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The conference is already buzzing by the time I get there. As I give my name to the press officer at reception, I'm given a big, shiny courtesy carrier bag with the logo of HSBC on the side. Inside this, I find an enormous press pack complete with a photo of all the conference organizers lifting glasses of champagne to each other (yeah right, like we're really going to use that in the magazine), a voucher for two drinks at the Sun Alliance Pimm's Stand, a raffle ticket to win ?1,000 (invested in the unit trust of my choice) a big lollipop advertising Eastgate Insurance, and my name badge with PSS stamped across the top. There's also a white envelope with the ticket to the Barclays champagne reception inside, and I put that carefully in my bag. Then I fasten my name badge prominently on my lapel and start to walk around the arena.
Normally, of course, the rule is to throw away your name badge as soon as you're given it. But the great thing about being PSS at one of these events is that people fall over themselves to ply you with free stuff. A lot of it's just boring old leaflets about savings plans, but some of them are giving out free gifts and snacks, too. So after an hour, I've accumulated two pens, a paperknife, a mini box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, a helium balloon with Save and Prosper on the side, and a T-shirt with a cartoon on the front, sponsored by some mobile phone company. And I've had two free cappuccinos, a pain au chocolat, some scrumpy (from Somerset Savings), a mini pack of Smarties and my Pimm's from Sun Alliance. (I haven't written a single note in my notebook, or asked a single question – but never mind. I can always just copy some stuff out of the press pack.)
I've seen that some people are carrying quite neat little silver desk clocks, and I wouldn't mind one of those, so I'm just wandering along, trying to work out what direction they're coming from, when a voice says, 'Becky!'
I look up – and it's Elly! She's standing at the Wetherby's display with a couple of guys in suits, waving at me to come over.
'Hi!' I say delightedly. 'How are you?'
'Fine!' she says, and beams at me. 'Really getting along well.' And she does look the part, I have to say. She's wearing a bright red suit (Karen Millen, no doubt), and some really nice square-toed shoes, and her hair's been tied back. The only thing I don't go for is the earrings. Why is she suddenly wearing pearl earrings? Maybe it's just to blend in with the others.
'God, I can't believe you're actually one of them!' I say, lowering my voice slightly. 'I'll be interviewing you next!' I tilt my head earnestly, like Martin Bashir on Panorama. '"Ms Davies, could you tell me the aims and principles of Wetherby's Investments?"'
Elly gives a little Laugh – then reaches into a box beside her.
'I'll give you this,' she says, and hands me a brochure.
'Oh thanks,' I say ironically, and stuff it into my bag. I suppose she has to look good in front of her colleagues.
'It's actually quite an exciting time at Wetherby's,' continues Elly. 'You know we're launching a whole new range of funds next month? I think there are five altogether. UK Growth, UK Prospects, European Growth, European Prospects, and…'
Why is she telling me this, exactly?
'Elly…'
'And US Growth!' she finishes triumphantly. There isn't a flicker of humour in her eyes.
'Right,' I say after a pause. 'Well, that sounds… fab!'
'I could arrange for our PR people to give you a call, if you like,' she says. 'Fill you in a bit more.'
What?
'No,' I say hurriedly. 'No, it's OK. So, erm… what are you doing afterwards? Do you want to go for a drink?'
'No can do,' she says apologetically. 'I'm going to look at a flat.'
'Are you moving?' I say in surprise. Elly lives in the coolest flat in Camden, with two guys who are in a band and get her into loads of free gigs and stuff. I can't think why she'd want to move.
'Actually, I'm buying,' she says. 'I'm looking around Streatham, Tooting… I just want to get on the first rung of that property ladder.'
'Right,' I say feebly. 'Good idea.'
'You should do it yourself, you know, Becky,' she says. 'You can't hang around in a student flat for ever. Real life has to begin some time!' She glances at one of her men in suits, and he gives a little laugh.
It's not a student flat, I think indignantly. And anyway, who defines 'real life'? Who says 'real life' is property ladders and hideous pearl earrings? 'Shit boring tedious life', more like.
'Are yon going to the Barclays champagne reception?' I say as a last gasp, thinking maybe we can go and get pissed together and have some fun. But she pulls a little face, and shakes her head.
'I might pop in,' she says, 'but I'll be quite tied up here.'
'OK,' I say. 'Well I'll… I'll see you later.'
I move away from the stand, and slowly start walking towards the corner where the champagne reception's being held, feeling slightly dispirited. In spite of myself, a part of me starts wondering if maybe Elly's right and I'm wrong. Maybe I should be talking about property ladders and growth funds, too. Oh God, maybe there's something wrong with me. I'm missing the gene which makes you grow up and buy a flat in Streatham and start visiting Homebase every weekend. Everyone's moving on without me, into a world I don't understand.
But as I get near the entrance to the champagne reception, I feel my spirits rising. Whose spirits don't rise at the thought of free champagne? It's being held in a huge tent, and there's a huge ba
You see what I mean about being PSS? Everywhere you go, you get special treatment. I accept a glass of champagne, stuff the white press pack into my carrier bag and take a sip. Oh, it's delicious. Icy cold and sharp and bubbly. Maybe I'll stay here for a couple of hours, I think, just drinking champagne until there's none left. They won't dare chuck me out, I'm PSS. In fact, maybe I'll
'Rebecca. Glad you could make it.'
I look up and feel myself freeze. The man in the suit was Luke Brandon. Luke Brandon's standing in front of me, looking straight at me, with an expression I can't quite read. And suddenly I feel sick. All that stuff I pla
'Hi,' I mutter, looking down. Why am I even saying Hi to him?
'I was hoping you'd come,' he says in a low, serious voice. 'I very much wanted to-'
'Yes,' I interrupt. 'Well, I… I can't talk, I've got to mingle. I'm here to work, you know.'
I'm trying to sound dignified, but there's a wobble in my voice, and I can feel my cheeks slowly turning red as he keeps gazing at me. So I turn away before he can say anything else, and march off towards the other side of the tent. I don't quite know where I'm heading, but I've just got to keep walking until I find someone to talk to.
The trouble is, I can't see anyone I recognize. It's all just groups of bank-type people laughing loudly together and talking about golf. They all seem really tall and broad-shouldered, and I can't even catch anyone's eye. God, this is embarrassing. I feel like a six-year-old at a grown-ups' party. In the corner I spot Moira Cha