Confessions of a Shopaholic (33 page)

What? What’s he saying?

“I see,” says Emma, nodding her head. “So, Luke, would you agree that—”

“Wait a minute!” I hear myself interrupting. “Just . . . just wait a minute. Mr. Brandon, did you just call the
investors
greedy?”

“Not all,” says Luke. “But some, yes.”

I stare at him in disbelief, my skin prickling with outrage. An image of Janice and Martin comes into my mind—the sweetest, least greedy people in the world—and for a few moments I’m so angry, I can’t speak.

“The truth is, the majority of investors with Flagstaff Life have seen record returns over the last five years,” Luke’s continuing to Emma, who’s nodding intelligently. “And that’s what they should be concerned with. Good-quality investment. Not flash-in-the-pan windfalls. After all, Flagstaff Life was originally set up to provide—”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Luke,” I cut in, forcing myself to speak calmly. “Correct me if I’m wrong—but I believe Flagstaff Life was originally set up as a mutual company? For the
mutual benefit
of all its members. Not to benefit some at the expense of others.”

“Absolutely,” replies Luke without flickering. “But that doesn’t entitle every investor to a £20,000 windfall, does it?”

“Maybe not,” I say, my voice rising slightly. “But surely it entitles them to believe they won’t be misled by a company they’ve put their money with for fifteen years? Janice and Martin Webster trusted Flagstaff Life. They trusted the advice they were given. And look where that trust got them!”

“Investment is a game of luck,” says Luke blandly. “Sometimes you win—”

“It wasn’t luck!” I hear myself crying furiously. “Of course it wasn’t luck! Are you telling me it was compete coincidence that they were advised to switch their funds two weeks before the windfall announcements?”

“My clients were simply making available an offer that they believed would add value to their customers’ portfolios,” says Luke, giving me a tight smile. “They have assured me that they were simply wishing to benefit their customers. They have assured me that—”

“So you’re saying your clients are incompetent, then?” I retort. “You’re saying they had all the best intentions—but cocked it up?”

Luke’s eyes flash in anger and I feel a thrill of exhilaration.

“I fail to see—”

“Well, we could go on debating all day!” says Emma, shifting slightly on her seat. “But moving onto a slightly more—”

“Come on, Luke,” I say, cutting her off. “Come
on
. You can’t have it both ways.” I lean forward, ticking points off on my hand. “Either Flagstaff Life were incompetent, or they were deliberately trying to save money. Whichever it is, they’re in the wrong. The Websters were loyal customers and they should have gotten that money. In my opinion, Flagstaff Life deliberately encouraged them out of the with-profits fund to stop them receiving the windfall. I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

I look around for support and see Rory gazing blankly at me.

“It all sounds a bit technical for me,” he says with a little laugh. “Bit complicated.”

“OK, let’s put it another way,” I say quickly. “Let’s . . .” I close my eyes, searching for inspiration. “Let’s . . . suppose I’m in a clothes shop!” I open my eyes again. “I’m in a clothes shop, and I’ve chosen a wonderful cashmere Nicole Farhi coat. OK?”

“OK,” says Rory cautiously.

“I love Nicole Farhi!” says Emma, perking up. “Beautiful knitwear.”

“Exactly,” I say. “OK, so imagine I’m standing in the checkout queue, minding my own business, when a sales assistant comes up to me and says, ‘Why not buy this other coat instead? It’s better quality—and I’ll throw in a free bottle of perfume.’ I’ve got no reason to distrust the sales assistant, so I think, Wonderful, and I buy the other coat.”

“Right,” says Rory, nodding. “With you so far.”

“But when I get outside,” I say carefully, “I discover that this other coat isn’t Nicole Farhi and isn’t real cashmere. I go back in—and the shop won’t give me a refund.”

“You were ripped off!” exclaims Rory, as though he’s just discovered gravity.

“Exactly,” I say. “I was ripped off. And the point is, so were thousands of Flagstaff Life customers. They were persuaded out of their original choice of investment, into a fund which left them £20,000 worse off.” I pause, marshaling my thoughts. “Perhaps Flagstaff Life didn’t break the law. Perhaps they didn’t contravene any regulations. But there’s a natural justice in this world, and they didn’t just break that, they shattered it. Those customers deserved that windfall. They were loyal, long-standing customers, and they deserved it. And if you’re honest, Luke Brandon, you
know
they deserved it.”

