Confessions of a Shopaholic (18 page)

“Rebecca?” A blond girl in a pale trouser suit is suddenly in front of me. Nice suit, I think. Very nice suit.

“Hi!” I say. “Jill!”

“No, I’m Amy,” she smiles. “Jill’s assistant.”

Wow. That’s pretty cool. Sending your assistant to pick up your visitors, as if you’re too grand and busy to do it yourself. Maybe that’s what I’ll get my assistant to do when I’m an important futures broker and Elly comes over for lunch. Or maybe I’ll have a
male
assistant—and we’ll fall in love! God, it would be just like a movie. The high-flying woman and the cute but sensitive . . .

“Rebecca?” I come to and see Amy staring at me curiously. “Are you ready?”

“Of course!” I say gaily, and pick up my briefcase. As we stride off over the glossy floor, I surreptitiously run my gaze over Amy’s trouser suit again—and find my eye landing on an Emporio Armani label. I can’t quite believe it. The
assistants
wear Emporio Armani! So what’s Jill herself going to be in? Couture Dior? God, I love this place already.

We go up to the sixth floor and begin to walk along endless carpeted corridors.

“So you want to be a futures broker,” says Amy after a while.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s the idea.”

“And you already know a bit about it.”

“Well, you know.” I give a modest smile. “I’ve written extensively on most areas of finance, so I do feel quite well equipped.”

“That’s good,” says Amy, and gives me a smile. “Some people turn up with no idea. Then Jill asks them a few standard questions, and . . .” She makes a gesture with her hand. I don’t know what it means, but it doesn’t look good.

“Right!” I say, forcing myself to speak in an easy tone. “So—what sort of questions?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about!” says Amy. “She’ll probably ask you . . . oh, I don’t know. Something like ‘How do you trade a butterfly?’ or, ‘What’s the difference between open outlay and OR?’ Or, ‘How would you calculate the expiry date of a futures instrument?’ Really basic stuff.”

“Right,” I say, and swallow. “Great.”

Something in me is telling me to turn and run—but we’ve already arrived at a pale blond-wood door.

“Here we are,” says Amy, and smiles at me. “Would you like tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, please,” I say, wishing I could say “A stiff gin, please.” Amy knocks on the door, opens it and ushers me in, and says, “Rebecca Bloomwood.”

“Rebecca!” says a dark-haired woman behind the desk, and gets up to shake my hand.

To my slight surprise, Jill is not nearly as well dressed as Amy. She’s wearing a blue, rather mumsy-looking suit, and boring court shoes. But still, never mind, she’s the boss. And her office is pretty amazing.

“It’s very good to meet you,” she says, gesturing to a chair in front of her desk. “And let me say straight away, I was extremely impressed by your CV.”

“Really?” I say, feeling relief creep over me. That can’t be bad, can it?
Extremely impressed
. Maybe it won’t matter I don’t know the answers to those questions.

“Particularly by your languages,” adds Jill. “
Very
good. You do seem to be one of those rare breeds, an all-rounder.”

“Well, my French is really only conversational,” I say modestly. “
Voici la plume de ma tante
, and all that!”

Jill gives an appreciative laugh, and I beam back at her.

“But Finnish!” she says, reaching for the cup of coffee on her desk. “That’s quite unusual.”

I keep smiling and hope we move off the subject of languages. To be honest, “fluent in Finnish” went in because I thought “conversational French” looked a bit bare on its own. And after all, who speaks Finnish, for God’s sake? No one.

“And your financial knowledge,” she says, pulling my CV toward her. “You seemed to have covered a lot of different areas during your years in financial journalism.” She looks up. “What attracts you to derivatives in particular?”

What? What’s she talking about? Oh yes. Derivatives. They’re futures, aren’t they? And they have something to do with the price of a security. Or a commodity. Something like that.

“Well,” I begin confidently—and am interrupted as Amy comes in with a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” I say, and look up, hoping we’ve moved onto something else. But she’s still waiting for an answer. “I think the excitement of futures is the . . . um, their speculative nature, combined with the ability to control risk with hedge positions,” I hear myself saying.

Wow. How on earth did I come out with that?

“They’re an extremely challenging area,” I add quickly, “and I think . . .” What do I think? Should I throw in a quick reference to butterflies or expiry dates or something? Or Barings Bank? Probably better not. “I think I’d be well suited to that particular field,” I finish at last.

