Because a nasty cold feeling is creeping over me.
They took the decision to switch their money based on my advice, didn't they? They asked me if they should switch funds, and I said go ahead. But now I come to think of it… hadn't I already heard a rumour about this takeover? Oh God. Did I already know? Could I have stopped this?
'We could never have known these windfalls would happen,' says Janice, and puts her hand comfortingly on his arm. 'They keep these things secret right up until the last minute, don't they, Becky?'
My throat's too tight to answer. I can remember exactly now. It was Alicia who first mentioned the takeover. The day before I came down here. And then Philip said something about it in the office. Something about with-profits holders doing well. Except… I wasn't really listening. I think I was doing my nails at the time.
'Twenty thousand pounds, they reckon we would have got if we'd stayed,' says Martin gloomily. 'Makes you sick to think about it. Still, Janice is right. We couldn't have known. Nobody knew.'
Oh God. This is all my fault. It's all my fault. If I'd just used my brain and thought for once in my life…
'Oh Becky, don't look so upset!' says Janice. 'This isn't your fault! You didn't know! Nobody knew! None of us could have-'
'I knew,' I hear myself saying miserably.
There's a flabbergasted silence.
'What?' says Janice faintly.
'I didn't know, exactly,' I say, staring at the ground. 'But I heard a sort of rumour about it a while ago. I should have said something when you asked me. I should have warned you to wait. But I just… didn't think. I didn't remember.' I force myself to look up and meet Martin's astonished gaze. 'I… I'm really sorry. It's all my fault.'
There's silence, during which Janice and Martin glance at each other and I hunch my shoulders, loathing myself. Inside, I can hear the phone ringing, and footsteps as someone goes to answer it.
'I see,' says Martin eventually. 'Well… not to worry. These things happen.'
'Don't blame yourself, Becky,' says Janice kindly. 'It was our decision to switch funds, not yours.'
'And remember, you've been under a lot of pressure yourself recently,' adds Martin, putting a sympathetic hand on my arm. 'What with this dreadful stalking business.'
Now I really think I'm going to cry. I don't deserve these people's kindness. I've just lost them ?20,000, through being too bloody lazy to keep up with events I'm supposed to know about. I'm a financial journalist, for God's sake.
And suddenly, standing there in my parents' garden, I'm plunged to the lowest ebb of my life. What have I got going for me? Nothing. Not one thing. I can't control my money, I can't do my job and I haven't got a boyfriend. I've hurt my best friend, I've lied to my parents – and now I've mined my neighbours. I should just give up and go to a Buddhist monastery or something.
'Becky?'
My father's voice interrupts us all, and I look up in surprise. He's striding across the lawn towards us, a perturbed look on his face.
'Becky, don't be alarmed,' he says, 'but I've just had that Derek Smeath chap on the phone.'
'What?' I say, feeling my face drain in horror.
'The stalker?' exclaims Janice, and Dad gives a sober nod.
'Quite an unpleasant fellow, I would say. He was really quite aggressive towards me.'
'But how does he know Becky's here?' says Janice.
'Obviously just taking pot luck,' says Dad. 'I was very civil, simply told him you weren't here and that I had no idea where you were.'
'And… and what did he say?' I say in a strangled voice.
'Came out with some nonsense about a meeting you'd set up with him.' Dad shakes his head. 'The chap's obviously deluded.'
'You should change your number,' advises Martin. 'Go ex-directory.'
'But where was he phoning from?' says Janice, her voice rising in alarm. 'He could be anywhere!' She starts looking agitatedly around the garden as though expecting him to jump out from behind a bush.
'Exactly,' says Dad. 'So, Becky, I think maybe you should come inside now. You never know with these characters.'
'OK,' I say numbly. I can't quite believe this is happening. I look at Dad's kind, concerned face and suddenly feel like crumpling into tears. Oh why didn't I tell him and Mum the truth? Why did I let myself get into this situation?
'You look quite shaken up, dear,' says Janice, and pats rne on the shoulder. 'You go and have a nice cup of tea.'
'Yes,' I say. 'Yes, I think I will.'
And Dad leads me off gently towards the house, as though I'm some kind of invalid.
This is all getting out of hand. Now, not only do I feel like an utter failure, I don't feel safe any more either. I don't feel cocooned and secure; I feel exposed and edgy. I sit on the sofa next to Mum, drinking tea and watching Countdown, and every time there's a sound outside, I jump with nerves.
What if Derek Smeath's on his way here? How long would it take him to drive here from London? An hour and a half? Two, if the traffic's bad?
He wouldn't do that. He's a busy man.
But he might.
Or send the bailiffs round. Oh God. Threatening men in leather jackets. My stomach is squeezed tight with fear. I'm beginning to feel as though I genuinely do have a stalker.
As the advert break begins, Mum reaches for a catalogue full of gardening things. 'Look at this lovely birdbath,' she says. 'I'm going to get one for the garden.'
'Great,' I mutter, unable to concentrate.
'They've got some super windowboxes, too,' she says. 'You could do with some nice windowboxes in your flat.'
'Yes,' I say. 'Maybe.'
'Shall I put you down for a couple? They're not expensive.'
'No, it's OK.'
'You can pay by cheque, or VISA…' she says, flipping over the page.
'No, really, Mum,' I say, my voice sharpening slightly.
'You could just phone up with your VISA card, and have them delivered-'
'Mum, stop it!' I cry. 'I don't want them, OK?'
Mum gives me a surprised, slightly reproving look, and turns to the next page of her catalogue. And I gaze back at her, full of a choking panic. My VISA card doesn't work. My Switch card doesn't work. Nothing works. And she has no idea.
Don't think about it. Don't think about it. I grab for an ancient copy of the Radio Times on the coffee table, and begin to leaf through it blindly.
'It's a shame about poor Martin and Janice, isn't it?' says Mum, looking up. 'Fancy switching funds two weeks before the takeover! Such bad luck!'
'I know,' I mumble, staring down at a page of listings.
I don't want to be reminded about Martin and Janice.
'It seems a terrible coincidence,' says Mum, shaking her head. 'That the company should launch this new fund just before the takeover. You know, there must be a lot of people who did exactly what Martin and Janice did, who have lost out. Dreadful, really.' She looks at the television. 'Oh look, it's starting again.'
The cheery Countdown music begins to play, and a round of applause rattles noisily from the television. But I'm not listening to it, or even paying any attention to the vowels and consonants. I'm thinking about what Mum has just said. A terrible coincidence – but it wasn't exactly a coincidence, was it? The bank actually wrote to Janice and Martin, suggesting that they switch funds. They even offered an incentive, didn't they? A carriage clock.
Why did they do that?
Suddenly I feel alert. I want to see the letter from Flagstaff Life – and find out exactly how long before the takeover they sent it.
''ENDING',' says Mum, staring at the screen. 'That's six. Ooh, there's an S. Can you have
