Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (30 page)

“Rebecca!” comes a voice in my ear. “How are you! It’s Alicia here.”

“Oh,” I say in surprise. “I thought I was going to speak to Luke. It’s about Flagstaff Life.”

“Yes, well,” says Alicia. “Luke Brandon is a very busy man. I’m sure I can answer any questions you have.”

“Oh, right,” I say, and pause. “But they’re not your client, are they?”

“I’m sure that won’t matter in this case,” she says, and gives a little laugh. “What did you want to know?”

“Right,” I say, and look at my list. “Was it a deliberate strategy for Flagstaff Life to invite their investors to move out of with-profits just before they announced windfalls? Some people lost out a lot, you know.”

“Right …” she says. “Thanks, Camilla, I’ll have smoked salmon and lettuce.”

“What?” I say.

“Sorry, yes, I am with you,” she says. “Just jotting it down … I’ll have to get back to you on that, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I need a response soon!” I say, giving her my number. “My deadline’s in a few hours.”

“Got that,” says Alicia. Suddenly her voice goes muffled. “No, smoked salmon. OK then, Chinese chicken. Yes.” The muffle disappears. “So, Rebecca, any other questions? Tell you what, shall I send you our latest press pack? That’s bound to answer any other queries. Or you could fax in your questions.”

“Fine,” I say curtly. “Fine, I’ll do that.” And I put the phone down.

For a while I stare straight ahead in brooding silence. Stupid patronizing cow. Can’t even be bothered to take my questions seriously.

Then gradually it comes to me that this is the way I always get treated when I ring up press offices. No one’s ever in any hurry to answer my questions, are they? People are always putting me on hold, saying they’ll ring me back and not bothering. I’ve
never minded before—I’ve rather enjoyed hanging on to a phone, listening to “Greensleeves.” I’ve never cared before whether people took me seriously or not.

But today I do care. Today what I’m doing
does
seem important, and I
do
want to be taken seriously. This article isn’t just about a press release and a bunch of numbers. Martin and Janice aren’t hypothetical examples dreamed up by some marketing department. They’re real people with real lives. That money would have made a huge difference to them.

I’ll show Alicia, I think fiercely. I’ll show them all, Luke Brandon included. Show them that I, Rebecca Bloomwood, am not a joke.

With a sudden determination I reach for my dad’s typewriter. I feed in some paper, switch on my Dictaphone, take a deep breath, and begin to type.

Two hours later, I fax my 950-word article to Eric Foreman.

T
HE NEXT MORNING, I
wake at six o’clock. It’s pathetic, I know, but I’m as excited as a little kid on Christmas Day (or as me on Christmas Day, to be perfectly honest).

I lie in bed, telling myself to be grown-up and laid-back and not think about it—but I just can’t resist it. My mind swims with images of the piles of newspapers in newsstands all over the country. Of the copies of
The Daily World
being dropped on people’s doormats this morning; all the people who are going to be opening their papers, yawning, wondering what’s in the news.

And what are they going to see?

They’re going to see my name! Rebecca Bloomwood in print in
The Daily World!
My first national byline: “By Rebecca Bloomwood.” Doesn’t that sound cool? “By Rebecca Bloomwood.”

I know the piece has gone in, because Eric Foreman phoned me up yesterday afternoon and told me the editor was really pleased with it. And they’ve got it on a color page—so the picture of Janice and Martin will be in full color. Really high profile. I can’t quite believe it.
The Daily World!

Even as I’m lying here, it occurs to me, there’s already a whole
pile of
Daily Worlds
at the newsstand in the parade of shops round the corner. A whole pile of pristine, unopened copies. And the newsstand opens at … what time? Six, I seem to remember. And now it’s five past six. So in
theory
, I could go and buy one right now if I wanted to. I could just get up, slip on some clothes, go down to the newsstand, and buy one.

Not that I would, of course. I’m not quite so sad and desperate that I’m going to rush down as soon as the shop’s opened, just to see my name. I mean, what do you take me for? No, what I’ll do is just saunter down casually later on—perhaps at eleven or midday—pick up the paper and flip through it in mild interest and then saunter home again. I probably won’t even bother to buy a copy. I mean—I’ve seen my name in print before. It’s hardly a big deal. No need to make a song and dance about it.

