Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (23 page)

The trouble is, I can’t see anyone I recognize. It’s all just groups of bank-type people laughing loudly together and talking about golf. They all seem really tall and broad-shouldered, and I can’t even catch anyone’s eye. God, this is embarrassing. I feel like a six-year-old at a grown-up’s party. In the corner I spot Moira Channing from the
Daily Herald
, and she gives me a half flicker of recognition—but I’m certainly not going to talk to her. OK, just keep walking, I tell myself. Pretend you’re on your way somewhere. Don’t panic.

Then I see Luke Brandon on the other side of the tent. His head jerks up as he sees me, and and he starts heading toward me. Oh God, quick. Quick. I’ve
got
to find somebody to talk to.

Right, how about this couple standing together? The guy’s middle-aged, the woman’s quite a lot younger, and they don’t look as if they know too many people, either. Thank God. Whoever they are, I’ll just ask them how they’re enjoying the Personal Finance Fair and whether they’re finding it useful, and pretend I’m making notes for my article. And when Luke Brandon arrives, I’ll be too engrossed in conversation even to notice him. OK, go.

I take a gulp of champagne, approach the man, and smile brightly.

“Hi there,” I say. “Rebecca Bloomwood,
Successful Saving.”

“Hello,” he says, turning toward me and extending his hand. “Derek Smeath from Endwich Bank. And this is my assistant, Erica.”

Oh my God.

I can’t speak. I can’t shake his hand. I can’t run. My whole body’s paralyzed.

“Hi!” says Erica, giving me a friendly smile. “I’m Erica Parnell.”

“Yes,” I say, after a huge pause. “Yes, hi.”

Please don’t recognize my name. Please don’t recognize my voice
.

“Are you a journalist, then?” she says, looking at my name badge and frowning. “Your name seems quite familiar.”

“Yes,” I manage. “Yes, you … you might have read some of my articles.”

“I expect I have,” she says, and takes an unconcerned sip of champagne. “We get all the financial mags in the office. Quite good, some of them.”

Slowly the circulation is returning to my body. It’s going to be OK, I tell myself. They don’t have a clue.

“You journalists have to be expert on everything, I suppose,” says Derek, who has given up trying to shake my hand and is swigging his champagne instead.

“Yes, we do really,” I reply, and risk a smile. “We get to know all areas of personal finance—from banking to unit trusts to life insurance.”

“And how do you acquire all this knowledge?”

“Oh, we just pick it up along the way,” I say smoothly.

You know what? This is quite fun, actually, now that I’ve relaxed. And Derek Smeath isn’t at all scary in the flesh. In fact, he’s rather cozy and friendly, like some nice sitcom uncle.

“I’ve often thought,” says Erica Parnell, “that they should do a fly-on-the-wall documentary about a bank.” She gives me an expectant look and I nod vigorously.

“Good idea!” I say. “I think that would be fascinating.”

“You should
see
some of the characters we get in! People who have absolutely no idea about their finances. Don’t we, Derek?”

“You’d be amazed,” says Derek. “Utterly amazed. The lengths people go to, just to avoid paying off their overdrafts! Or even talking to us!”

“Really?” I say, as though astonished.

“You wouldn’t believe it!” says Erica. “I sometimes wonder—”

“Rebecca!” A voice booms behind me and I turn round in shock to see Philip, clutching a glass of champagne and grinning at me. What’s
he
doing here?

“Hi,” he says. “Marketing canceled the meeting, so I thought I’d pop along after all. How’s it all going?”

“Oh, great!” I say, and take a gulp of champagne. “This is Derek, and Erica … this is my editor, Philip Page.”

“Endwich Bank, eh?” says Philip, looking at Derek Smeath’s name badge. “You must know Martin Gollinger, then.”

“We’re not head office, I’m afraid,” says Derek, giving a little laugh. “I’m the manager of our Fulham branch.”

“Fulham!” says Philip. “Trendy Fulham.”

And suddenly a warning bell goes off in my head. Dong-dong-dong! I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to say something; change the subject. But it’s too late. I’m the spectator on the mountain, watching the trains collide in the valley below.

“Rebecca lives in Fulham,” Philip’s saying. “Who do you bank with, Rebecca? You’re probably one of Derek’s customers!” He laughs loudly at his own joke, and Derek laughs politely, too.

But I can’t laugh. I’m frozen to the spot, watching Erica Parnell’s face as it changes. As realization slowly dawns. She meets my eye, and I feel something icy drip down my spine.

“Rebecca Bloomwood,” she says, in quite a different voice. “I
thought
I knew that name. Do you live in Burney Road, Rebecca?”

“That’s clever!” says Philip. “How did you know that?” And he takes another swig of champagne.

Shut up, Philip, I think frantically. Shut up.

“So you do?” Her voice is sweet but sharp. Oh God, now Philip’s looking at me, waiting for me to answer.

“Yes,” I say in a strangled voice. I’m gripping my champagne glass so hard, I think I might break it.

“Derek, have you realized who this is?” says Erica pleasantly. “This is Rebecca Bloomwood, one of our customers. I think you spoke to her the other day. Remember?” Her voice hardens. “The one with the dead dog?”

