I lie in bed, telling myself to be grown-up and laid back and not think about it – but I just can't resist it. My mind is swimming with images of all the piles of newspapers in all the newsagents, all over the country. Of all the copies of the Daily World being dropped on people's doormats this morning; all the people who are going to be opening their papers, yawning, wondering what's in the news.
And what are they going to see?
They're going to see my name! Rebecca Bloomwood in print in the Daily World! My first national by-line. 'By Rebecca Bloomwood.' Doesn't that sound cool? 'By Rebecca Bloomood.'
I know the piece has gone in, because Eric Foreman phoned me up yesterday afternoon and told me the editor was really pleased with it. And they've got it on a colour page – so the picture of Janice and Martin will be in full colour. Really high profile. I can't quite believe it. The Daily World!
Even as I'm lying here, it occurs to me, there's already a whole pile of Daily Worlds at the newsagent in the parade of shops round the corner. A whole pile of pristine, unopened copies. And the newsagent opens at… what time? Six, I seem to remember. And now it's five past six. So in theory, I could go and buy one right now if I wanted to. I could just get up, slip on some clothes, go down to the newsagent and buy one.
Not that I would, of course. I'm not quite so sad and desperate that I'm going to rush down as soon as the shop's opened, just to see my name. I mean, what do you take me for? No, what I'll do is just saunter down casually later on – perhaps at eleven or midday – pick up the paper and flip through it in mild interest and then saunter home again. I probably won't even bother to buy a copy. I mean – I've seen my name in print before, haven't I? It's hardly a big deal. No need to make a song and dance about it.
I'm going to turn over now and go back to sleep. I can't think why I'm awake so early. Must be the birds or something. Hmm… close my eyes, plump up my pillow, think about something else… I wonder what I'll have for breakfast when I get up?
But I've never seen my name in the Daily World, have I? says a little voice in my head. I've never seen it in a national newspaper.
Oh God, this is killing me. I can't wait any longer, I've got to see it.
Abruptly I get out of bed, throw on my clothes and tiptoe down the stairs. As I close the door, I feel just like the girl in that Beatles song about leaving home. Outside the air is flesh and crisp, and the road is completely quiet. Gosh, it's nice being up early. Why on earth don't I get up at six more often? I should do this every day. A power walk before breakfast, like people do in New York. Burn off loads of calories and then return home to an energizing breakfast of oats and freshly squeezed orange juice… Perfect. This will be my new regime.
But as I reach the little parade of shops, my heart begins to thump, and without quite meaning to, I slow my walk to a funereal pace. Now that I'm here, I'm starting to feel a bit nervous. I'm not actually sure I want to see my name in print at all. Maybe I'll just buy myself a Mars Bar and go home again. Or a Mint Aero, if they've got them.
Cautiously, I push at the door and wince at the 'ping!' as it opens. I really don't want to draw attention to myself this morning. What if the guy behind the counter has read my article and thinks it's rubbish? Oh God, this is nerve-racking. I should never have become a journalist. I should have become a beautician, like I always wanted to. Maybe it's not too late. I'll retrain, open my own boutique…
'Hello, Becky!'
I look up and feel my face jerk in surprise. Martin Webster's standing at the counter, holding a copy of the Daily World. 'I just happened to be awake,' he explains sheepishly. 'Thought I'd just come down, have a little look…'
'Oh,' I say. 'Erm… me too.' I give a nonchalant shrug. 'Since I was awake anyway…'
My eye falls on the newspaper and I feel my stomach flip over. Oh God. I'm going to expire with nerves.
Please, just kill me quickly.
'So – what… what's it like?' I say in a strangled voice.
'Well,' says Martin, gazing at the page as though perplexed. 'It's certainly big.' He turns the paper round to face me, and I nearly keel over. There, in full colour, is a picture of Martin and Janice staring miserably up at the camera, below the headline COUPLE CHEATED BY FAT CATS AT FLAGSTAFF LIFE.
Shaking slightly, I take the paper from Martin. My eye skips across the page to the first column of text… and there it is! 'By Rebecca Bloomwood.' That's my name! That's me!
There's a ping at the door of the shop, and we both look round. And there, to my utter astonishment, is Dad.
'Oh,' he says, and gives an embarrassed little cough. 'Your mother wanted me to buy a copy. And since I was awake anyway…'
'So was I,' says Martin quickly.
'Yes, so was I,' I say.
'Well,' says Dad. 'So – is it in?'
'Oh yes,' I say, 'it's in.' I turn the paper round so he can see it.
'Gosh,' he says. 'It's big, isn't it?'
'The photo's good, don't you think?' says Martin enthusiastically. 'Brings out the flowers in our curtains beautifully.'
'Yes, the photo's great,' I agree.
I'm not going to demean myself by asking what he thought of the article itself. If he wants to compliment my writing, he will. If he doesn't – then it really doesn't matter. The point is, I'm proud of it.
'And Janice looks very nice, I thought,' says Martin, still gazing at the photograph.
'Very nice,' agrees Dad. 'If a little mournful.'
'You see, these professionals, they know how to light a shot,' says Martin. 'The way the sunlight falls just here, on her-'
'What about my article?' I wail piteously. 'Did you like that?'
'Oh, it's very good!' says Martin. 'Sorry, Becky, I should have said I haven't read it all yet, but it seems to capture the situation exactly. Makes me out to be quite a hero!' He frowns. 'Although I never did fight in the Falklands, you know.'
'Oh well,' I say hurriedly. 'That's neither here nor there, really.'
'So you wrote all this yesterday?' says Dad. 'On my typewriter?' He seems astounded.
'Yes,' I say smugly. 'It looks good, doesn't it? Have you seen my by-line? 'By Rebecca Bloomwood'.'
'Janice'll be thrilled,' says Martin. 'I'm going to buy two copies.'
'I'm going to buy three,' says Dad 'Your granny will love to see this.'
'And I'll buy one,' I say. 'Or two, perhaps.' I carelessly reach for a handful and plonk them on the counter.
'Six copies?' says the assistant. 'Are you sure?'
'I need them for my records,' I say, and blush slightly.
When we get home, Mum and Janice are both waiting at our front door, desperate to see a copy.
'My hair!' wails Janice as soon as she sees the picture.
'It looks terrible! What have they done to it?'
'No it doesn't, love!' protests Martin. 'You look very nice.'
'Your curtains look lovely, Janice,' says Mum, looking over her shoulder.
'They do, don't they?' says Martin eagerly. 'That's just what I said.'
I give up. What kind of family have I got, that are more interested in curtains than top financial journalism?
Anyway, I don't care. I'm mesmerized by my byline. 'By Rebecca Bloomwood.' 'By Rebecca Bloom wood.'
After everyone's peered at the paper, Mum invites Janice and Martin round to ours for breakfast, and Dad goes and puts on some coffee. There's a rather festive air to the proceedings, and everyone keeps laughing a lot. I don't think any of us can quite believe that Janice and Martin are in the Daily World. (And me, of course. 'By Rebecca Bloomwood'.)
At ten o'clock, I slope off and ring up Eric Foreman. Just casually, you know. To let him know I've seen it. 'Looks good, doesn't it?' he says cheerfully. 'The editor's really going for this series, so if you come up with any