I’m going to turn over now and go back to sleep. I can’t think why I’m awake so early. Must be the birds or something. Hmm … close my eyes, plump up my pillow, think about something else … I wonder what I’ll have for breakfast when I get up?

But I’ve never seen my name in
The Daily World
, says a little voice in my head. I’ve never seen it in a national newspaper.

This is killing me. I can’t wait any longer, I’ve
got
to see it.

Abruptly I get out of bed, throw on my clothes, and tiptoe down the stairs. As I close the door, I feel just like the girl in that Beatles song about leaving home. Outside the air has a sweet, new-day smell, and the road is completely quiet. Gosh, it’s nice being up early. Why on earth don’t I get up at six more often? I should do this every day. A power walk before breakfast, like people do in New York. Burn off loads of calories and then return home to an energizing breakfast of oats and freshly squeezed orange juice. Perfect. This will be my new regime.

But as I reach the little parade of shops I feel a stab of nerves, and without quite meaning to, I slow my walk to a funereal pace. Maybe I’ll just buy myself a Mars Bar and go home again. Or a Mint Aero, if they’ve got them.

Cautiously, I push at the door and wince at the ping! as it opens. I really don’t want to draw attention to myself this morning. What if the guy behind the counter has read my article and thinks it’s rubbish? This is nerve-racking. I should never have become a journalist. I should have become a beautician, like I always wanted to. Maybe it’s not too late. I’ll retrain, open my own boutique …

“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!

“That’s fine,” I hear myself say. “No problem. I’ll just, ahm … give you my account number, shall I?”

Four hundred quid! I think dazedly as I scrabble for my checkbook. Just like that! I can’t quite believe it.

“Excellent,” says Eric Foreman, writing the details down. “I’ll sort that out for you with Accounts.” Then he pauses. “Tell me, would you be in the market for writing general features? Human interest stories, that kind of thing?”

Would I be in the market? Is he kidding?

“Sure,” I say, trying not to sound too thrilled. “In fact … I’d probably prefer it to finance.”

“Oh right,” he says. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for bits that might suit you. As I say, I think you’ve got the right style for us.”

“Great,” I say. “Thanks.”

As I put the phone down, there’s a huge smile on my face. I’ve got the right style for
The Daily World!
Hah!

The phone rings again, and I pick it up, wondering if it’s Eric Foreman offering me some more work already.

“Hello, Rebecca Bloomwood,” I say in a businesslike voice.

“Rebecca,” says Luke Brandon’s curt voice—and my heart freezes. “Could you please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Shit.

He sounds really angry. For an instant I’m paralyzed. My throat feels dry; my hand is sweaty round the receiver. Oh God. What am I going to say? What am I going to say to him?

But hang on a minute.
I
haven’t done anything wrong.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, playing for time. Keep calm, I tell myself. Calm and cool.

“Your tawdry effort in
The Daily World,”
he says scathingly. “Your one-sided, unbalanced, probably libelous little story.”

For a second I’m so shocked I can’t speak. Tawdry? Libelous?

“It’s not tawdry!” I splutter at last. “It’s a good piece. And it’s certainly not libelous. I can prove everything I said.”

“And I suppose getting the other side of the story would have been inconvenient,” he snaps. “I suppose you were too busy
writing your purple prose to approach Flagstaff Life and ask for their version of events. You’d rather have a good story than spoil it by trying to give a balanced picture.”

“I
tried
to get the other side of the story!” I exclaim furiously. “I phoned your PR company yesterday and told them I was writing the piece!”

There’s silence.

“Who did you speak to?” says Luke.

“Alicia,” I reply. “I asked her a very clear question about Flagstaff’s policy on switching funds, and she told me she’d get back to me. I
told
her I had an urgent deadline.”

Luke gives an impatient sigh. “What the fuck were you doing, speaking to Alicia? Flagstaff’s my client, not hers.”

“I know! I said that to her! But she said you were a very busy man and she could deal with me.”