Normally, of course, the rule is to throw away your name badge. But the great thing about being press at one of these events is that people fall over themselves to ply you with free stuff. A lot of it’s just boring old leaflets about savings plans, but some of them are giving out free gifts and snacks, too. So after an hour, I’ve accumulated two pens, a paper knife, a mini box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, a helium balloon with Save & Prosper on the side, and a T-shirt with a cartoon on the front, sponsored by some mobile phone company. I’ve had two free cappuccinos, a pain au chocolat, some apple cider (from Somerset Savings), a mini pack of Smarties, and my Pimm’s from Sun Alliance. (I haven’t written a single note in my notebook, or asked a single question — but never mind.)
I’ve seen that some people are carrying quite neat little silver desk clocks, and I wouldn’t mind one of those, so I’m just wandering along, trying to work out what direction they’re coming from, when a voice says, “Becky!”
I look up — and it’s Elly! She’s standing at the Wetherby’s display with a couple of guys in suits, waving at me to come over.
“Hi!” I say delightedly. “How are you?”
“Fine!” she says, beaming. “Really getting along well.” And she does look the part, I have to say. She’s wearing a bright red suit (Karen Millen, no doubt), and some really nice square-toed shoes, and her hair’s tied back. The only thing I don’t go for is the earrings. Why is she suddenly wearing pearl earrings? Maybe it’s just to blend in with the others.
“God, I can’t believe you’re actually one of them!” I say, lowering my voice slightly. “I’ll be interviewing you next!” I tilt my head earnestly, like Martin Bashir on Panorama. “ ‘Ms. Granger, could you tell me the aims and principles of Wetherby’s Investments?’ ”
Elly gives a little laugh, then reaches into a box beside her.
“I’ll give you this,” she says, and hands me a brochure.
“Oh thanks,” I say ironically, and stuff it into my bag. I suppose she has to look good in front of her colleagues.
“It’s actually quite an exciting time at Wetherby’s,” continues Elly. “You know we’re launching a whole new range of funds next month? There are five altogether. UK Growth, UK Prospects, European Growth, European Prospects, and. .”
Why is she telling me this, exactly?
“Elly. .”
“And US Growth!” she finishes triumphantly. There isn’t a flicker of humor in her eyes. Suddenly I find myself remembering Luke saying he wasn’t surprised by Elly joining Wetherby’s.
“Right,” I say after a pause. “Well, that sounds. . fab!”
“I could arrange for our PR people to give you a call, if you like,” she says. “Fill you in a bit more.”
What?
“No,” I say hurriedly. “No, it’s OK. So, erm. . what are you doing afterward? Do you want to go for a drink?”
“No can do,” she says apologetically. “I’m going to look at a flat.”
“Are you moving?” I say in surprise. Elly lives in the coolest flat in Camden, with two guys who are in a band and get her into loads of free gigs and stuff. I can’t think why she’d want to move.
“Actually, I’m buying,” she says. “I’m looking around Streatham, Tooting. . I just want to get on the first rung of that property ladder.”
“Right,” I say feebly. “Good idea.”
“You should do it yourself, you know, Becky,” she says. “You can’t hang around in a student flat forever. Real life has to begin sometime!” She glances at one of her men in suits, and he gives a little laugh.
It’s not a student flat, I think indignantly. And anyway, who defines “real life”? Who says “real life” is property ladders and hideous pearl earrings? “Shit-boring tedious life,” more like.
“Are you going to the Barclays Champagne Reception?” I say as a last gasp, thinking maybe we can go and have some fun together. But she pulls a little face and shakes her head.
“I might pop in,” she says, “but I’ll be quite tied up here.”
“OK,” I say. “Well, I’ll. . I’ll see you later.”
I move away from the stand and slowly start walking toward the corner where the Champagne Reception’s being held, feeling slightly dispirited. In spite of myself, a part of me starts wondering if maybe Elly’s right and I’m wrong. Maybe I should be talking about property ladders and growth funds, too. Oh God, I’m missing the gene which makes you grow up and buy a flat in Streatham and start visiting Homebase every weekend. Everyone’s moving on without me, into a world I don’t understand.
But as I get near the entrance to the Champagne Reception, I feel my spirits rising. Whose spirits don’t rise at the thought of free champagne? It’s all being held in a huge tent, and there’s a huge banner, and a band playing music, and a girl in a sash at the entrance, handing out Barclays key rings. When she sees my badge, she gives me a wide smile, hands me a white glossy press pack, and says, “Bear with me a moment.” Then she walks off to a little group of people, murmurs in the ear of a man in a suit, and comes back. “Someone will be with you soon,” she says. “In the meantime, let me get you a glass of champagne.”
You see what I mean about being press? Everywhere you go, you get special treatment. I accept a glass of champagne, stuff the press pack into my carrier bag, and take a sip. Oh, it’s delicious. Icy cold and sharp and bubbly. Maybe I’ll stay here for a couple of hours, I think, just drinking champagne until there’s none left. They won’t dare chuck me out, I’m press. In fact, maybe I’ll. .