“I see,” says Jill Foxton, and leans back in her chair. “The reason I ask is, there’s a position we have in banking, which I think might also suit you. I don’t know what you would feel about that.”

A position in banking? Has she actually found me a job? I don’t believe it!

“Well, that would be fine by me,” I say, trying not to sound too joyful. “I mean, I’d miss the futures—but then, banking’s good, too, isn’t it?”

Jill laughs. I think she thinks I’m joking or something.

“The client is a triple-A-rated foreign bank, looking for a new recruit in the London arm of their debt financing division.”

“Right,” I say intelligently.

“I don’t know whether you’re familiar with the principles of European back-to-back arbitrage?”

“Absolutely,” I say confidently. “I wrote an article on that very subject last year.”

Which isn’t
quite
true, but I can always read a book about it, can’t I?

“Obviously I’m not trying to rush you into any decision,” she says, “but if you do want a change of career, I’d say this would be perfect for you. There’d be an interview, but I can’t see any problems there.” She smiles at me. “And we’ll be able to negotiate you a very attractive package.”

“Really?” Suddenly, I can’t quite breathe. She’s going to negotiate an attractive package. For me!

“Oh yes,” says Jill. “Well, you must realize you’re a bit of a one-off.” She gives me a confidential smile. “You know, when your CV came through yesterday, I actually whooped! I mean, the
coincidence
!”

“Absolutely,” I say, beaming at her. God, this is fantastic. This is a bloody dream come true. I’m going to be a banker! And not just any old banker—a triple-A-rated banker!

“So,” says Jill casually. “Shall we go and meet your new employer?”

“What?” I say in astonishment, and a little smile spreads over her face.

“I didn’t want to tell you until I’d met you—but the recruitment director of Bank of Helsinki is over here for a meeting with our managing director. I just
know
he’s going to love you. We can have the whole thing wrapped up by this afternoon!”

“Excellent!” I say, and get to my feet. Ha-ha-ha! I’m going to be a banker!

It’s only as we’re halfway down the corridor that her words begin to impinge on my mind. Bank of Helsinki.

Bank of Helsinki. That doesn’t mean . . . Surely she doesn’t think . . .

“I can’t wait to hear the two of you talking away in Finnish,” says Jill pleasantly, as we begin to climb a flight of stairs. “It’s not a language I know at all.”

Oh my God.
Oh my God. No
.

“But then, my languages have always been hopeless,” she adds comfortably. “I’m not talented in that department, not like you!”

I flash her a little smile and keep walking, without missing a step. But I can hardly breathe. Shit. What am I going to do?
What the fuck am I going to do
?

We turn a corner and begin to walk calmly down another corridor. And I’m doing pretty well. As long as we just keep walking, I’m OK.

“Was Finnish a hard language to learn?” asks Jill.

“Not that hard,” I hear myself saying in a scratchy voice. “My . . . my father’s half Finnish.”

“Yes, I thought it must be something like that,” says Jill. “I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you learn at school, is it?” And she gives a jolly little laugh.

It’s all right for her, I think desperately. She’s not the one being led to her death. Oh God, this is terrible. People keep passing us and glancing at me and smiling, as if to say “So that’s the Finnish-speaker!”

Why did I put I was fluent in Finnish?
Why
?

“All right?” says Jill. “Not nervous?”

“Oh no!” I say at once, and force a grin onto my face. “Of course I’m not nervous!”

Maybe I’ll be able to busk it, I think suddenly. I mean, the guy won’t conduct the whole bloody interview in Finnish, will he? He’ll just say “Hašallø,” or whatever it is, and I’ll say “Hašallø” back, and then before he can say anything else, I’ll quickly say, “You know, my technical Finnish is a bit rusty these days. Would you mind if we spoke in English?” And he’ll say . . .

“Nearly there,” says Jill, and smiles at me.

“Good,” I say brightly, and clasp my sweaty hand more tightly round my briefcase handle. Oh God. Please save me from this. Please . . .

“Here we are!” she says, and stops at a door marked “Conference Room.” She knocks twice, then pushes it open. There’s a roomful of people sitting round a table, and they all turn to look at me.

“Jan Virtanen,” she says. “I’d like you to meet Rebecca Bloomwood.”

A bearded man rises from his chair, give me a huge smile, and extends his hand.

“Neiti Bloomwood,” he says cheerfully. “Nautin erittain paljon tapaamisestamme. Onko oiken, etta teilla on jonkinlainen yhteys Suomeen?”

