“Rebecca. Glad you could make it.”
I look up and feel myself freeze. The man in the suit was Luke Brandon. Luke Brandon’s standing in front of me, with an expression I can’t quite read. And suddenly I feel sick. All that stuff I planned about playing it cool and icy isn’t going to work — because just seeing his face, I feel hot with humiliation, all over again.
“Hi,” I mutter, looking down. Why am I even saying hi to him?
“I was hoping you’d come,” he says in a low, serious voice. “I very much wanted to—”
“Yes,” I interrupt. “Well, I. . I can’t talk, I’ve got to mingle. I’m here to work, you know.”
I’m trying to sound dignified, but there’s a wobble in my voice, and I can feel my cheeks flush as he keeps gazing at me. So I turn away before he can say anything else, and march off toward the other side of the tent. I don’t quite know where I’m heading, but I’ve just got to keep walking until I find someone to talk to.
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.