There’s silence. I don’t dare look at Derek Smeath’s face. I don’t dare look at anything except the floor.

“Well, there’s a coincidence!” says Philip. “More champagne, anyone?”

“Rebecca Bloomwood,” says Derek Smeath. He sounds quite faint. “I don’t believe it.”

“Yes!” I say, desperately slugging back the last of my champagne. “Ha-ha-ha! It’s a small world. Well, I must be off and interview some more …”

“Wait!” says Erica, her voice like a dagger. “We were hoping to have a little meeting with you, Rebecca. Weren’t we, Derek?”

“Indeed we were,” says Derek Smeath. I feel a sudden trickle of fear. This man isn’t like a cozy sitcom uncle anymore. He’s like a scary exam monitor, who’s just caught you cheating. “That is,” he adds pointedly, “assuming your legs are both intact and you aren’t suffering from any dreaded lurgey?”

“What’s this?” says Philip cheerfully.

“How
is
the leg, by the way?” says Erica sweetly.

“Fine,” I mumble. “Fine, thanks.”

“Good,” says Derek Smeath. “So we’ll say Monday at nine-thirty, shall we?” He looks at Philip. “You don’t mind if Rebecca joins us for a quick meeting on Monday morning, do you?”

“Of course not!” says Philip.

“And if she doesn’t turn up,” says Derek Smeath, “we’ll know where to find her, won’t we?” He gives me a sharp look, and I feel my stomach contract in fright.

“Rebecca’ll turn up!” says Philip. He gives me a jokey grin, lifts his glass, and wanders off. Oh God, I think in panic. Don’t leave me alone with them.

“Well, I’ll look forward to seeing you,” says Derek Smeath. He pauses, and gives me a beady look. “And if I remember rightly from our telephone conversation the other day, you’ll be coming into some funds by then.”

Oh shit. I thought he’d have forgotten about that.

“That’s right,” I say after a pause. “Absolutely. My aunt’s money. Well remembered! My aunt left me some money recently,” I explain to Erica Parnell.

Erica Parnell doesn’t look impressed.

“Good,” says Derek Smeath. “Then I’ll expect you on Monday.”

“Fine,” I say, and smile even more confidently at him. “Looking forward to it already!”

T
HIS IS BAD
. I mean, I’m not just being paranoid, am I? This is really bad.

As I sit on the tube on my way home, I stare at my reflection—outwardly calm and relaxed. But inside, my mind’s scurrying around like a spider, trying to find a way out. Round and round and round, legs flailing, no escape … OK, stop. Stop! Calm down and let’s go through the options one more time.

Option One
: Go to meeting and tell the truth.

I just can’t. I
can’t
go along on Monday morning and admit that there isn’t £1,000 from my aunt and there never will be. What will they do to me? They’ll get all serious, won’t they? They’ll sit me down and start going through all my expenditures and … Oh God, I feel sick at the thought of it. I can’t do it. I can’t go. End of story.

Option Two
: Go to meeting and lie.

So, what, tell them the £1,000 is absolutely on its way, and that further funds will be coming through soon. Hmm. Possible. The trouble is, I don’t think they’ll believe me. So they’ll still get all serious, sit me down, give me a lecture. No way.

Option Three
: Don’t go to meeting.

But if I don’t, Derek Smeath will phone Philip and they’ll start talking. Maybe the whole story will come out, and he’ll find out I didn’t actually break my leg. Or have glandular fever. And after that I won’t ever be able to go back into the office. I’ll be unemployed. My life will be over at the age of twenty-five.

Option Four
: Go to meeting with check for £1,000.

Perfect. Waltz in, hand over the check, say “Will there be anything else?” and waltz out again.

But how do I get £1,000 before Monday morning?
How?

Option Five
: Run away.

Which would be very childish and immature. Not worth considering.

I wonder where I could go? Maybe abroad somewhere. Las Vegas. Yes, and I could win a fortune at the casinos. A million pounds or something. Even more, perhaps. And then, yes, then I’d fax Derek Smeath, saying I’m closing my bank account due to his lack of faith in me.

God yes! Wouldn’t that be great? “Dear Mr. Smeath, I was a little surprised at your recent implication that I have insufficient funds to cover my overdraft. As this check for £1.2 million shows, I have ample funds at my disposal, which I will shortly be moving to one of your competitors. Perhaps they will treat me with more respect.
P.S.,
I am copying this letter to your superiors.”

I love this idea so much, I lean back and wallow in it for a while, amending the letter over and over in my head. “Dear Mr. Smeath, as I tried to inform you discreetly at our last encounter, I am in fact a millionairess. If only you had trusted me, things might have been different.”

God, he’ll be sorry, won’t he? He’ll probably phone up and apologize. Try and keep my business and say he hadn’t meant to offend me. But it’ll be too late. Hah! Ha-ha-ha-ha …

Oh blast. Missed my stop.

When I get home, Suze is sitting on the floor, surrounded by magazines.

“Hi!” she says brightly. “Guess what? I’m going to be in
Vogue!”

“What?” I say disbelievingly. “Were you spotted on the streets or something?” Suze has got an excellent figure. She could easily be a model. But still …
Vogue!