The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

'Possibly,' I say. 'You wouldn't mind, would yau?

'Mind?' He gives a little shrug. 'No, I wouldn't think so.'

'Sssh!' says Janice. 'It's the Countdown Conundrum.'

'Right,' I whisper. 'Well I'll just… I'll just take this, shall I?'

'Explicate!' yells Janice. 'No, Exploited!'

'And… thanks for the sherry.' I take a huge gulp, shuddering slightly at its sticky sweetness, then put my glass down and tiptoe out of the room.

Half an hour later, sitting in my bedroom, I've read the letter from Flagstaff Life several times and I'm sure there's something fishy about it. How many investors must have switched funds after receiving this crappy carriage clock offer – and missed out on their windfall?

More to the point, how much money must Flagstaff Life have saved? Suddenly I really want to know. And more than that, I really want to write about it. For the first time in my life, I'm actually interested in a financial story.

And I don't just want to write it up for crappy Successful Saving, either.

Eric Foreman's card is still in my purse, with his direct telephone number printed at the top, and I take it out. I stare at it for a moment, then go to the phone and quickly punch in the number before I can change my mind.

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

Oh God. 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 ru

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

'It's just…' I swallow. 'It's just, I think I've got a story that might interest you.'

Seventeen

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 article – 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 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-bedroomed 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 pe

'I… ahm… yes! Of course!' I stuttered.

Oh God, I thought as I put down the phone. Oh God, 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, as I remind them, 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 a

'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 co

'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.'

Hmmm.

'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.'

'So what happens now?' says Martin.

'I'll have to go and talk to Flagstaff Life,' I say. 'Get them to give their defence.'

'What defence?' says Martin. 'There is no defence for what they did to us!'

'I know,' I say and grin at him. 'Exactly.'

As I go back home and up to my bedroom, I'm full of happy adrenalin. 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. God, this is exciting. 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 enquiries 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.'

Oh God, 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.'