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Two
There's just one essential purchase I have to make on the way to the press conference – and that's the Financial Times. The FT is by far the best accessory a girl can have. Its major advantages are:
1. It's a nice colour.
2. It only costs 85p.
3. If you walk into a room with it tucked under your arm, people take you seriously. With an FT under your arm, you can talk about the most frivolous things in the world, and instead of thinking you're an airhead, people think you're a heavyweight intellectual who has broader interests, too.
At my interview for Successful Saving, I went in holding copies of the Financial Times and the Investor's Chronicle – and I didn't get asked about finance once. As I remember it, we spent the whole time talking about holiday villas and bitching about other editors.
So I stop at a newsstand and buy a copy of the FT and tuck it neatly under my arm, admiring my reflection in the window of De
I don't look-bad, I think. I'm wearing my black skirt from French Co
It's a habit of mine, itemizing all the clothes I'm wearing, as though for a fashion page. I've been doing it for years – ever since I used to read Just Seventeen. Every issue, they'd stop a girl on the street, take a picture of her, and list all her clothes. 'T-Shirt: Chelsea Girl, Jeans: Top Shop, Shoes: borrowed from friend.' I used to read those lists avidly – and to this day, if I buy something from a shop that's a bit uncool, I cut the label out. So that if I'm ever stopped in the street, I can pretend I don't know where it's from.
So anyway. There I am, gazing at myself, thinking I look pretty good, and half wishing someone from Just Seventeen would pop up with a camera – when suddenly my eyes focus and snap to attention, and my heart stops. In the window of De
I stare at it, my heart thumping hard. It can't be true. De
I swallow, and take a couple of steps forward, then push open the door of the tiny "shop. The door pings, and the nice blond girl who works there looks up. I don't know her name-but I've always liked her. Unlike some snotty cows in clothes shops, she doesn't mind if you stand for ages staring at clothes you really can't afford to buy. Usually what happens is, I spend half an hour lusting after scarves in De
'Hi,' I say, trying to stay calm. 'You're… you're having a sale.'
'Yes.' The blond girl smiles. 'Bit unusual for us.'
My gaze sweeps the room. I can see rows of scarves, neatly folded, with dark green '50 per cent off' signs above them. Printed velvet, beaded silk, embroidered cashmere, all with the discreet 'De
'You always liked this one, I think,' says the nice blond girl, taking out a shimmering grey-blue scarf from the pile in front of her.
Oh God, yes. I remember this one. It's made of silky velvet, overprinted in a paler blue and dotted with iridescent beads. As I stare at it, I can feel little invisible strings, silently tugging me towards it. I have to touch it. I have to wear it. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. The girl looks at the label. 'Reduced from ?340 to ?120.' She comes and drapes the scarf around my neck and I stare at my reflection.
There is no question. I have to have this scarf. I have to have it. It makes my eyes look bigger, it makes my haircut look more expensive, it makes me look like a different person. I'll be able to wear it with everything. People will refer to me as the Girl in the De
'I’d snap it up, if I were you.' The girl smiles at me. 'There's only one of these left.'
Involuntarily, I clutch at it.
'I'll have it,' I gasp. 'I'll have it.'
As she's laying it out on tissue paper, I take out my purse, open it up and reach for my VISA card in one seamless, automatic action – but my fingers hit bare leather. I stop in surprise and start to rummage through all the pockets of my purse, wondering if I stuffed my card back in somewhere with a receipt or if it's hidden underneath a business card… And then, with a sickening thud, I remember. It's on my desk.
How could I have been so stupid? How could I have left my VISA card on my desk? What was I thinking of?
The nice blond girl is putting the wrapped scarf into a dark green De
'How would you like to pay?' she says pleasantly.
My face flames red.
'I've just realized I've left my credit card at the office,' I stutter.
'Oh,' says the girl, and her hands pause.
'Can you hold it for me?' The girl looks dubious.
'For how long?'
'Until tomorrow?' I say desperately. Oh God. She's pulling a face. Doesn't she understand?
'I'm afraid not,' she says. 'We're not supposed to reserve sale stock.'
'Just until later this afternoon, then,' I say quickly. 'What time do you close?'
'Six.'
Six! I feel a combination of relief and adrenalin sweeping through me. Challenge Rebecca. I'll go to the press conference, leave as soon as I can, then take a taxi back to the office. I'll grab my VISA card, tell Philip I left my notebook behind, come here and buy the scarf.
'Can you hold it until then?' I say beseechingly. 'Please? Please?' The girl relents.
'OK. I'll put it behind the counter.'
'Thanks,' I gasp. I hurry out of the shop and down the road towards Brandon Communications. Please let the press conference be short', I pray. Please don't let the questions go on too long. Please God, please let me have that scarf.
As I arrive at Brandon Communications, I can feel myself begin to relax. I do have three whole hours, after all. And my scarf is safely behind the counter. No one's going to steal it from me.
There's a sign up in the foyer of Brandon Communications saying that the Foreland Exotic Opportunities press conference is happening in the Artemis Suite, and a man in uniform is directing everybody down the corridor. This means it must be quite big. Not television-cameras-CNN-world's press on tenterhooks big, obviously. But fairly-good-turnout big. A relatively important event in our dull little world.
As I enter the room, there's already a buzz of people milling around, and waitresses circulating with canapes. The journalists are knocking back the champagne as if they've never seen it before; the PR girls are looking supercilious and sipping water. A waiter offers me a glass of champagne and I take two. One for now, one to put under my chair for the boring bits.
In the far corner of the room I can see Elly Granger from Investor's Weekly News. She's been pi