“Hello, Becky!”
I look up and feel my face jerk in surprise. Martin Webster’s standing at the counter, holding a copy of The Daily World. “I just happened to be awake,” he explains sheepishly. “Thought I’d just come down, have a little look. .”
“Oh,” I say. “Erm. . me too.” I give a nonchalant shrug. “Since I was awake anyway. .”
My eye falls on the newspaper and I feel my stomach flip over. I’m going to expire with nerves. Please, just kill me quickly.
“So — what. . what’s it like?” I say in a strangled voice.
“Well,” says Martin, gazing at the page as though perplexed. “It’s certainly big.” He turns the paper round to face me, and I nearly keel over. There, in full color, is a picture of Martin and Janice staring miserably up at the camera, below the headline couple cheated by fat cats at flagstaff life.
Shaking slightly, I take the paper from Martin. My eye skips across the page to the first column of text. . and there it is! “By Rebecca Bloomwood.” That’s my name! That’s me!
There’s a ping at the door of the shop, and we both look round. And there, to my utter astonishment, is Dad.
“Oh,” he says, and gives an embarrassed little cough. “Your mother wanted me to buy a copy. And since I was awake anyway. .”
“So was I,” says Martin quickly.
“Me too,” I say.
“Well,” says Dad. “So — is it in?”
“Oh yes,” I say, “it’s in.” I turn the paper round so he can see it.
“Gosh,” he says. “It’s big, isn’t it?”
“The photo’s good, don’t you think?” says Martin enthusiastically. “Brings out the flowers in our curtains beautifully.”
“Yes, the photo’s great,” I agree.
I’m not going to demean myself by asking what he thought of the article itself. If he wants to compliment my writing, he will. If he doesn’t — then it really doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m proud of it.
“And Janice looks very nice, I thought,” says Martin, still gazing at the photograph.
“Very nice,” agrees Dad. “If a little mournful.”
“You see, these professionals, they know how to light a shot,” says Martin. “The way the sunlight falls just here, on her—”
“What about my article?” I wail piteously. “Did you like that?”
“Oh, it’s very good!” says Martin. “Sorry, Becky, I should have said! I haven’t read it all yet, but it seems to capture the situation exactly. Makes me out to be quite a hero!” He frowns. “Although I never did fight in the Falklands, you know.”
“Oh well,” I say hurriedly. “That’s neither here nor there, really.”
“So you wrote all this yesterday?” says Dad. “On my typewriter?” He seems astounded.
“Yes,” I say smugly. “It looks good, doesn’t it? Have you seen my byline? ‘By Rebecca Bloomwood.’ ”
“Janice’ll be thrilled,” says Martin. “I’m going to buy two copies.”
“I’m going to buy three,” says Dad. “Your granny will love to see this.”
“And I’ll buy one,” I say. “Or two, perhaps.” I carelessly reach for a handful and plonk them on the counter.
“Six copies?” says the cashier. “Are you sure?”
“I need them for my records,” I say, and blush slightly.
When we get home, Mum and Janice are both waiting at our front door, desperate to see a copy.
“My hair!” wails Janice as soon as she sees the picture. “It looks terrible! What have they done to it?”
“No, it doesn’t, love!” protests Martin. “You look very nice.”
“Your curtains look lovely, Janice,” says Mum, looking over her shoulder.
“They do, don’t they?” says Martin eagerly. “That’s just what I said.”
I give up. What kind of family have I got, that are more interested in curtains than top financial journalism? Anyway, I don’t care. I’m mesmerized by my byline. “By Rebecca Bloomwood.” “By Rebecca Bloomwood.”
After everyone’s peered at the paper, Mum invites Janice and Martin round to our house for breakfast, and Dad goes and puts on some coffee. There’s a rather festive air to the proceedings, and everyone keeps laughing a lot. I don’t think any of us can quite believe that Janice and Martin are in The Daily World. (And me, of course. “By Rebecca Bloomwood.”)
At ten o’clock, I slope off and ring up Eric Foreman. Just casually, you know. To let him know I’ve seen it.
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” he says cheerfully. “The editor’s really going for this series, so if you come up with any more stories like this just give me a shout. I like your style. Just right for The Daily World.”
“Excellent,” I say, feeling a glow of pleasure.
“Oh, and while I’m at it,” he adds, “you’d better give me your bank details.”
My stomach gives a nasty lurch. Why does Eric Foreman want my bank details? Shit, is he going to check that my own finances are in order or something? Is he going to run a credit check on me?
“Everything’s done by transfer these days,” he’s saying. “Four hundred quid. That all right?”
What? What’s he—
Oh my God, he’s going to pay me. But of course he is. Of course he is!