Fenella and Tarquin arrive at six o'clock on Suze's birthday, and as soon as she sees them, she starts squealing with excitement. I stay in my bedroom and finish my makeup, putting off the moment of having to go out and say hello. I'm not that keen on Fenella and Tarquin. In fact, I think they're a bit weird. For a start, they look weird. They're both very skinny – but in a pale, bony way – and have the same slightly protruding teeth. Fenella does make a bit of an effort with clothes and makeup, and doesn't look too bad. But Tarquin, frankly, looks just like a stoat. Or a weasel. Some bony little creature, anyway. They do strange things, too. They ride around on a tandem and wear matching jumpers knitted by their old nanny and have this stupid family language which no-one else can understand. Like they call sandwiches 'witchies'. And a drink is a 'titchy' (except if it's water, which is 'Ho'). Take it from me, it gets really irritating after a while.
But Suze loves them. She spent all her childhood summers with them in Scotland and she just can't see that they're a bit strange. The worst thing is, she starts talking about witchies and titchies when she's with them. It drives me mad.
Still, there's nothing I can do about it – they're here now. I finish brushing on my mascara and stand up, looking at my reflection. I'm pretty pleased with what I see. I'm wearing a really simple black top and black trousers – and, tied loosely round my neck, my gorgeous, gorgeous Denny and George scarf. God that was a good buy. It looks fantastic.
I linger a bit, then resignedly open my bedroom door.
'Hi, Bex!' says Suze, looking up with bright eyes.
She's sitting cross-legged on the floor of the corridor, ripping open a present, while Fenella and Tarquin stand nearby, looking on. They're not wearing matching jumpers today, thank God, but Fenella's wearing a very odd red skirt made out of hairy tweed, and Tarquin's double-breasted suit looks as if it was tailored during the First World War.
'Hi!' I say, and kiss each of them politely.
'Oh, wow!' cries Suze, as she pulls out a picture in an old gilt frame. 'I don't believe it! I don't believe it!'
She's looking from Tarquin to Fenella with shining eyes, and I look at the picture interestedly over her shoulder. But to be honest, I can't say I'm impressed. For a start it's really dingy – all sludgy greens and browns – and for another start, it just shows a horse standing still in a field. I mean, couldn't it have been jumping over a fence or rearing up or something? Or maybe trotting along in Hyde Park, ridden, by a girl in one of those lovely Pride and Prejudice dresses.
'Happy Bad Day!' Tarquin and Fenella chime in unison. (That's another thing. They call birthdays bad days, ever since… Oh God. It really is too boring to explain.)
'It's absolutely gorgeous!' I say enthusiastically. 'Absolutely beautiful!'
'It is, isn't it?' says Tarquin earnestly. 'Just look at those colours.'
'Mmm, lovely,' I say, nodding.
'And the brushwork. It's exquisite. We were thrilled when we came across it.'
'It's a really wonderful picture,' I say. 'Makes you want to just… gallop off over the downs!'
What is this drivel I'm coming out with? Why can't I just be honest and say I don't like it?
'Do you ride?' says Tarquin, looking up at me in slight surprise.
I've ridden once. On my cousin's horse. And I fell off and vowed never to do it again. But I'm not going to admit that to Mr Horse of the Year.
'I used to,' I say, and give a modest little smile. 'Not very well.'
'I'm sure you'd get back into it,' says Tarquin, gazing at me. 'Have you ever hunted?'
Oh for God's sake. Do I look like Ms Country Life?
'Hey,' says Suze, fondly propping the picture against the wall. 'Shall we have a titchy before we go?'
'Absolutely!' I say, turning quickly away from Tarquin. 'Good idea.'
'Oooh yes,' says Fenella. 'Have you got any champagne?'
'Should have, says Suze, and goes into the kitchen.
At that moment the phone rings and I go to answer it.
'Hello?'
'Hello, may I speak to Rebecca Bloomwood?' says a strange woman's voice.
'Yes,' I say idly. I'm listening to Suze opening and shutting cupboard doors in the kitchen and wondering if we have actually got any champagne, apart from the dregs of the half-bottle we drank for breakfast…
'Speaking.'
'Ms Bloomwood, this is Erica Parnell from Endwich Bank,' says the voice, and I freeze.
Shit. It's the bank. Oh God, they sent me that letter, didn't they, and I never did anything about it.
What am I going to say? Quick, what am I going to say?
'Ms Bloomwood?' says Erica Parnell.
OK – what I'll say is, I'm fully aware that my overdraft is slightly larger than it should be, and I'm planning to take remedial action within the next few days. Yes, that sounds good. 'Remedial action' sounds very good. OK – go.
Firmly I tell myself not to panic – these people are human – and take a big breath. And then, in one seamless, unplanned movement, my hand puts down the receiver. I stare at the silent phone for a few seconds, not quite able to believe what I've just done. What did I do that for? Erica Parnell knew it was me, didn't she? Any minute, she'll ring back. She's probably pressing redial now, and she'll be really angry…
Quickly I take the phone off the hook and hide it under a cushion. Now she can't get me. I'm safe.
'Who was that?' says Suze, coming into the room.
'No-one,' I say, feeling slightly shaky. 'Just a wrong… Listen, let's not have drinks here. Let's go out!'
'Oh,' says Suze. 'OK!'
'Much more fun,' I gabble, trying to head her away from the phone. 'We can go to some really nice bar and have cocktails, and then go on to Terrazza.'
What I'll do in future, I'm thinking, is screen all my calls. Or answer in a foreign accent. Or, even better, change the number. Go ex-directory.
'What's going on?' says Fenella, appearing at the door.
'Nothing!' I hear myself say. 'We're going out for a titchy and then on to sups.'
Oh, I don't believe it. I'm turning into one of them.
As we arrive at Terrazza, I'm feeling a lot calmer. Of course, Erica Parnell will have thought we were cut off by a fault on the line or something. She'll never have thought I put the phone down on her. I mean, we're two civilized adults, aren't we? Adults just don't do things like that.
And if I ever meet her – which I hope to God I never do – I'll just keep very cool and say, 'It was odd what happened, that time you phoned me, wasn't it?' Or even better, I'll accuse her of putting the phone down on me (in a joky way, of course).
Terrazza is full, buzzing with people and cigarette smoke and chatter, and as we sit down with our huge silver menus I feel myself relax even more. I love eating out. And I reckon I deserve a real treat, after being so frugal over the last few days. It hasn't been easy, keeping to such a tight regime, but somehow I've managed it. And I'm keeping to it so well! On Saturday I'm going to monitor my spending pattern again – and I'm sure it'll have gone down by at least 70 per cent.
'What shall we have to drink?' says Suze. 'Tarquin, you choose.'
'Oh look!' shrieks Fenella. 'There's Eddie Lazenby! I must just say hello.' She leaps to her feet and makes for a balding guy in a blazer, ten tables away. How she spotted him in this throng, I've no idea.
'Suze!' cries another voice, and we all look up. A blond girl in a tiny pastel-pink suit is heading towards our table, arms stretched out for a hug. 'And Tarkie!'
'Hello, Tory,' says Tarquin, getting to his feet. 'How's Mungo?'
'He's over there!' says Tory. 'You must come and say hello!'