'Oh, great,' I say, and pick the top one up again.
'Should be finished soon.' He gives a little nod and walks away, and I begin to read again.
'… for the small-time investor, the risks attached to such stocks may outweigh the potential of reward.'
Oh God this is boring. I can't even bring myself to focus on what the words mean.
'More and more investors are therefore demanding the combination of stock market performance with a high level of security. One option is to invest in a Tracker fund, which automatically 'tracks' the top 100 companies at any time…'
Hmm. Actually, that gives me a thought: I reach for my Filofax, flip it open and dial Elly's new direct number at Wetherby's.
'Eleanor Granger,' comes her voice, sounding a bit far-off and echoey. Must be a dodgy line.
'Hi, Elly, it's Becky,' I say. 'Listen, whatever happened to Tracker bars? They're really yummy, aren't they? And I haven't eaten one for…'
There's a scuffy sort of sound on the line, and I gape at the receiver in surprise. In the distance, I can hear Elly saying, 'I'm sorry. I'll just be a…'
'Becky!' she hisses down the phone. 'I was on speaker phone! Our head of department was in my office.'
'Oh God!' I say, aghast. 'Sorry! Is he still there?'
'No,' says Elly, and sighs. 'God knows what he thinks of me now.'
'Oh well,' I say reassuringly. 'He's got a sense of burnout, hasn't he?'
Elly doesn't reply.
'Oh well,' I say again, less certainly. 'Anyway, are you free for a drink at lunchtime?'
'Not really,' she says. 'Sorry, Becky, I've really got to go.' And she puts the phone down.
No-one likes me any more. Suddenly I feel a bit cold and shivery, and I scrunch up even more in my chair. Oh God, I hate today. I hate everything. I want to go hooome.
But by the time Friday arrives, I have to say I feel a lot more cheerful. This is primarily because:
1. It's Friday.
2. I'm spending all day out of the office.
3. Elly phoned yesterday and said sorry she was so abrupt, but someone else came into the office just as we were talking. And she's going to be at the Personal Finance Fair.
Plus
4. I have completely put the Luke Brandon incident from my mind. Who cares about him, anyway?
So as I get ready to go, I feel quite bouncy and positive.
I put on my new grey cardigan over a short black shirt, and my new Hobbs boots – dark grey suede – and I have to say, I look bloody good in them. God, I love new clothes. If everyone could just wear new clothes every day, I reckon depression wouldn't exist any more.
As I'm about to leave, a pile of letters comes through the letterbox for me. Several of them look like bills, and one is yet another letter from Endwich Bank. But I have a clever new solution to all these nasty letters: I just put them in my dressing-table drawer and close it. It's the only way to stop getting stressed out about it. And it really does work. As I thrust the drawer shut and head out of the front door, I've already forgotten all about them.
The conference is already buzzing by the time I get there. As I give my name to the press officer at reception, I'm given a big, shiny courtesy carrier bag with the logo of HSBC on the side. Inside this, I find an enormous press pack complete with a photo of all the conference organizers lifting glasses of champagne to each other (yeah right, like we're really going to use that in the magazine), a voucher for two drinks at the Sun Alliance Pimm's Stand, a raffle ticket to win ?1,000 (invested in the unit trust of my choice) a big lollipop advertising Eastgate Insurance, and my name badge with PSS stamped across the top. There's also a white envelope with the ticket to the Barclays champagne reception inside, and I put that carefully in my bag. Then I fasten my name badge prominently on my lapel and start to walk around the arena.
Normally, of course, the rule is to throw away your name badge as soon as you're given it. But the great thing about being PSS at one of these events is that people fall over themselves to ply you with free stuff. A lot of it's just boring old leaflets about savings plans, but some of them are giving out free gifts and snacks, too. So after an hour, I've accumulated two pens, a paperknife, a mini box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, a helium balloon with Save and Prosper on the side, and a T-shirt with a cartoon on the front, sponsored by some mobile phone company. And I've had two free cappuccinos, a pain au chocolat, some scrumpy (from Somerset Savings), a mini pack of Smarties and my Pimm's from Sun Alliance. (I haven't written a single note in my notebook, or asked a single question – but never mind. I can always just copy some stuff out of the press pack.)
I've seen that some people are carrying quite neat little silver desk clocks, and I wouldn't mind one of those, so I'm just wandering along, trying to work out what direction they're coming from, when a voice says, 'Becky!'
I look up – and it's Elly! She's standing at the Wetherby's display with a couple of guys in suits, waving at me to come over.
'Hi!' I say delightedly. 'How are you?'
'Fine!' she says, and beams at me. 'Really getting along well.' And she does look the part, I have to say. She's wearing a bright red suit (Karen Millen, no doubt), and some really nice square-toed shoes, and her hair's been tied back. The only thing I don't go for is the earrings. Why is she suddenly wearing pearl earrings? Maybe it's just to blend in with the others.
'God, I can't believe you're actually one of them!' I say, lowering my voice slightly. 'I'll be interviewing you next!' I tilt my head earnestly, like Martin Bashir on Panorama. ''Ms Davies, could you tell me the aims and principles of Wetherby's Investments?''
Elly gives a little Laugh – then reaches into a box beside her.
'I'll give you this,' she says, and hands me a brochure.
'Oh thanks,' I say ironically, and stuff it into my bag. I suppose she has to look good in front of her colleagues.
'It's actually quite an exciting time at Wetherby's,' continues Elly. 'You know we're launching a whole new range of funds next month? I think there are five altogether. UK Growth, UK Prospects, European Growth, European Prospects, and…'
Why is she telling me this, exactly?
'Elly…'
'And US Growth!' she finishes triumphantly. There isn't a flicker of humour in her eyes.
'Right,' I say after a pause. 'Well, that sounds… fab!'
'I could arrange for our PR people to give you a call, if you like,' she says. 'Fill you in a bit more.'
What?
'No,' I say hurriedly. 'No, it's OK. So, erm… what are you doing afterwards? Do you want to go for a drink?'
'No can do,' she says apologetically. 'I'm going to look at a flat.'
'Are you moving?' I say in surprise. Elly lives in the coolest flat in Camden, with two guys who are in a band and get her into loads of free gigs and stuff. I can't think why she'd want to move.
'Actually, I'm buying,' she says. 'I'm looking around Streatham, Tooting… I just want to get on the first rung of that property ladder.'
'Right,' I say feebly. 'Good idea.'
'You should do it yourself, you know, Becky,' she says. 'You can't hang around in a student flat for ever. Real life has to begin some time!' She glances at one of her men in suits, and he gives a little laugh.
It's not a student flat, I think indignantly. And anyway, who defines 'real life'? Who says 'real life' is property ladders and hideous pearl earrings? 'Shit boring tedious life', more like.
'Are yon going to the Barclays champagne reception?' I say as a last gasp, thinking maybe we can go and get pissed together and have some fun. But she pulls a little face, and shakes her head.
'I might pop in,' she says, 'but I'll be quite tied up here.'
'OK,' I say. 'Well I'll… I'll see you later.'
