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Forty grand?
Forty grand? But I only earn-
Actually, should I be telling you how much I earn? Isn't it one of those things like religion, you're not supposed to mention in polite company? Or maybe we're all allowed to talk about money these days. Suze would know.
Oh well, sod it. You know everything else, don't you? The truth is, I earn ?21,000. And I thought that was a lot! I remember really well, when I moved jobs, I jumped from ?18,000 to ?21,000, and I thought I'd made the big time. I was so excited about it, I used to write out endless lists of what I would buy with all that extra money.
But now it sounds like nothing. I should be earning forty grand, like Elly, and buying all my clothes at Karen Millen. Oh, it's not fair. My life's a complete disaster.
As I'm walking back to the office, I feel pretty morose. Maybe I should give up journalism and become a fund manager too. Or a merchant banker. They earn a pretty good whack, don't they? Maybe I could join Goldman Sachs or somewhere. They earn about a million a year, don't they? God, that would be good. A million a year. I wonder how you get a job like that.
But on the other hand… do I really want to be a banker? I wouldn't mind the clothes-from Karen Millen part of it. In fact, I think I'd do that really well. But I'm not so sure about the rest. The getting-up-early-and-working-hideously-hard part. Not that I'm lazy or anything – but I quite like the fact that I can go and spend the afternoon at Image Store, or flick through the papers pretending to be doing research, and no-one gives me a hard time. It doesn't sound as if Elly will be doing much of that in her new job. In fact, it all sounds quite scary.
Hmm. If only there was some way that I could get all the nice clothes – but not have to do the scary work. One but not the other. If only there was a way… My eyes are automatically flicking into all the shop windows as I pass, checking out the displays – and suddenly I stop in my tracks.
This is a sign from God. It has to be. I'm standing outside Ally Smith – which has some gorgeous full-length coats in the window – and there's a handwritten sign in the glass pane of the door. 'Wanted. Saturday sales assistants. Enquire within.'
I almost feel shaky as I stare at the sign. It's as though lightning has struck, or something. Why on earth haven't I thought of this before? It's pure genius. I'll get a Saturday job! I'll work in a clothes shop! That way, I'll make loads of extra money and I'll get a discount on all the clothes! And let's face it, working in a shop has got to be easier than becoming a fund manager, hasn't it? All you do is stand around and say 'Can I help you?' In fact, it'll be fun, because I can choose all my own clothes as I help the customers. I'll actually be getting paid to go shopping!
This is bloody fantastic, I think, striding into the shop with a friendly smile on my face. I knew something good was going to happen today. I just had a feeling about it.
Half an hour later, I come out with an even bigger smile on my face. I've got a job! I've got a Saturday job! I'm going to work from 8.30 to 5.30 every Saturday, and get ?4.80 an hour, and 10 per cent off all the clothes! And after three months, it goes up to 20 per cent! All my money troubles are over.
Thank God it was a quiet afternoon. They let me fill in the application form on the spot, and Danielle, the manager, gave me an interview straight away. At first she looked a bit dubious – especially when I said I had a full-time job as a financial journalist and was doing this to get extra money and clothes. 'It'll be hard work,' she kept saying. 'You do realize that? It'll be very hard work.' But I think what changed her mind was when we started talking about the stock. I love Ally Smith stuff – so of course I knew the price of every single item in the shop and whether they have anything similar in Jigsaw or French Co
Eventually Danielle gave me a fu
As I arrive back at the office I feel exhilarated with my success. I look around – and suddenly this mundane office life seems far too boring and limited for a creative spirit like mine. I don't belong here, among fusty piles of press releases and grimly tapping computers. I belong out there, among the bright spotlights and cashmere cardigans of Ally Smith. Maybe I'll go into retail full time, I think, as I sit back down at my desk. Maybe I'll start my own chain of designer stores!
God, yes. I'll be one of those people featured in articles about incredibly successful entrepreneurs. 'Becky Bloomwood was working as a financial journalist when she devised the i
The phone rings and I pick it up.
'Yes?' I say absently. 'Rebecca Bloomwood here.' I nearly add, 'Of Bloomwood Stores', but maybe that's a tad premature.
'Ms Bloomwood, this is Derek Smeath from Endwich Bank.'
What? I'm so shocked, I drop the phone onto my desk with a clatter and have to scrabble around to pick it up. All the while, my heart's thumping like a rabbit. How does Derek Smeath know where I work? How did he get my number?
'Are you OK?' says Clare Edwards curiously.
'Yes,' I gulp. 'Yes, fine.'
And now she's looking at me. Now I can't just put the phone down and pretend it was a wrong number. I've got to talk to him. OK, what I'll do is be really brisk and cheerful and try and get rid of him as quickly as possible.
'Hi!' I say into the phone. 'Sorry about that! The thing is, I was just a bit busy with something else. You know how it is!'
'Ms Bloomwood, I've written you several letters,' says Derek Smeath. 'And to none of them have I had a satisfactory response.'
In spite of myself, I can feel my cheeks colouring. Oh God, he sounds really cross. This is horrible. What right has he got.to come along and spoil my day?
'I've been very busy, I'm afraid,' I say. 'My… my aunt was very ill. I had to go and be with her. You understand.'
'I see,' he says. 'Nevertheless…'
'And then she died,' I add.
'I'm sorry to hear that,' says Derek Smeath. He doesn't sound sorry. 'But that doesn't alter the fact that your current account stands at a balance of…'
Has this man got no heart? As he starts talking about balances and overdrafts and agreements, I deliberately tune out so I don't hear anything that will upset me. I'm staring at the fake-wood grain on my desk, wondering if I could pretend to drop the receiver accidentally back down onto the phone. Oh God, this is awful. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?
'And if the situation is not resolved,' he's saying sternly, 'I'm afraid I will be forced to-'
'It's OK,' I hear myself interrupting. 'It's OK, because… I'm coming into some money soon.' Even as I say the words, I feel my cheeks flame guiltily. But I mean, what else am I supposed to do? I have to say some thing, otherwise he'll never leave me alone.
'Oh yes?'
'Yes,' I say, and swallow. 'The thing is, my… my aunt left me some money in her will.'
Which is kind of almost true. I mean, obviously Aunt Ermintrude would have left me some money. After all, I was her favourite niece, wasn't I? Did anyone else buy her De
Then I realize I should have made it ?10,000 – that would have really impressed him. Oh well, too late now.
'You're saying that in two weeks' time you'll be paying a cheque for ?1,000 into your account,' says Derek Smeath.
'Erm… yes,' I say after a pause. 'I suppose I am.'
'I'm glad to hear it,' he says. 'I've made a note of our conversation, Ms Bloomwood, and I'll be expecting the arrival of ?1,000 into your account on Monday, 27 March.'