“Rebecca,” she says coolly, grasping my hand. “You’re on Successful Saving, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” I say, equally coolly.
“It’s very good of you to come today,” says Alicia. “I know you journalists are terribly busy.”
“No problem,” I say. “We like to attend as many press conferences as we can. Keep up with industry events.” I feel pleased with my response. I’m almost fooling myself.
Alicia nods seriously, as though everything I say is incredibly important to her.
“So, tell me, Rebecca. What do you think about today’s news?” She gestures to the FT under my arm. “Quite a surprise, didn’t you think?”
Oh God. What’s she talking about?
“It’s certainly interesting,” I say, still smiling, playing for time. I glance around the room for a clue, but there’s nothing. What’s she talking about? Have interest rates gone up or something?
“I have to say, I think it’s bad news for the industry,” says Alicia earnestly. “But of course, you must have your own views.”
She’s looking at me, waiting for an answer. I can feel my cheeks flaming bright red. How can I get out of this? After this, I promise myself, I’m going to read the papers every day. I’m never going to be caught out like this again.
“I agree with you,” I say eventually. “I think it’s very bad news.” My voice feels strangled. I take a quick swig of champagne and pray for an earthquake.
“Were you expecting it?” Alicia says. “I know you journalists are always ahead of the game.”
“I. . I certainly saw it coming,” I say, and I’m pretty sure I sound convincing.
“And now this rumor about Scottish Prime and Flagstaff Life going the same way!” She looks at me intently. “Do you think that’s really on the cards?”
“It’s. . it’s difficult to say,” I reply, and take a gulp of champagne. What rumor? Why can’t she leave me alone?
Then I make the mistake of glancing up at Luke Brandon. He’s staring at me, his mouth twitching slightly. Oh shit. He knows I don’t have a clue, doesn’t he?
“Alicia,” he says abruptly, “that’s Maggie Stevens coming in. Could you—”
“Absolutely,” she says, trained like a racehorse, and starts to move smoothly toward the door.
“And Alicia—” adds Luke, and she quickly turns back. “I want to know exactly who fucked up on those figures.”
“Yes,” gulps Alicia, and walks off.
God he’s scary. And now we’re on our own. I think I might quickly run away.
“Well,” I say brightly. “I must just go and. .”
But Luke Brandon is leaning toward me.
“SBG announced that they’ve taken over Rutland Bank this morning,” he says quietly.
And of course, now that he says it, I remember that front-page headline.
“I know they did,” I reply haughtily. “I read it in the FT.” And before he can say anything else, I walk off, to talk to Elly.
As the press conference is about to start, Elly and I sidle toward the back and grab two seats together. We’re in one of the bigger conference rooms and there must be about a hundred chairs arranged in rows, facing a podium and a large screen. I open my notebook, write “Brandon Communications” at the top of the page, and start doodling swirly flowers down the side. Beside me, Elly’s dialing her telephone horoscope on her mobile phone.
I take a sip of champagne, lean back, and prepare to relax. There’s no point listening at press conferences. The information’s always in the press pack, and you can work out what they were talking about later. In fact, I’m wondering whether anyone would notice if I took out a pot of Hard Candy and did my nails, when suddenly the awful Alicia ducks her head down to mine.
“Rebecca?”
“Yes?” I say lazily.
“Phone call for you. It’s your editor.”
“Philip?” I say stupidly. As though I’ve a whole array of editors to choose from.
“Yes.” She looks at me as though I’m a moron and gestures to a phone on a table at the back. Elly gives me a questioning look and I shrug back. Philip’s never phoned me at a press conference before.
I feel rather excited and important as I walk to the back of the room. Perhaps there’s an emergency at the office. Perhaps he’s scooped an incredible story and wants me to fly to New York to follow up a lead.
“Hello, Philip?” I say into the receiver — then immediately I wish I’d said something thrusting and impressive, like a simple “Yep.”
“Rebecca, listen, sorry to be a bore,” says Philip, “but I’ve got a migraine coming on. I’m going to head off home.”
“Oh,” I say puzzledly.
“And I wondered if you could run a small errand for me.”
An errand? If he wants somebody to buy him Tylenol, he should get a secretary.
“I’m not sure,” I say discouragingly. “I’m a bit tied up here.”
“When you’ve finished there. The Social Security Select Committee is releasing its report at five o’clock. Can you go and pick it up? You can go straight to Westminster from your press conference.”
What? I stare at the phone in horror. No, I can’t pick up a bloody report. I need to pick up my VISA card! I need to secure my scarf.
“Can’t Clare go?” I say. “I was going to come back to the office and finish my research on. .” What am I supposed to be writing about this month? “On mortgages.”