'… And we introduce a new series of in-depth discussions,' chimes in Emma. The picture changes to one of pound coins raining onto the floor, and my stomach gives a nasty flip. 'Morning Coffee turns the spotlight on the issue of financial scandal, with two leading industry experts coming head-to-head in debate.'
Is that me? Oh God, I don't want to be a leading industry expert. I want to go home and have a nice cup of tea.
'But first!' says Rory cheerily. 'Scott Robertson's getting all fired up in the kitchen.'
The picture switches abruptly to a man in a chef's hat grinning and brandishing a blow-torch. I stare at him for a few moments, then look down again, clenching my hands tightly in my lap. I can't quite believe that soon it'll be me up on that screen. Sitting on the sofa. Trying to think of something intelligent to say.
To distract myself, I unscrew my crappy piece of A4 paper for the thousandth time and read through my paltry notes. Maybe it won't be so bad, I find myself thinking hopefully, as my eyes circle the same few sentences again and again. Maybe I'm worrying about nothing. We'll probably keep the whole thing at the level of a casual chat. Keep it simple and friendly. After all…
'Good morning, Rebecca,' comes a voice from the door. Slowly I look up – and as I do so, I feel my heart sink. Luke Brandon is standing in the doorway. He's wearing an immaculate dark suit, his hair is shining, and his face is bronze with makeup. And there isn't an ounce of friendliness in his face. His jaw is tight; his eyes are hard and businesslike. As they meet mine, they don't even flicker.
For a few moments we gaze at each other without speaking. I can hear my heart beating loudly in my ears; my face feels hot beneath all the makeup. Then, summoning all my inner resources, I force myself to say calmly,
'Hello, Luke.'
There's an interested silence as he walks into the room. Even Elisabeth Plover seems intrigued by him.
'I know that face,' she says, leaning forward. 'I know it. You're an actor, aren't you? Shakespearian, of course. I believe I saw you in Lear three years ago.'
'I don't think so,' says Luke shortly.
'You're right!' says Elisabeth, slapping the table. 'It was Hamlet. I remember it well. The desperate pain, the guilt, the final tragedy…' She shakes her head solemnly. 'I'll never forget that voice of yours. Every word was like a stab wound.'
'I'm sorry to hear it,' says Luke eventually, and looks at me. 'Rebecca-'
'Luke, here are the final figures,' interrupts Alicia, hurrying into the room and handing him a piece of paper. 'Hello, Rebecca,' she adds, giving me a snide look. 'All prepared?'
'Yes, I am, actually,' I say, crumpling my A4 paper into a ball in my lap. 'Very well prepared.'
'Glad to hear it,' says Alicia, raising her eyebrows. 'It should be an interesting debate.'
'Yes,' I say defiantly. 'Very.'
God she's a cow.
'I've just had John from Flagstaff on the phone,' adds Alicia to Luke in lowered voice. 'He was very keen that you should mention the new Foresight Savings Series. Obviously, I told him-'
'This is a damage limitation exercise,' says Luke curtly. 'Not a bloody plug-fest. He'll be bloody lucky if he…' He glances at me and I look away as though I'm not remotely interested in what he's talking about. Casually I glance at my watch and feel a leap of fright as I see the time. Ten minutes. Ten minutes to go.
'OK,' says Zelda, coming into the room. 'Elisabeth, we're ready for you.'
'Marvellous,' says Elisabeth, taking a last mouthful of pain au chocolat. 'Now, I do look all right, don't I?'
She stands up and a shower of crumbs falls off her skirt.
'You've got a piece of croissant in your hair,' says Zelda, reaching up and removing it. 'Other than that what can I say?' She catches my eye and I have a hysterical desire to giggle.
'Luke!' says the baby-faced guy, rushing in with a mobile phone. 'John Bateson on the line for you. And a couple of packages have arrived…'
'Thanks, Tim,' says Alicia, taking the packages and ripping them open. She pulls out a bunch of papers and begins scanning them quickly, marking things every so often in pencil. Meanwhile, Tim sits down, opens a laptop computer and starts typing.
'Yes, John, I do see your bloody point,' Luke's saying in a low, tight voice. 'But if you would listen to me for just one moment-'
'Tim,' says Alicia, looking up. 'Can you quickly check the return on the Flagstaff Premium Pension over the last three, five and ten?'
'Absolutely,' says Tim, and starts tapping at his computer.’
'Tim,' says Luke, looking up from the phone. 'Can you print out the Flagstaff Foresight draft press release for me ASAP? Thanks.'
I can't quite believe what I'm seeing. They've practically set up an office, here in the Morning Coffee green room. An entire office of Brandon Communications staff complete with computers and modems and phones… pitted against me and my crumpled piece of A4.
As I watch Tim's laptop efficiently spewing out pages, and Alicia handing sheets of paper to Luke, a cold feeling starts to creep over me. I mean, let's face it. I'll never beat this lot, will I? I haven't got a chance. I should just give up now. Tell them I'm ill or something. Run home and hide under my duvet.
'OK, everyone?' says Zelda, poking her head round the door. 'On in seven minutes.'
'Fine,' says Luke.
'Fine,' I echo in a wobbly voice.
'Oh, and Rebecca, there's a package for you,' says Zelda. She comes into the room and hands me a large, square box. 'I'll be back in a minute.'
'Thanks, Zelda,' I say in surprise and, with a sudden lift of spirits, begin to rip the box open. I've no idea what it is or who it's from – but it's got to be something helpful, hasn't it? Special last-minute information from Eric Foreman, maybe. A graph, or a series of figures that I can produce at the crucial moment. Or some secret document that Luke doesn't know about.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see that all the Brandonites have stopped what they're doing, and are watching, too. Well, that'll show them. They're not the only ones to get packages delivered to the green room. They're not the only ones to have resources. Finally I get the sticky tape undone and open the flaps of the box. And as everyone watches, a big red helium balloon, with GOOD LUCK emblazoned across it, floats up to the ceiling. There's a card attached to the string, and, without looking anyone in the eye, I rip it open. Immediately, I wish I hadn't.
'Good luck to you, good luck to you, whatever you're about to do,' sings a tinny electronic voice.
I slam the card shut and feel my cheeks flame red.
God, how embarrassing. From the other side of the room I can hear little sniggers, and I look up to see Alicia smirking. She whispers something into Luke's ear, and an amused expression spreads across his face. He's laughing at me. They're all laughing at Rebecca Bloomwood and her singing balloon. For a few moments I can't move for mortification. My face is hot; my throat feels tight; I've never felt less like a leading industry expert in my life.
Then, on the other side of the room, I hear Alicia murmur some malicious little comment and give a snort of laughter – and deep inside me, something snaps. Sod them, I think suddenly. Sod them all. They're probably only jealous, anyway. They wish they had balloons, too.
Defiantly, I open the card again to read the message.
'No matter if it rain or shine, we all know that you'll be fine,' sings the card's tinny voice at once. 'Hold your head up, keep it high – all that matters is you try.'
To Becky, I read. With love and thanks for all your wonderful help. We're so proud to know you. From your friends Janice and Martin.
I stare down at the card, reading the words over and over, and feel my eyes grow foolishly hot. Janice and Martin have been good friends over the years – even if their son is a bit of a prat. They've always been kind to me, even when I gave them such disastrous advice. I owe this to them. And I'm bloody well not going to let them down.
