the checkin desk. He’s dressed as smartly as ever, but his face is pale and haggard. From the shadows under his eyes he looks as though he’s been existing on a diet of late nights and coffee.
“Where the fuck are you going?” he demands as he gets nearer. “Are you moving to Washington?”
“What are you doing here?” I retort shakily. “Aren’t you at some crisis meeting with your investors?”
“I was. Until Mel came in to hand round tea, and told me she’d seen you on the television this morning. So I called Suze and got the flight number out of her—”
“You just left your meeting?” I stare at him. “What, right in the middle?”
“She told me you’re leaving the country.” His dark eyes search my face. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” I say, and clutch my little suitcase more tightly. “Yes, I am.”
“Just like that? Without even telling me?”
“Yes, just like that,” I say, plonking my case on the belt. “Just like you came back to Britain without even
