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“So,” echoes Luke with a tiny smile. “Well done.”

“Thanks,” I say, and bite my lip awkwardly in the silence.Advertisement

I’m wondering if he’s in big trouble now. If attacking one of your clients on live TV is the PR equivalent of hiding clothes from the customers.

If he really changed his mind because of my article. Because of me.

But I can’t ask that. Can I?

The silence is growing louder and louder and at last I take a deep breath.

“Did you—”

“I was—”

We both speak at once.

“No,” I say, flushing red. “You go. Mine wasn’t. . You go.”

“OK,” says Luke, and gives a little shrug. “I was just going to ask if you’d like to have dinner tonight.”

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What does he mean, have dinner? Does he mean—

“To discuss a bit of business,” he continues. “I very much liked your idea for a unit trust promotion along the lines of the January sales.”

My what?

What idea? What’s he. .

Oh God, that. Is he serious? That was just one of my stupid, speak-aloud, brain-not-engaged moments.

“I think it could be a good promotion for a particular client of ours,” he’s saying, “and I was wondering whether you’d like to consult on the project. On a freelance basis, of course.”

Consult. Freelance. Project.

He’s serious.

“Oh,” I say, and swallow, inexplicably disappointed. “Oh, I see. Well, I. . I suppose I might be free tonight.”

“Good,” says Luke. “Shall we say the Ritz?”

“If you like,” I say offhandedly, as though I go there all the time.

“Good,” says Luke again, and his eyes crinkle into a smile. “I look forward to it.”

And then — oh God. To my utter horror, before I can stop myself, I hear myself saying bitchily, “What about Sacha? Doesn’t she have plans for you tonight?”

Even as the words hit the air, I feel myself redden. Oh shit. Shit! What did I say that for?

There’s a long silence during which I want to slink off somewhere and die.

“Sacha left two weeks ago,” says Luke finally, and my head pops up.

“Oh,” I say feebly. “Oh dear.”

“No warning — she packed up her calfskin suitcase and went.” Luke looks up. “Still, it could be worse.” He gives a deadpan shrug. “At least I didn’t buy the holdall as well.”

Oh God, now I’m going to giggle. I mustn’t giggle. I mustn’t.

“I’m really sorry,” I manage at last.

“I’m not,” says Luke, gazing at me seriously, and the laughter inside me dies away. I stare back at him nervously and feel a tingle spread across my face.

“Rebecca! Luke!”

Our heads jerk round to see Zelda approaching the set, clipboard in hand.

“Fantastic!” she exclaims. “Just what we wanted. Luke, you were great. And Rebecca. .” She comes and sits next to me on the sofa and pats my shoulder. “You were so wonderful, we were thinking — how would you like to stand in as our phone-in expert later in the show?”

“What?” I stare at her. “But. . but I can’t! I’m not an expert on anything.”

“Ha-ha-ha, very good!” Zelda gives an appreciative laugh. “The great thing about you, Rebecca, is you’ve got the common touch. We see you as finance guru meets girl next door. Informative but approachable. Knowledgeable but down-to-earth. The financial expert people really want to talk to. What do you think, Luke?”

“I think Rebecca will do the job perfectly,” says Luke. “I can’t think of anyone better qualified. I also think I’d better get out of your way.” He stands up and smiles at me. “See you later, Rebecca. Bye, Zelda.”

I watch in a daze as he picks his way across the cable-strewn floor toward the exit, half wishing he would look back.

“Right,” says Zelda, and squeezes my hand. “Let’s get you sorted.”

Twenty-two

I WAS MADE TO go on television. That’s the truth. I was absolutely made to go on television.

We’re sitting on the sofas again, Rory and Emma and me, and Anne from Leeds is admitting over the line that she’s never given retirement planning a thought.

I glance at Emma and smile, and she twinkles back. I’ve never felt so warm and happy in all my life.

What’s really strange is that when it was me being interviewed, I felt all tongue-tied and nervous — but on the other side of the sofa, I’ve been in my element right from the start. God, I could do this all day. I don’t even mind the bright lights anymore. They feel normal. And I’ve practiced the most flattering way to sit in front of the mirror (knees together, feet crossed at the ankle), and I’m sticking to it. pqdm.com