'ENDINGS'?'
'I'm just… popping next door,' I say, getting to my feet. 'I won't be a minute.'
As Martin opens the front door, I see that he and Janice have also been sitting in front of the telly, watching Countdown.
'Hi,' I say sheepishly. 'I was just wondering – could we have a quick chat?'
'Of course!' says Martin. 'Come on in! Would you like a sherry?'
'Oh,' I say, a little taken aback. I mean, not that I'm against drinking, obviously – but it isn't even five o'clock yet. 'Well – OK then.'
'Never too early for a sherry!' says Martin.
'I'll have another one, thanks, Martin,' comes Janice's' voice from the sitting room.
Blow me down. They're a pair of alcoholics!
Oh God, perhaps this is my fault too. Perhaps their financial mishap has driven them to seek solace in alcohol and daytime television.
'I was just wondering,' I say nervously as Martin pours dark brown sherry into a schooner. 'Just out of interest, could I have a look at that letter you got from Flagstaff Life, asking you to switch funds? I was wondering when they sent it.'
'It arrived the very day we saw you,' says Martin. 'Why do you want to see it?' He raises his glass. 'Your good health.'
'Cheers,' I say, and take a sip. 'I'm just wondering-'
'Come into the living room,' he interrupts, and ushers me through from the hall. 'Here you are, my love,' he adds, and gives Janice her sherry. 'Bottoms up!'
'Sssh,' she replies. 'It's the numbers game! I need to concentrate.'
'I thought I might do a little investigation into this,' I whisper to Martin as the Countdown clock ticks round. 'I feel so bad about it.'
'Fifty times 4 is 200,' says Janice suddenly. 'Six minus 3 is 3, times 7 is 21 and add it on.'
'Well done, love!' says Martin, and roots about in a carved oak sideboard. 'Here's the letter,' he says. 'So do you want to write an article or something?'
'Possibly,' I say. 'You wouldn't mind, would yau?
'Mind?' He gives a little shrug. 'No, I wouldn't think so.'
'Sssh!' says Janice. 'It's the Countdown Conundrum.'
'Right,' I whisper. 'Well I'll just… I'll just take this, shall I?'
'Explicate!' yells Janice. 'No, Exploited!'
'And… thanks for the sherry.' I take a huge gulp, shuddering slightly at its sticky sweetness, then put my glass down and tiptoe out of the room.
Half an hour later, sitting in my bedroom, I've read the letter from Flagstaff Life several times and I'm sure there's something fishy about it. How many investors must have switched funds after receiving this crappy carriage clock offer – and missed out on their windfall?
More to the point, how much money must Flagstaff Life have saved? Suddenly I really want to know. And more than that, I really want to write about it. For the first time in my life, I'm actually interested in a financial story.
And I don't just want to write it up for crappy Successful Saving, either.
Eric Foreman's card is still in my purse, with his direct telephone number printed at the top, and I take it out. I stare at it for a moment, then go to the phone and quickly punch in the number before I can change my mind.
'Eric Foreman, Daily World,' comes his voice, booming down the line.
Oh God. Am I really doing this?
'Hi,' I say nervously. 'I don't know if you remember me. Rebecca Bloomwood from Successful Saving. We met at the Sacrum Asset Management press conference. '
'That's right, so we did,' he says cheerfully. 'How are you, my love?'
'I'm fine,' I say, and clench my hand tightly around the receiver. 'Absolutely fine. Ahm… I was just wondering, are you still running your series on 'Can we Trust the Money Men?''
'We are, as it goes,' says Eric Foreman. 'Why?'
'It's just…' I swallow. 'It's just, I think I've got a story that might interest you.'
Seventeen
I have never before worked so hard on an article. Never.
Mind you, I've never before been asked to write one so quickly. At Successful Saving, we get a whole month to write our article – and we complain about that. When Eric Foreman said, 'Can you do it by tomorrow?' I thought he was joking at first. I jauntily replied, 'Of course!' and nearly added, 'In fact, I'll have it with you in five minutes' time!' Then, just in time, I realized he was serious. Crikey.
So I'm round at Martin and Janice's first thing the next morning with a Dictaphone, writing down exactly all the information their investment and trying to get in lots of heart-wrenching details, as advised by Eric.
'We need human interest,' he told me over the phone. 'None of your dull financial reporting here. Make us feel sorry for them. Make us weep. A hardworking, ordinary couple, who thought they could rely on a few savings to see them through their old age. Ripped off by the fat cats. What kind of house do these people live in?'
'Ahmm… a four-bedroomed detached house in Surrey.'
'Well, for Christ's sake don't put that in!' he boomed. 'I want honest, poor and proud. Never demanded a penny off the state, saved to provide for themselves. Trusted a respectable financial institution. And all it did was kick them in the face.' He paused, and it sounded as if he might be picking his teeth. 'That kind of thing. Think you can manage it?'
'I… ahm… yes! Of course!' I stuttered.
Oh God, I thought as I put down the phone. Oh God, what have I got myself into?
But it's too late to change my mind now. So the next thing is to persuade Janice and Martin that they don't mind appearing in the Daily World. The trouble is, it's not exactly the Financial Times, is it? Or even the normal Times. (Still, as I remind them, it could be a lot worse. It could be the Sun – and they'd end up sandwiched between a topless model and a blurred paparazzi shot of Posh Spice.)
Luckily, however, they're so bowled over that I'm making all this effort on their behalf, they don't seem to care which newspaper I'm writing for. And when they hear that a photographer's coming over at midday to take their picture, you'd think the Queen was coming to visit.
'My hair!' says Janice in dismay, staring into the mirror. 'Have I time to get Maureen in to give me a blow- dry?'
'Not really. And it looks lovely,' I say reassuringly. 'Anyway, they want you as natural as possible. Just… honest, ordinary people.' I glance around the living room, trying to pick up poignant details to put into my article.
An anniversary card from their son stands proudly on the well-polished mantelpiece. But this year there will be no celebration for Martin and Janice Webster.
'I must phone Phyllis!' says Janice. 'She won't believe it!'
'You weren't ever a soldier, or anything?' I say thoughtfully to Martin. 'Or a… a fireman? Anything like that. Before you became a travel agent.
'Not really, love,' says Martin, wrinkling his brow. 'Just the Cadets at school.'
'Oh, right,' I say, brightening. 'That might do.'
Martin Webster fingers the cadet badge he was so proud to wear as a youth. His life has been one of hard work and service for others. Now, in his retirement years, he should be enjoying the rewards he deserves. But the fat cats have conned him out of his nest egg. The Daily World asks…
'I've photocopied all the documents for you,' says Martin. 'All the paperwork. I don't know if it'll be any use…
