I move away from the stand, and slowly start walking towards the corner where the champagne reception's being held, feeling slightly dispirited. In spite of myself, a part of me starts wondering if maybe Elly's right and I'm wrong. Maybe I should be talking about property ladders and growth funds, too. Oh God, maybe there's something wrong with me. I'm missing the gene which makes you grow up and buy a flat in Streatham and start visiting Homebase every weekend. Everyone's moving on without me, into a world I don't understand.
But as I get near the entrance to the champagne reception, I feel my spirits rising. Whose spirits don't rise at the thought of free champagne? It's being held in a huge tent, and there's a huge banner, and a band playing music, and a girl in a sash at the entrance, handing out Barclays keyrings. When she sees my badge, she gives me a wide smile, hands me a white glossy press pack, and says, 'Bear with me a moment.' Then she walks off to a little group of people, murmurs in the ear of a man in a suit and comes back. 'Someone will be with you soon, she says. 'In the meantime, let me get you a glass of champagne.'
You see what I mean about being PSS? Everywhere you go, you get special treatment. I accept a glass of champagne, stuff the white press pack into my carrier bag and take a sip. Oh, it's delicious. Icy cold and sharp and bubbly. Maybe I'll stay here for a couple of hours, I think, just drinking champagne until there's none left. They won't dare chuck me out, I'm PSS. In fact, maybe I'll
'Rebecca. Glad you could make it.'
I look up and feel myself freeze. The man in the suit was Luke Brandon. Luke Brandon's standing in front of me, looking straight at me, with an expression I can't quite read. And suddenly I feel sick. All that stuff I planned about playing it cool and icy isn't going to work – because just seeing his face, I feel hot with humiliation, all over again.
'Hi,' I mutter, looking down. Why am I even saying Hi to him?
'I was hoping you'd come,' he says in a low, serious voice. 'I very much wanted to-'
'Yes,' I interrupt. 'Well, I… I can't talk, I've got to mingle. I'm here to work, you know.'
I'm trying to sound dignified, but there's a wobble in my voice, and I can feel my cheeks slowly turning red as he keeps gazing at me. So I turn away before he can say anything else, and march off towards the other side of the tent. I don't quite know where I'm heading, but I've just got to keep walking until I find someone to talk to.
The trouble is, I can't see anyone I recognize. It's all just groups of bank-type people laughing loudly together and talking about golf. They all seem really tall and broad-shouldered, and I can't even catch anyone's eye. God, this is embarrassing. I feel like a six-year-old at a grown-ups' party. In the corner I spot Moira Channing from the Daily Herald, and she gives me a half-flicker of recognition – but I'm certainly not going to talk to her. OK, just keep walking, I tell myself. Pretend you're on your way somewhere.
Don't panic.
Then I see Luke Brandon on the other side of the tent. His head jerks up as he sees me, and he starts heading towards me. Oh God, quick. Quick. I've got to find somebody to talk to.
Right, how about this couple standing together? The guy's middle-aged, the woman's quite a lot younger, and they don't look as if they know too many people, either. Thank God. Whoever they are, I'll just ask them how they're enjoying the Personal Finance Fair and whether they're finding it useful, and pretend I'm making notes for my article. And when Luke Brandon arrives, I'll be too engrossed in conversation even to notice him. OK, go.
I take a gulp of champagne, approach the man and smile brightly.
'Hi there,' I say. 'Rebecca Bloomwood, Successful Saving.'
'Hello,' he says, turning towards me and extends his hand. 'Derek Smeath from Endwich Bank. And this is my assistant, Erica.'
Oh my God.
I can't speak. I can't shake his hand. I can't run. My whole body's paralysed.
'Hi!' says Erica, giving me a friendly smile. 'I'm Erica Parnell.'
'Yes,' I say, after a huge pause. 'Yes, hi.'
Please don't recognize my name. Please don't recognize my name.
'Are you a journalist, then?' she says, looking at my name badge and frowning. 'Your name seems quite familiar.'
'Yes,' I manage. 'Yes, you… you might have read some of my articles.'
'I expect I have,' she says, and takes an unconcerned sip of champagne. 'We get all the financial mags in the office. Quite good, some of them.'
Slowly the circulation is returning to my body. It's going to be OK, I tell myself. They don't have a clue who I am.
'You journalists have to be expert on everything, I suppose,' says Derek, who has given up trying to shake my hand and is swigging his champagne instead.
'Yes, we do really,' I reply, and risk a smile. 'We get to know all areas of personal finance – from banking to unit trusts to life assurance.'
'And how do you acquire all this knowledge?'
'Oh, we just pick it up along the way,' I say smoothly.
You know what? This is quite fun, now that I've relaxed. You don't know who I am! I feel like chanting. You don't know who I am! And Derek Smeath isn't at all scary in the flesh. In fact he's rather cosy and friendly, like some nice sitcom uncle.
'I've often thought,' says Erica Parnell, 'that they should do a fly-on-the-wall documentary about a bank.' She gives me an expectant look and I nod vigorously.
'Good idea!' I say. 'I think that would be fascinating.'
'You should see some of the characters we get in! People who have absolutely no idea about their finances. Don't we, Derek?'
'You'd be amazed,' says Derek. 'Utterly amazed. The lengths people go to, just to avoid paying off their overdrafts! Or even talking to us!'
'Really?' I say, as though astonished.
'You wouldn't believe it!' says Erica. 'I sometimes wonder-'
'Rebecca!' A voice booms behind me and I turn round in shock to see Philip, clutching a glass of champagne and grinning at me. What's he doing here?
'Hi,' he says. 'Marketing cancelled the meeting, so I thought I'd pop along after all. How's it all going?'
'Oh, great!' I say, and take a gulp of champagne.
'This is Derek, and Erica… this is my editor, Philip
'Endwich Bank, eh?' says Philip, looking at Derek Smeath's name badge. 'You must know Martin Gollinger, then.'
'We're not head office, I'm afraid,' says Derek, giving a little laugh. 'I'm the manager of our Fulham branch.'
'Fulham!' says Philip. 'Trendy Fulham.'
And suddenly a warning bell goes off in my head. Dong-dong-dong! I've got to do something. I've got to say something; change the subject. But it's too late. I'm the spectator on the mountain, watching the trains collide in the valley below.
'Rebecca lives in Fulham,' Philip's saying. 'Who do you bank with, Rebecca? You're probably one of Derek's customers!' He laughs loudly at his own joke, and Derek laughs politely, too.
But I can't laugh. I'm frozen to the spot, watching Erica Parnell's face as it changes. As realization slowly dawns. She meets my eye, and I feel something icy drip down my spine.
'Rebecca Bloomwood,' she says, in quite a different voice. 'I thought I knew that name. Do you live in Burney Road, Rebecca?'
'That's clever!' says Philip. 'How did you know that?' And he takes another swig of champagne.
Shut up, Philip, I think frantically. Shut up.
'So you do?' Her voice is sweet but sharp. Oh God, now Philip's looking at me, waiting for me to answer.
'Yes,' I say, in a strangled voice, aware that my cheeks are flaming.
'Derek, have you realized who this is?' says Erica pleasantly. 'This is Rebecca Bloomwood, one of our customers. I think you spoke to her the other day. Remember?' Her voice hardens. 'The one with the dead
