'No!' I say quickly. 'That would only make him feel important. I just want to vanish for a bit.'
'Fine,' says Dad. 'As far as we're concerned, you're not here'
He reaches across the table and clasps my hand. And as I see the worry on his face, I hate myself for what I'm doing I feel so guilty that, for a moment, I feel I might just burst into tears, and tell them everything, truth hilly.
But… I can't do it. I simply can't tell my kind, loving parents that their so-called successful daughter with her so-called top job is in fact a disorganized, deceitful mess, up to her eyeballs in debt.
And so we have supper (Waitrose Cumberland Pie) and watch an Agatha Christie adaptation together, and then I go upstairs to my old bedroom, put on an old nightie and go to bed. And when I wake up the next morning I feel more happy and well rested than I have for weeks. '
Above all, staring at my old bedroom ceiling, I feel safe. Cocooned from the world; wrapped up in cotton wool. No-one can get me here. No-one even knows I'm here. I won't get any nasty letters and I won't get any nasty phone calls and I won't get any nasty visitors. It's like a sanctuary. All responsibility has been lifted from my shoulders. I feel as if I'm fifteen again, with nothing to worry about but my homework. (And I haven't even got any of that.)
It's at least nine o'clock before I rouse myself and get out of bed, and as I do so, it occurs to me that miles away in London, Derek Smeath is expecting me to arrive for a meeting in half an hour. A slight twinge passes through my stomach and for a moment I consider phoning up the bank and giving some excuse. But even as I'm considering it, I know I'm not going to do it. I don't even want to acknowledge the bank's existence. I want to forget all about it.
None of it exists any more. Not the bank, not VISA, not Octagon. All eliminated from my life, just like that.
The only call I make is to the office, because I don't want them sacking me in my absence. I phone at 9.20 – before Philip gets in – and get Mavis on reception.
'Hello, Mavis?' I croak. 'It's Rebecca Bloomwood here. Can you tell Philip I'm ill?'
'You poor thing!' says Mavis. 'Is it bronchitis?'
'I'm not sure,' I croak. 'I've got a doctor's appointment later. I must go. Bye.'
And that's it. One phone call, and I'm free. No-one suspects anything – why should they? I feel light with relief. It's so easy to escape. So simple. I should have done this long ago.
At the back of my mind, like a nasty little gremlin, is the knowledge that I won't be able to stay here for ever. That sooner or later things will start to catch up with me.
But the point is – not yet. Not for a long time. And in the meantime, I'm not even going to think about it. I'm just going to have a nice cup of tea and watch Morning Coffee and blank my mind out completely.
When I go into the kitchen, Dad's sitting at the table, reading the paper. There's the smell of toast in the air, and Radio Four in the background. Just like when I was younger and lived at home. Life was simple then.
Life was so easy. No bills, no demands, no threatening letters. An enormous wave of nostalgia overcomes me, and I turn away to fill the kettle, blinking slightly.
'Interesting news,' says Dad, jabbing at the Daily Telegraph.
'Oh yes?' I say, putting a teabag in a mug. 'What's that?'
'Scottish Prime have taken over Flagstaff Life.'.
'Oh right,' I say vaguely. 'Right. Yes, I think I'd heard that was going to happen.'
'All the Flagstaff Life investors are going to receive huge windfall payments. The biggest ever, apparently.'
'Gosh,' I say, trying to sound interested. I reach for a copy of Good Housekeeping, flick it open and begin to read my horoscope.
But something's niggling at my mind. Flagstaff Life. Why does that sound familiar? Who was I talking to about…
'Martin and Janice next door!' I exclaim suddenly. 'They're with Flagstaff Life! Have been for fifteen years.'
'Then they'll do very well,' says Dad. 'The longer you've been with them, the more you get, apparently.'
He turns the page with a rustle, and I sit down at the table with my cup of tea and Good Housekeeping open at an article on making Easter cakes. It's not fair, I find myself thinking resentfully. Why can't I get a windfall payment? Why doesn't Endwich Bank get taken over? Then they could pay me a windfall big enough to wipe out my overdraft. And preferably sack Derek Smeath at the same time.
'Any plans for the day?' says Dad, looking up.
'Not really,' I say, and take a sip of tea.
Any plans for the rest of my life? Not really.
In the end, I spend a pleasant, unchallenging morning helping Mum sort out a pile of clothes for a jumble sale, and at 12.30 we go into the kitchen to make a sandwich. As I look at the clock, the fact that I was supposed to be at Endwich Bank three hours ago flickers through my mind – but very far off, like a distant sound. My whole London life seems remote and unreal now. This is where I belong. Away from the madding crowd; at home with Mum and Dad, having a relaxed uncomplicated time.
After lunch I wander out into the garden with one of Mum's mail-order catalogues, and go and sit on the bench by the apple tree. A moment later, I hear a voice from over the garden fence, and look up. It's Martin from next door. Hmm. I'm not feeling very well disposed towards Martin at the moment.
'Hello, Becky,' he says softly, 'Are you all right?'
'I'm fine thanks,' I say shortly And I don't fancy your son, I feel like adding. But then, they'd probably think I was in denial, wouldn't they?
'Becky,' says Janice, appearing beside Martin, holding a garden trowel. She gives me an awe-stricken look. 'We heard about your… stalker,' she whispers.
'It's criminal,' says Martin fiercely. 'These people should be locked up.'
'If there's anything we can do,' says Janice. 'Anything at all. You just let us know.'
'I'm fine, really,' I say, softening slightly towards them. 'I just want to stay here for a while. Get away from it all.'
'Of course you do,' says Martin. 'Wise girl.'
'I was saying to Martin this morning,' says Janice, 'you should hire a bodyguard.'
'Can't be too careful,' says Martin. 'Not these days.'
'The price of fame,' says Janice, sorrowfully shaking her head. 'The price of fame.'
'Well anyway,' I say, trying to get off the subject of my stalker. 'How are you?'
'Oh we're both well,' says Martin. 'I suppose.' To my surprise there's a slightly forced cheerfulness to his voice. There's a pause, and he glances at Janice, who frowns, and shakes her head slightly.
'Anyway, you must be pleased with the news,' I say brightly. 'About Flagstaff Life.'
There's silence.
'Well,' says Martin. 'We would have been.'
'No-one could have known,' says Janice, giving a little shrug. 'It's just one of those things. Just the luck of the draw.'
'What is?' I say puzzledly. 'I thought you were getting some huge great windfall.'
'It appears…' Martin rubs his face. 'It appears not in our case.'
'But… but why?'
'Martin phoned them up this morning,' says Janice. 'To see how much we would be getting. They were saying in the papers that long-term investors would be getting thousands. But…' She glances at Martin.
'But what?' I say, feeling a twinge of alarm.
'Apparently we're no longer eligible,' says Martin awkwardly. 'Since we switched our investment. Our old fund would have qualified, but…' He coughs. 'I mean, we will get something – but it'll only be about ?100.'
I stare at him blankly. 'But you only switched…'
'Two weeks ago,' he says. 'That's the irony. If we'd just held on a little bit longer… Still, what's done is done. No point whingeing about it.' He gives a resigned shrug, and smiles at Janice, who smiles back.
And I look away and bite my lip.