I finish my speech breathlessly and look at Luke. He’s staring at me with an unreadable expression on his face—and in spite of myself, I feel my stomach clench with nerves. I swallow, and try to shift my vision away from his—but somehow I can’t move my head. It’s as though our eyes are glued together.

“Luke?” says Emma. “Do you have a response to Rebecca’s point?”

Luke doesn’t respond. He’s staring at me, and I’m staring back, feeling my heart thump like a rabbit.

“Luke?” repeats Emma slightly impatiently. “Do you have—”

“Yes,” says Luke. “Yes I do. Rebecca—” He shakes his head, almost smiling to himself, then looks up again at me. “Rebecca, you’re right.”

There’s a sudden still silence around the studio.

I open my mouth, but I can’t make a sound.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rory and Emma glancing at each other puzzledly.

“Sorry, Luke,” says Emma. “Do you mean—”

“She’s right,” says Luke, and gives a shrug. “Rebecca’s absolutely right.” He reaches for his glass of water, leans back on his sofa, and takes a sip. “If you want my honest opinion, those customers deserved that windfall. I very much wish they
had
received it.”

He looks up at me, and he’s wearing that same apologetic expression he had in the corridor. This can’t be happening. Luke’s agreeing with me. How can he be agreeing with me?

“I see,” says Emma, sounding a bit affronted. “So, you’ve changed your position, then?”

There’s a pause, while Luke stares thoughtfully into his glass of water. Then he looks up and says, “My company is employed by Flagstaff Life to maintain their public profile. But that doesn’t mean that personally I agree with everything they do—or even that I know about it.” He pauses. “To tell you the truth, I had no idea any of this was going on until I read about it in Rebecca’s article in
The Daily World
. Which, by the way, was a fine piece of investigative journalism,” he adds, nodding to me. “Congratulations.”

I stare back helplessly, unable even to mutter “Thank you.” I’ve never felt so wrong-footed in all my life. I want to stop and bury my head in my hands and think all of this through slowly and carefully—but I can’t, I’m on live television. I’m being watched by 2.5 million people, all around the country.

I hope my legs look OK.

“If I were a Flagstaff customer and this had happened to me, I’d be very angry,” Luke continues. “There
is
such a thing as customer loyalty; there
is
such a thing as playing straight. And I would hope that any client of mine, whom I represent in public, would abide by both of those principles.”

“I see,” says Emma, and turns to the camera. “Well, this is quite a turnaround! Luke Brandon, here to represent Flagstaff Life, now says that what they did was wrong. Any further comment, Luke?”

“To be honest,” says Luke, with a wry smile, “I’m not sure I’ll be representing Flagstaff Life any more after this.”

“Ah,” says Rory, leaning forward intelligently. “And can you tell us why that is?”

“Oh, honestly, Rory!” says Emma impatiently. She rolls her eyes and Luke gives a little snort of laughter.

And suddenly everyone’s laughing, and I join in too, slightly hysterically. I catch Luke’s eye and feel something flash in my chest, then quickly look away again.

“Right, well, anyway,” says Emma abruptly, pulling herself together and smiling at the camera. “That’s it from the finance experts—but, coming up after the break, the return of hot pants to the catwalk . . .”

“. . . and cellulite creams—do they really work?” adds Rory.

“Plus our special guests—Heaven Sent 7—singing live in the studio.”

The theme music blares out of the loudspeakers and both Emma and Rory leap to their feet.

“Wonderful debate,” says Emma, hurrying off. “Sorry, I’m
dying
for a wee.”

“Excellent stuff,” adds Rory earnestly. “Didn’t understand a word—but great television.” He slaps Luke on the back, raises his hand to me, and then hurries off the set.

And all at once it’s over. It’s just me and Luke, sitting opposite each other on the sofas, with bright lights still shining in our eyes and microphones still clipped to our lapels. I feel slightly shell-shocked.

Did all that really just happen?

“So,” I say eventually, and clear my throat.

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

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

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.”

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.”

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.

“My mum used to tell me to take out a pension,” says Anne, “and I used to laugh at her. But now I’ve started to panic I’ve left it too late.”

“Rebecca?” says Emma. “Should Anne be concerned?”

Pensions, I think quickly. Come on, what do I know about pensions?

“Well,” I say. “Of course, the earlier you start saving, the more you’ll accumulate. But that’s no reason to panic, Anne. The good thing is, you’re thinking about it
now
.”

“How old are you exactly, Anne?” says Emma.

“I’m thirty,” says Anne. “Thirty last month.”