Flat 2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
10 March 2000
Dear Ms Bloomwood
PGNI First Bank VISA Card No. 1475839204847586 Thank you for your letter of 3 March.
I can assure you that our computers are regularly checked, and that the possibility of a 'glitch', as you put it, is remote. Nor have we been affected by the Millennium bug. All accounts are entirely accurate.
You may write to Anne Robinson at Watchdog if you wish, but I am sure she will agree that you have no grounds for complaint.
Our records inform us that payment on your VISA account is now overdue. As you will see from your most recent VISA card statement, the minimum payment required is ?105.40. I look forward to receiving your payment, as soon as possible.
Yours sincerely
Peter Johnson
Customer Accounts Executive
Eight
OK, so perhaps the Cutting Back didn't go that well. But it doesn't matter, because that's all in the past. That was negative thinking – now I'm seriously into positive thinking. Onward and upward. Growth and prosperity. M. M. M. It's the obvious solution, when you think about it. And you know what? Suze is absolutely right. Making More Money suits my personality far better than Cutting Back did. In fact, I'm already feeling much happier. Just the fact that I don't have to make any more grotty cheese sandwiches, or go to any more museums, has lifted a huge weight off my soul. And I'm allowed to buy all the cappuccinos I like, and start looking in shop windows again. Oh, the relief! I've even chucked Controlling Your Cash in the bin. I never did think it was any good.
The only small, thing – tiny niggle – is I'm not quite sure how I'm going to do it. Make More Money, I mean. But now I've decided to go ahead with it, something will turn up. I'm sure of it.
When I get into work on Monday, Clare Edwards is already at her desk – surprise – and on the phone.
'Yes,' she's saying softly. 'I suppose the only answer is to plan ahead. Yes.'
When she sees me, to my surprise she blushes a faint pink and turns away slightly. 'Yes, I understand,' she whispers, scribbling in her notepad. 'And how has… response been so far?'
God knows why she's being so secretive. As if I'm interested in her tedious life. I sit down at my desk, briskly flip on my computer and open my diary. Oh goody, I've got a press conference in the City. Even if it is some boring old pensions launch, at least it means a trip out of the office and, with any luck, a nice glass of champagne. Work can be quite fun, sometimes. And Philip isn't in yet, which means we can sit and gossip for a while.
'So, Clare,' I say, as she puts the phone down, 'how was your weekend?'
I look over, expecting to hear the usual thrilling account of what shelf she put up where with her boyfriend – but Clare doesn't even seem to have heard what I said.
'Clare?' I say, puzzled. She's staring at me with pink cheeks, as though I've caught her stealing pens from the stationery cupboard.
'Listen,' she says in a rush. 'That conversation you heard me having just now… could you not mention it to Philip?'
I stare at her in bemusement. What's she talking about? Oh wow – is she having an affair? But then, why should Philip care? He's her editor, not herOh my God. She's not having an affair with Philip, is she?
'Clare, what's going on!' I say excitedly.
There's a long pause, as Clare blushes deep red. I can't believe this. A piece of office scandal at last! And involving Clare Edwards, of all people!
'Oh come on, Clare,' I whisper. 'You can tell me. I won't tell anyone.' I lean forward sympathetically. 'I might even be able to help.'
'Yes,' says Clare, rubbing her face. 'Yes, that's true. I could do with a bit of advice. The pressure's starting to get to me.'
'Start from the beginning,' I say calmly, just like an agony aunt. 'When did it all begin?'
'OK, I'll tell you,' whispers Clare, and looks nervously about. 'It was about… six months ago.'
'And what happened?'
'It all began on that Scottish press trip,' she says slowly. 'I was away from home… I said yes without even thinking. I suppose I was flattered, more than anything else.'
'It's the old story,' I say wisely. God, I'm enjoying this.
'If Philip knew what I was doing, he'd go crazy,' she says despairingly. 'But it's just so easy. I use a different name – and no-one knows!'
'You use a different name?' I say, impressed, in spite of myself.
'Several,' she says, and gives a bitter little laugh. 'You've probably seen some of them around.' She exhales sharply. 'I know I'm taking a risk – but I can't stop. To be honest, you get used to the money.'
Money? Is she a prostitute? 'Clare, what exactly are you-'
'At first it was just a little piece on mortgages in the Mail,' she says, as though she hasn't heard me. 'I thought I could handle it. But then I was asked to do a full-length feature on life insurance in the Sunday Times. Then Pension and Portfolio got in on the act. And now it's about three articles every week. I have to do it all in secret, try to act normally…' She breaks off and shakes her head. 'Sometimes it gets me down. But I just can't say no any more. I'm hooked.'
I do not believe it. She s talking about work. Work!
Only Clare Edwards could be such a disappointment. There I was, thinking she was having a steamy affair, ready to hear all the exciting details – and all the time it was just boring old…
Then something she's just said tweaks at my mind.
'Did you say the money was good?' I say casually.
'Oh yes,' she says. 'About three hundred quid a piece. That's how we could afford our flat.'
Three hundred quid!
Nine hundred quid a week! Bloody hell!
This is the answer. It's easy. I'll become a high-flying freelance journalist, just like Clare, and earn nine hundred quid a week. What I have to do is start networking and making contacts at events instead of always sitting at the back with Elly and giggling. I must shake hands firmly with all the finance editors of the nationals and wear my name badge prominently instead of putting it straight in my bag, and then phone them up discreetly when I get back to the office with ideas. And then I'll have ?900 a week. Hah!
So when I arrive at the press conference, I pin my name badge on firmly, take a cup of coffee (no champagne – blast) and head towards Moira Channing of the Daily Herald.
'Hello,' I say, nodding in what I hope is a serious manner. 'Becky Bloomwood, Successful Saving.'
'Hello,' she says without interest, and turns back to the other woman in the group. 'So we had the second lot of builders back, and really read them the riot act.'
'Oh, Moira, you poor thing,' says the other woman. I squint at her badge and see that she's Lavinia Bellimore, Freelance. Well, there's no point impressing her – she's the competition.
Anyway, she doesn't give me a second glance. The two chat away about extensions and school fees, completely ignoring me – and after a bit I mutter, 'Good to meet you,' and creep away. God, I'd forgotten how unfriendly they are. Still, never mind. I'll just have to find someone else.
So after a bit I sidle up to a very tall guy on his own, and smile at him.
'Becky Bloomwood, Successful Saving,' I say.
'Geoffrey Norris, Freelance,' he says, and flashes his badge at me. Oh, for God's sake. The place is crawling
