disturbance, we will have a short break before we resume. Please help yourself to tea and coffee. Thank you.' She turns off the microphone, climbs down from the podium and hurries over to the huddle of Sacrum Asset Management personnel.
'You should never have let him in!' I hear one of them saying.
'I didn't know who he was!' replies Maria defensively.
'He said he was a stringer for Wall Street Journal!'
Well, this is more like it! I haven't seen so much excitement since Alan Derring from the Daily Investor stood up at a Provident Assurance press conference and told everyone he was becoming a woman and wanted us all to call him Andrea.
I head towards the back to get another cup of coffee, and find Elly standing by the coffee table. Excellent. I haven't seen Elly for ages.
'Hi,' she grins. 'I like your new friend. Very entertaining.'
'I know!' I say delightedly. 'Isn't he cool?' I reach for a posh chocolate biscuit wrapped in gold foil, and give my cup to the waitress to be refilled. Then I take another couple of biscuits and pop them in my bag. (No point wasting them.)
Around us there is an excited buzz of conversation; the Sacrum people are still clustered at the front. This is great. We'll be able to hatter for hours.
'So listen,' I say to Elly. 'Have you applied for any jobs recently?' I take a sip of coffee. 'Because I saw one for New Woman the other day in the Media Guardian, and I meant to ring you. It said it was essential to have experience on a consumer title, but I thought you could say-'
'Becky,' interrupts Elly in an odd voice, 'you know which job I've been going for.'
'What?' I stare at her. 'Not that fund manager job. But that wasn't serious. That was just a bargaining tool.'
'I took it,' she says, and I gaze at her in shock.
Suddenly a voice comes from the podium, and we both look up.
'Ladies and gentlemen,' Maria is saying. 'If you would like to resume your seats…'
I'm sorry, but I can't go and sit back down there. I have to hear about this.
'Come on,' I say quickly to Elly. 'We don't need to stay. We've got our press packs. Let's go and have lunch.'
There's a pause – and for an awful moment I think she's going to say No, she wants to stay and hear about personal pensions. But then she grins and takes my arm – and to the obvious dismay of the girl at the door, we waltz out of the room.
There's a Cafe Rouge around the corner, and we go straight in and order a bottle of white wine. I'm still in slight shock, to tell you the truth. Elly Granger is going to become a Wetherby's fund manager. She's deserting me. I won't have anyone to play with any more.
And how can she? She wanted to be beauty editor on Marie-Claire, for God's sake!
'So – what decided you?' I say cautiously as our wine arrives.
'Oh, I don't know,' she says, and sighs. 'I just kept thinking – where am I going? You know, I keep applying for all these glam jobs in journalism and never even getting an interview…'
'You would have got one eventually,' I say robustly. 'I know you would.'
'Maybe,' she says. 'Or maybe not. And in the meantime, I'm writing about all this boring financial stuff and I suddenly thought, why not just sod it and do boring financial stuff? At least I'll have a proper career.'
'You were in a proper career!'
'No I wasn't, I was hopeless! I was paddling around with no aim, no game plan, no prospects-' Elly breaks off as she sees my face. 'I mean, I was quite different from you,' she adds hurriedly. 'You're much more sorted out than I was.'
Sorted out? Is she joking?
'So when do you start?' I say, to change the subject because to be honest, I feel a bit thrown by all this. I don't have a game plan, I don't have prospects. Maybe I'm hopeless, too. Maybe I should rethink my career. Oh God, this is depressing. My job sounds so grand and exciting when I'm describing it to people like Martin and Janice next door. But now Elly's making me feel like a complete loser.
'Next week,' says Elly, and takes a swig of wine. 'I'm going to be based at the Silk Street office.'
'Oh, right,' I say miserably.
'And I've had to buy loads of new clothes,' she adds, and pulls a little face. 'They're all really smart at Wetherby's.'
New clothes? New clothes? Right, now I really am jealous…
'I went into Karen Millen and practically bought it out,' she says, eating a marinated olive. 'Spent about a thousand quid.'
'Blimey,' I say, feeling slightly awe-stricken. 'A thousand quid, all at once?'
'Well, I had to,' she says apologetically. 'And anyway, I'll be earning more now.'
'Really?'
'Oh yes,' she says, and gives a little laugh. 'Lots more. '
'Like… how much?' I ask, feeling tweaks of curiosity.
'I'm starting off on forty grand,' she says, and gives a careless shrug. 'After that, who knows? What they said is…'
And she starts talking about career structures and ladders and bonuses. But I can't hear a word, I'm too shellshocked.
Forty grand?
Forty grand? But I only earn-
Actually, should I be telling you how much I earn? Isn't it one of those things like religion, you're not supposed to mention in polite company? Or maybe we're all allowed to talk about money these days. Suze would know.
Oh well, sod it. You know everything else, don't you? The truth is, I earn ?21,000. And I thought that was a lot! I remember really well, when I moved jobs, I jumped from ?18,000 to ?21,000, and I thought I'd made the big time. I was so excited about it, I used to write out endless lists of what I would buy with all that extra money.
But now it sounds like nothing. I should be earning forty grand, like Elly, and buying all my clothes at Karen Millen. Oh, it's not fair. My life's a complete disaster.
As I'm walking back to the office, I feel pretty morose. Maybe I should give up journalism and become a fund manager too. Or a merchant banker. They earn a pretty good whack, don't they? Maybe I could join Goldman Sachs or somewhere. They earn about a million a year, don't they? God, that would be good. A million a year. I wonder how you get a job like that.
But on the other hand… do I really want to be a banker? I wouldn't mind the clothes-from Karen Millen part of it. In fact, I think I'd do that really well. But I'm not so sure about the rest. The getting-up-early-and-working- hideously-hard part. Not that I'm lazy or anything – but I quite like the fact that I can go and spend the afternoon at Image Store, or flick through the papers pretending to be doing research, and no-one gives me a hard time. It doesn't sound as if Elly will be doing much of that in her new job. In fact, it all sounds quite scary.
Hmm. If only there was some way that I could get all the nice clothes – but not have to do the scary work. One but not the other. If only there was a way… My eyes are automatically flicking into all the shop windows as I pass, checking out the displays – and suddenly I stop in my tracks.
This is a sign from God. It has to be. I'm standing outside Ally Smith – which has some gorgeous full-length coats in the window – and there's a handwritten sign in the glass pane of the door. 'Wanted. Saturday sales assistants. Enquire within.'
I almost feel shaky as I stare at the sign. It's as though lightning has struck, or something. Why on earth haven't I thought of this before? It's pure genius. I'll get a Saturday job! I'll work in a clothes shop! That way, I'll make loads of extra money and I'll get a discount on all the clothes! And let's face it, working in a shop has got to be easier than becoming a fund manager, hasn't it? All you do is stand around and say 'Can I help you?' In fact, it'll be fun, because I can choose all my own clothes as I help the customers. I'll actually be getting paid to go shopping!
This is bloody fantastic, I think, striding into the shop with a friendly smile on my face. I knew something
