“Good weekend, Rebecca?” says Philip.
“Fine, thanks,” I say, glancing up from the brochure as though surprised to be interrupted while I’m at work.
“I was round your neck of the woods on Saturday,” he says. “The Fulham Road. Trendy Fulham.”
“Right,” I say absently.
“It’s the place to be, these days, isn’t it? My wife was reading an article about it. Full of It-girls, all living on trust funds.”
“I suppose so,” I say vaguely.
“That’s what we’ll have to call you,” he says, and gives a little guffaw. “The office It-girl.”
“Right,” I say, and smile at him. After all, he’s the boss. He can call me whatever he—
Hang on a minute. Philip hasn’t got the idea that I’m rich, has he? He doesn’t think I’ve got a trust fund or something ridiculous, does he?
“Rebecca,” says Clare, looking up from her telephone. “I’ve got a call for you. Someone called Tarquin.”
Philip gives a little grin, as though to say “What else?” and ambles off to his desk. I stare after him in frustration. This is all wrong. If Philip thinks I’ve got some kind of private income, he’ll never give me a raise.
But what on earth could have given him that idea?
“Becky,” says Clare meaningfully, gesturing to my ringing phone.
“Oh,” I say. “Yes, OK.” I pick up the receiver, and say, “Hi. Rebecca Bloomwood here.”
“Becky” comes Tarquin’s unmistakable, reedy voice. He sounds rather nervous, as if he’s been gearing up to this phone call for ages. Perhaps he has. “It’s so nice to hear your voice. You know, I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”
“Really?” I say, trying not to sound too encouraging. I mean, he is Suze’s cousin and I don’t want to hurt the poor bloke.
“I’d. . I’d very much like to spend some more time in your company,” he says. “May I take you out to dinner?”
Oh God. What am I supposed to say to that? It’s such an innocuous request. I mean, it’s not as if he’s said, Can I sleep with you? or even Can I kiss you? If I say no to dinner, it’s like saying “You’re so unbearable, I can’t even stand sharing a table with you for two hours.”
And Suze has been so sweet to me recently, and if I turn her darling Tarkie down flat, she’ll be really upset.
“I suppose so,” I say, aware that I don’t sound too thrilled — and also aware that maybe I should just come clean and say “I don’t fancy you.” But somehow I can’t face it. To be honest, it would be a lot easier just to go out to dinner with him. I mean, how bad can it be?
And anyway, I don’t have to actually go. I’ll call at the last moment and cancel. Easy.
“I’m in London until Sunday,” says Tarquin.
“Let’s make it Saturday night, then!” I say brightly. “Just before you leave.”
“Seven o’clock?”
“How about eight?” I suggest.
“OK,” he says. “Eight o’clock.” And he rings off, without mentioning a venue. But since I’m not actually going to meet him, this doesn’t really matter. I put the phone down, give an impatient sigh, and start typing again.
“Although solid investment performance is important, flexibility is equally vital when choosing a pension plan, particularly for the younger investor. New on the market this year is the. .” I break off and reach for a brochure. “Sun Assurance ‘Later Years’ Retirement Plan, which. .”
“So, was that guy asking you out?” says Clare Edwards.
“Yes, he was, actually,” I say, looking up carelessly. And in spite of myself, I feel a little flip of pleasure. Because Clare doesn’t know what Tarquin’s like, does she? For all she knows, he’s incredibly good-looking and witty. “We’re going out on Saturday night.” I give her a nonchalant smile and start typing again.
“Oh right,” she says, and snaps an elastic band round a pile of letters. “You know, Luke Brandon was asking me if you had a boyfriend the other day.”
For an instant I can’t move. Luke Brandon wants to know if I’ve got a boyfriend?
“Really?” I say, trying to sound normal. “When. . when was this?”
“Oh, just the other day,” she says. “I was at a briefing at Brandon Communications, and he asked me. Just casually. You know.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said no,” said Clare, and gives me a little grin. “You don’t fancy him, do you?”
“Of course not,” I say, and roll my eyes.
But I have to admit, I feel quite cheerful as I turn back to my computer and start typing again. Luke Brandon. I mean, not that I like him or anything — but still. “This plan,” I type, “offers full death benefits and an optional lump sum on retirement. For example, assuming 7 percent growth, a typical woman aged 30 who invested £100 a month would receive. .”
You know what? I suddenly think, stopping midsentence. This is boring. I’m better than this.
I’m better than sitting here in this crappy office, typing out the details from a brochure, trying to turn them into some kind of credible journalism. I deserve to do something more interesting than this. Or more well paid. Or both.
I stop typing and rest my chin on my hands. It’s time for a new start. Why don’t I do what Elly’s doing? I’m not afraid of a bit of hard work, am I? Why don’t I get my life in order, go to a City head-hunter, and land myself a new job? I’ll have a huge income and a company car and wear Karen Millen suits every day. And I’ll never have to worry about money again.