Confessions of a Shopaholic (28 page)

“Eric Foreman,
Daily World
,” comes his voice, booming down the line.

Am I really doing this?

“Hi,” I say nervously. “I don’t know if you remember me. Rebecca Bloomwood from
Successful Saving
. We met at the Sacrum Asset Management press conference.”

“That’s right, so we did,” he says cheerfully. “How are you, my love?”

“I’m fine,” I say, and clench my hand tightly around the receiver. “Absolutely fine. Ahm . . . I was just wondering, are you still running your series on ‘Can We Trust the Money Men?’ ”

“We are, as it goes,” says Eric Foreman. “Why?”

“It’s just . . .” I swallow. “I think I’ve got a story that might interest you.”

I HAVE NEVER BEFORE worked so hard on an article. Never.

Mind you, I’ve never before been asked to write one so quickly. At
Successful Saving
, we get a whole month to write our articles—and we complain about that. When Eric Foreman said, “Can you do it by tomorrow?” I thought he was joking at first. I jauntily replied, “Of course!” and nearly added, “In fact, I’ll have it with you in five minutes’ time!” Then,
just
in time, I realized he was serious. Crikey.

So I’m round at Martin and Janice’s first thing the next morning with a Dictaphone, writing down exactly all the information on their investment and trying to get in lots of heart-wrenching details as advised by Eric.

“We need human interest,” he told me over the phone. “None of your dull financial reporting here. Make us feel sorry for them. Make us weep. A hardworking, ordinary couple, who thought they could rely on a few savings to see them through their old age. Ripped off by the fat cats. What kind of house do these people live in?”

“Ahmm . . . a four-bedroom detached house in Surrey.”

“Well, for Christ’s sake don’t put that in!” he boomed. “I want honest, poor, and proud. Never demanded a penny off the state, saved to provide for themselves. Trusted a respectable financial institution. And all it did was kick them in the face.” He paused, and it sounded as if he might be picking his teeth. “That kind of thing. Think you can manage it?”

“I . . . ahm . . . yes! Of course!” I stuttered.

Oh God, I thought as I put down the phone. What have I got myself into?

But it’s too late to change my mind now. So the next thing is to persuade Janice and Martin that they don’t mind appearing in
The Daily World
. The trouble is, it’s not exactly
The Financial Times
, is it? Or even the normal
Times
. (Still, it could be a lot worse. It could be
The Sun
—and they’d end up sandwiched between a topless model and a blurred paparazzi shot of Posh Spice.)

Luckily, however, they’re so bowled over that I’m making all this effort on their behalf, they don’t seem to care which newspaper I’m writing for. And when they hear that a photographer’s coming over at midday to take their picture, you’d think the queen was coming to visit.

“My hair!” says Janice in dismay, staring into the mirror. “Have I time to get Maureen in to give me a blow-dry?”

“Not really. And it looks lovely,” I say reassuringly. “Anyway, they want you as natural as possible. Just . . . honest, ordinary people.” I glance around the living room, trying to pick up poignant details to put into my article.

An anniversary card from their son stands proudly on the well-polished mantelpiece. But there will be no celebration this year for Martin and Janice Webster.

“I must phone Phyllis!” says Janice. “She won’t believe it!”

“You weren’t ever a soldier, or anything?” I say thoughtfully to Martin. “Or a . . . a fireman? Anything like that. Before you became a travel agent.”

“Not really, love,” says Martin, wrinkling his brow. “Just the Cadets at school.”

“Oh, right,” I say, brightening. “That might do.”

Martin Webster fingers the Cadet badge he was so proud to wear as a youth. His life has been one of hard work and service for others. Now, in his retirement years, he should be enjoying the rewards he deserves.

But the fat cats have conned him out of his nest egg
. The Daily World
asks . .
.

“I’ve photocopied all the documents for you,” says Martin. “All the paperwork. I don’t know if it’ll be any use . . .”

“Oh thanks,” I say, taking the pile of pages from him. “I’ll have a good read through these.”

When honest Martin Webster received a letter from Flagstaff Life, inviting him to switch investment funds, he trusted the money men to know what was best for him.

Two weeks later he discovered they had tricked him out of a £20,000 windfall.

“My wife is ill as a result of all this,” he said. “I’m so worried.”

Hmm.

“Janice?” I say, looking up casually. “Do you feel all right? Not . . . unwell, or anything?”

“A bit nervous, to be honest, dear,” she says, looking round from the mirror. “I’m never very good at having my picture taken.”

“My nerves are shot to pieces,” said Mrs. Webster in a ragged voice. “I’ve never felt so betrayed in all my life.”

“Well, I think I’ve got enough now,” I say, getting up and switching off my Dictaphone. “I might have to
slightly
digress from what’s on the tape—just to make the story work. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not!” says Janice. “You write what you like, Becky! We trust you.”

I look at her soft, friendly face and feel a sudden shot of determination. This time I’ll get it right.

“So what happens now?” says Martin.

“I’ll have to go and talk to Flagstaff Life,” I say. “Get them to give their defense.”

“What defense?” says Martin. “There is no defense for what they did to us!”

I grin at him. “Exactly.”

I’m full of happy adrenaline. All I need to do is get a quote from Flagstaff Life, and I can start writing the piece. I haven’t got long: it needs to be finished by two o’clock if it’s going to make tomorrow’s edition. Why has work never seemed so exciting before?

Briskly I reach for the phone and dial Flagstaff’s number—only to be told by the switchboard operator that all press inquiries are dealt with out of house. She gives me a number, which seems rather familiar, and I frown at it for a moment, then punch it in.

“Hello,” says a smooth voice. “Brandon Communications.”

Of course. Suddenly I feel a bit shaky. The word
Brandon
has hit me right in the stomach like a punch. I’d forgotten all about Luke Brandon. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about the rest of my life. And frankly, I don’t want to be reminded of it.

But it’s OK—I don’t have to speak to him personally, do I?

“Hi!” I say. “It’s Rebecca Bloomwood here. Ermm . . . I just wanted to talk to somebody about Flagstaff Life.”

“Let me check . . .” says the voice. “Yes, that’s Luke Brandon’s client. I’ll just put you through to his assistant . . .” And the voice disappears before I can say anything.

Oh God.

I can’t do this. I can’t speak to Luke Brandon. My questions are jotted down on a piece of paper in front of me, but as I stare at them, I’m not reading them. I’m remembering the humiliation I felt that day in Harvey Nichols. That horrible plunge in my stomach, as I heard the patronizing note in his voice and suddenly realized what he thought of me. A nothing. A joke.

OK, I
can
do this, I tell myself firmly. I’ll just be very stern and businesslike and ask my questions, and . . .

“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.

THE 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 World
s 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 . . .”