I stare speechlessly at him. My face is glowing, as though I’m consumed with happiness. Everyone in the room is waiting for me to answer, I’ve got to say something.

“I . . . erm . . . erm . . . Hašallø!” I lift my hand in a friendly little wave and smile around the room.

But nobody smiles back.

“Erm . . . I’ve just got to . . .” I start backing away. “Just got to . . .”

I turn. And I run.

I ARRIVE BACK DOWN in the foyer, panting slightly. Which is not surprising, since I’ve just run about a half marathon along endless corridors, trying to get out of this place. I descend the final flight of stairs (couldn’t risk waiting for the elevators in case the Finnish brigade suddenly turned up), then pause to catch my breath. I straighten my skirt, transfer my briefcase from one sweaty hand to the other, and begin to walk calmly across the foyer toward the door, as though I’ve come out of an utterly ordinary, utterly unspectacular meeting. I don’t look right and I don’t look left. I don’t think about the fact that I’ve just completely shredded any chances I had of becoming a top City banker. All I can think about is getting to that glass door and getting outside before anyone can . . .

“Rebecca!” comes a voice behind my voice, and I freeze. Shit. They’ve got me.

“Hašallø!” I gulp, turning round. “Hašall . . . Oh. Hell . . . Hello.”

It’s Luke Brandon.

It’s Luke Brandon, standing right in front of me, looking down at me with that amused smile he always seems to have.

“This isn’t the sort of place I would have expected to find you,” he says. “You’re not after a City job, are you?”

And why shouldn’t I be? Doesn’t he think I’m clever enough?

“Actually,” I say haughtily, “I’m thinking of a change of career. Maybe into foreign banking. Or futures broking.”

“Really?” he says. “That’s a shame.”

A shame? What does that mean? Why is it a shame? As I look up at him, his dark eyes meet mine, and I feel a little flicker, deep inside me. Out of nowhere, Clare’s words pop into my head.
Luke Brandon was asking me if you had a boyfriend
.

“What . . .” I clear my throat. “What are
you
doing here, anyway?”

“Oh, I recruit from here quite often,” he says. “They’re very efficient. Soulless, but efficient.” He shrugs, then looks at my shiny briefcase. “Have they fixed you up with anything yet?”

“I’ve . . . I’ve got a number of options open to me,” I say. “I’m just considering my next move.”

Which, to be honest, is straight out the door.

“I see,” he says, and pauses. “Did you take the day off to come here?”

“Yes,” I say. “Of course I did.”

What does he think? That I just sloped off for a couple of hours and said I was at a press conference?

Actually, that’s not a bad idea. I might try that next time.

“So—what are you up to now?” he asks.

Don’t say “nothing.”
Never
say “nothing.”

“Well, I’ve got some bits and pieces to do,” I say. “Calls to make, people to see. That kind of thing.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding. “Yes. Well. Don’t let me keep you.” He looks around the foyer. “And I hope it all works out for you, job-wise.”

“Thanks,” I say, giving him a businesslike smile.

And then he’s gone, walking off toward the doors, and I’m left holding my clunky briefcase, feeling just a bit disappointed. I wait until he’s disappeared, then wander slowly over to the doors myself and go out onto the street. And then I stop. To tell you the truth, I’m not quite sure what to do next. I’d kind of planned to spend the day ringing everyone up and telling them about my fab new job as a futures broker. Instead of which . . . Well, anyway. Let’s not think about that.

But I can’t stand still on the pavement outside William Green all day. People will start thinking I’m a piece of installation art or something. So eventually I begin walking along the street, figuring I’ll arrive at a tube soon enough and then I can decide what to do. I come to a corner and I’m just waiting for the traffic to stop, when a taxi pulls up beside me.

“I know you’re a very busy woman, with a lot to do,” comes Luke Brandon’s voice, and my head jerks up in shock. There he is, leaning out of the taxi window, his dark eyes crinkled up in a little smile. “But if you had the odd half-hour to spare—you wouldn’t be interested in doing a little shopping, would you?”

This day is unreal. Completely and utterly unreal.

I get into the taxi, put my clunky briefcase on the floor, and shoot a nervous look at Luke as I sit down. I’m already slightly regretting this. What if he asks me a question about interest rates? What if he wants to talk about the Bundesbank or American growth prospects? But all he says is “Harrods, please,” to the driver.