how I was, and all about my new house…' There's a slightly pitying look in his eye. Oh my God, I can't stand this. How can he think… 'I really like you, Becky,' he adds. 'I just don't…'
'I was being polite!' I roar. 'I don't fancy you!'
'Look,' he says. 'Let's just leave it, shall we?'
'But I don't!' I cry furiously. 'I never did fancy you! That's why I didn't go out with you when you asked me! When we were both sixteen, remember?'
I break off and look at him triumphantly – to see that his face hasn't moved a bit. He isn't listening. Or if he is, he's thinking that the fact I've dragged in our teenage past means I'm obsessed by him. And the more I try to argue the point, the more obsessed he'll think I am. Oh God, this is horrendous.
'OK,' I say, trying to gather together the remaining shreds of my dignity. 'OK, we're obviously not communicating here, so I'll just leave you to it.' I glance over at. Lucy, who's looking in a shop window and obviously pretending not to be listening. 'Honestly, I'm not after your boyfriend,' I call. 'And I never was. Bye.'
And I stride off down the street, a nonchalant smile plastered stiffly across my face.
As I round the corner, however, the smile gradually slips, and I sit heavily down on a bench. In spite of myself, I feel humiliated. Of course, the whole thing's laughable. That Tom Webster should think I'm in love with him. Just serves me right for being too polite to his parents, and feigning interest in his bloody limed oak units. Next time I'll yawn loudly, or walk away. Or produce a boyfriend of my own. That would shut them all up, wouldn't it? And anyway, who cares what they think?
I know all this. I know I shouldn't care two hoots what Tom Webster or his girlfriend think. But even so … I have to admit, I feel a bit low. Why haven't I got a boyfriend? There isn't even anyone I fancy at the moment. The last serious boyfriend I had was Robert Hayman, and we split up three months ago. And I didn't even much like him. He used to call me 'Love' and jokingly put his hands over my eyes during the rude bits in films. Even when I told him not to, he still kept doing it. It used to drive me mad. Even remembering it now makes me feel all tense and scratchy.
But still, he was a boyfriend, wasn't he? He was someone to phone up during work, and go to parties with and use as ammunition against creeps. Maybe I shouldn't have chucked him. Maybe he was all right.
I give a gusty sigh, stand up and start walking along the street again. All in all, it hasn't been a great day. I've lost a job and been patronized by Tom Webster. And now I haven't got anything to do tonight. I thought I'd be too knackered after working all day, so I didn't bother to organize anything.
Still, at least I've got twenty quid.
Twenty quid. I'll buy myself a nice cappuccino and a chocolate brownie. And a couple of magazines. And maybe something from Accessorize. Or some boots. In fact I really need some new boots – and I've seen some really nice ones in Hobbs with square toes and quite a low heel. I'll go there after my coffee, and look at the dresses, too. God, I deserve a treat, after today. And I need some new tights for work, and a nail file. And maybe a book to read on the tube…
By the time I join the queue at Starbucks, I feel happier already.
7 Camel Square
Liverpool L1 5NP
Ms Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
15 March 2000
Dear Ms Bloomwood
PGNI First Bank VISA Card No. 1475839204847586
Thank you for your letter of 11 March.
Your offer of a free subscription to Successful Saving magazine is most kind, as is your invitation to dinner at the Ivy. Unfortunately, employees of PGNI First Bank are prohibited from accepting such gifts.
I look forward to receiving your outstanding payment of ?105.40, as soon as possible.
Yours sincerely
Peter Johnson
Customer Accounts Executive
Ten
On Monday morning I wake early, feeling rather hollow inside. My gaze flits to the pile of unopened carrier bags in the corner of my room and then quickly flits away again. I know I spent too much money on Saturday. I know I shouldn't have bought two pairs of boots. I know I shouldn't have bought that purple dress. In all, I spent… Actually, I don't want to think about how much I spent. Think about something else, quick, I instruct myself. Something else. Anything will do. I'm well aware that at the back of my mind, thumping quietly like a drumbeat, are the twin horrors of
Guilt and Panic.
Guilt Guilt Guilt Guilt.
Panic Panic Panic Panic.
If I let them, they'd swoop into my mind and take over. I'd feel completely paralysed with misery and fear. So the trick I've learned is simply not to listen. I close off the back of my mind – and then nothing worries me. It's simple self-defence. My mind is very well trained like that.
My other trick is to distract myself with different thoughts and activities. So I get up, switch the radio on, take a shower and get dressed. The thumping is still there at the back of my head, but gradually, gradually, it's fading away. As I go into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee, I can barely hear it any more. A cautious relief floods over me, like that feeling you get when a painkiller finally gets rid of your headache. I can relax. I'm going to be all right.
On the way out I pause in the hall to check my appearance in the mirror (Top: River Island, Skirt: French Connection, Tights: Pretty Polly Velvets, Shoes: Ravel) and reach for my coat (Coat: House of Fraser sale). Just then the post plops through the door, and I go to pick it up. There's a handwritten letter for Suze, and a postcard from the Maldives. And for me, there are two ominous-looking window envelopes. One from VISA, one from Endwich Bank.
For a moment, my heart stands still. Why another letter from the bank? And VISA. What do they want? Can't they just leave me alone?
Carefully I place Suze's post on the ledge in the hall and shove my own two letters in my pocket, telling myself I'll read them on the way to work. Once I get on the tube, I'll open them both and I'll read them, however unpleasant they are.
That really is my intention. Honestly. As I'm walking along the pavement, I promise my intention is to read the letters.
But then I turn into the next street – and there's a skip outside someone's house. A huge great yellow skip, already half full of stuff. Builders are coming in and out of the house, tossing old bits of wood and upholstery into the skip. Loads of rubbish, all jumbled up together.
And a little thought creeps into my mind.
My steps slow down as I approach the skip and I pause, staring intently at it as though I'm interested in the words printed on the side. I stand there, heart thumping, until the builders have gone back into the house and no-one's looking. Then, in one motion, I reach for the two letters, pull them out of my pocket, and drop them over
