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I was glad to hear that you have found the Lord and accepted Jesus Christ as your saviour; unfortunately this has no bearing on the matter.
I look forward to receiving your payment shortly.
Yours sincerely
Grant Ellesmore
Customer Finance Manager
Thirteen
Oh God. This is bad. I mean – I'm not just being paranoid, am I? This is really bad.
As I sit on the tube on my way home, I stare at my reflection – outwardly calm and relaxed. But inside, my mind's scurrying around like a spider, trying to find a way out. Round and round and round, legs flailing, no escape… OK, stop. Stop! Calm down and let's go through the options one more time.
Option One: Go to meeting and tell the truth.
I can't. I just can't. I can't go along on Monday morning and admit that there isn't ?1,000 from my aunt and there never will be. What will they do to me? They'll get all serious, won't they? They'll sit me down and start going through all my expenditure and… Oh God, I feel sick at the thought of it. I can't do it. I can't go.
End of story.
Option Two: Go to meeting and lie.
So – what – tell them the ?1,000 is absolutely on its way, and that further funds will be coming through soon. Hmmm. Possible. The trouble is, I don't think they'll believe me. So they'll still get all serious, sit me down, give me a lecture. No. No way.
Option Three: Don't go to meeting.
But if I don't, Derek Smeath will phone Philip and they'll start talking. Maybe the whole story will come out, and he'll find out I didn't actually break my leg. Or have glandular fever. And after that I won't ever be able to go back into the office. I'll be unemployed. My life will be over at the age of twenty-five. But then, maybe that's a price worth paying.
Option Four: Go to meeting with cheque for ?1,000.
Perfect. Waltz in, hand over the cheque, say 'Will there be anything else?' and waltz out again. Perfect. But how do I get ?1,000 before Monday morning?
How?
Option Five: Run away.
Which would be very childish and immature. Not worth considering. I wonder where I could go? Maybe abroad somewhere.
Las Vegas. Yes, and I could win a fortune at the casinos. A million pounds or something. Even more, perhaps. And then – yes – then I'd fax Derek Smeath, saying I'm closing my bank account due to his lack of faith in me.
God yes! Wouldn't that be great? 'Dear Mr Smeath, I was a little surprised at your recent implication that I have insufficient funds to cover my overdraft and indeed by your sarcastic ma
Perhaps they will treat me with more respect.
PS I am copying this letter to your superiors.'
I love this idea so much, I wallow in it for a while, amending the letter over and over in my head. 'Dear Mr Smeath, as I tried to inform you discreetly at our last encounter, I am in fact a millionairess. If only you had trusted me, things might have been different.'
God, he'll be sorry, won't he? That'll teach him. He'll probably phone up and apologize. Try and grovel for my business and say he hadn't meant to offend me. But it'll be too late. Far too late. Hah! Hahahaha…
Oh blast. Missed my stop.
When I get home, Suze is sitting on the floor, surrounded by glossy magazines.
'Hi!' she says brightly. 'Guess what? I'm going to be in Vogue!'
'What?' I say disbelievingly. 'Were you spotted on the streets or something?' Then I realize I shouldn't sound quite so surprised. I mean, Suze has got an excellent figure. She could easily be a model. But still… Vogue!
'Not me, silly!' she says. 'My frames.'
'Your frames are going to be in Vogue?' Now I really am disbelieving.
'In the June issue! I'm going to be in a piece called "Just relax – designers who are bringing the fun back into interiors". It's cool, isn't it? The only thing is, I've only made two frames so far, so I need to make a few more in case people want to buy them.'
'Right,' I say, trying to get my head round all this. 'So – how come Vogue are doing a piece about you? Did they… hear about you?'
How can they have heard about her? I'm thinking. I mean, she only started making frames four days ago!
'No silly!' she says, and laughs. 'I phoned up Lally. Have you met Lally?' I shake my head. 'Well, she's fashion editor of Vogue now, and she spoke to Perdy, who's the interiors editor, and Perdy phoned me back – and when I told her what my frames were like, she just went wild.'
'Gosh,' I say. 'Well done.'
'She told me what to say in my interview, too,' Suze adds, and clears her throat importantly. 'I want to create spaces for people to enjoy, not admire. There's a bit of the child in all of us. Life's too short for minimalism.'
'Oh right,' I say. 'Great!'
'No, wait, there was something else, too.' Suze frowns thoughtfully. 'Oh yes, my designs are inspired by the imaginative spirit of Gaudi. I'm going to phone up Charlie now,' she adds happily. 'I'm sure he's something on Tatler.'
'Great,' I say again.
And it is great.
I'm really glad for Suze. Of course I am.
But there's a part of me that's thinking – how come everything happens so easily for her? I bet she's never had to face a nasty bank manager in her life. And I bet she never will have to, either. Dispiritedly, I sink down onto the floor and begin to flip through a magazine.
'By the way,' says Suze, looking up from the phone. 'Tarquin rang about an hour ago, to arrange your date.' She grins wickedly. 'Are you looking forward to it?'
'Oh,' say dully. 'Of course I am.'
I'd forgotten all about it, to be honest. But it's OK I'll just wait until tomorrow afternoon and say I've got period pain. Easy. No-one ever questions that, especially not men.
'Oh yes,' says Suze, gesturing to a Harpers and Queen open on the floor. 'And look who I came across just now in the Hundred Richest Bachelors list! Oh hi, Charlie,' she says into the phone. 'It's Suze! Listen…'
I look down at the open Harpers and Queen and freeze. Luke Brandon is staring out of the page at me, an easy smile on his face. Number 31, reads the caption. Age 32. Estimated wealth: ?10 million. Scarily intelligent entrepreneur. Lives in Chelsea; currently dating Sacha de Bo
I don't want to know this. Why would I be interested in who Luke Brandon is dating? Savagely I flip the page backwards and start reading about Number 17, who sounds much nicer. Dave Kington. Age 28. Estimated wealth: ?20 million. Former striker for Manchester United, now management guru and sportswear entrepreneur… Lives in Hertfordshire, recently split from girlfriend, model Cherisse.
And anyway, Luke Brandon's boring. Everyone says so. All he does is work. Obsessed by money, probably.
Number 16. Ernest Flight. Age 52. Estimated wealth: ?22 million. Chairman and major shareholder of the Flight Foods Corporation. Lives in Nottinghamshire, recently divorced from third wife Susan.
I don't even think he's that good-looking. Too tall.
And he probably doesn't go to the gym or anything. Too busy. He's probably hideous underneath his clothes.
Number 15. Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Age 26. Estimated wealth: ?25 million. Landowner since inheriting huge family estate at age of 19. V. publicity shy. Lives in Perthshire and London with old na
Anyway, what kind of man buys luggage as a present? I mean, a suitcase, for God's sake, when he had the whole of Harrods to choose from. He could have bought his girlfriend a necklace, or some clothes. Or he could have… He could have…
Hang on a moment, what was that?