Oddbins (bottle of wine – essential)
Esso (petrol doesn't count)
Quaglino's (expensive – but it was a one-off)
Pret Manger (that time I ran out of cash)
Oddbins (bottle of wine – essential)
Rugs to Riches (what? Oh yes, the rug. Stupid rug)
La Senza (sexy underwear for date with James)
Agent Provocateur (even sexier underwear for date with James. Huh. Like I needed it)
Body Shop (that skin brusher thing which I must use)
Next (fairly boring white shirt – but it was in the sale)
Millets…
I stop in my tracks. Millets? I never go into Millets. What the hell would I be doing if I Millets? I stare at the statement in puzzlement, wrinkling my brow and trying to think – and then suddenly, the truth dawns on me. It's obvious. Someone else has been using my card.
Oh my God. I, Rebecca Bloomwood, have been the victim of a crime.
Now it all makes sense. Some criminal's pinched my redit card and forged my signature. Who knows where else they've used it? No wonder my statement's so black with figures! Someone's gone on a spending spree round London with my card – and they thought they would just get away with it.
But how have they managed it? I scrabble in my bag for my purse, open it – and there's my VISA card, staring up at me. I take it out and gaze at it. Someone must have pinched it from my purse, used it – and then put it back. It must be someone I know. Oh my God. Who?
I look suspiciously round the office. Whoever it is, isn't very bright. Using my card at Millets! It's almost laughable. As if I'd ever shop there.
'I've never even been into Millets!' I say aloud.
'Yes you have,' says Clare.
'What?' I turn to her, not particularly pleased to be interrupted. 'No I haven,t.'
'You bought Michael's leaving present from Millets, didn't you?'
I stare at her and feel my smile disappear. Oh bugger.
Of course. The blue anorak for Michael. The blue sodding anorak from Millets.
When Michael, our deputy editor left three weeks ago, I volunteered to buy his present. I took the brown envelope full of coins and notes into the shop and picked out an anorak (take it from me, he's that kind of guy). And at the last minute, now I remember, I decided to pay on credit and keep all the handy cash for myself.
I can vividly remember fishing out the four ?5 notes and carefully putting them in my wallet, sorting out the pound coins and putting them in my coin compartment, and pouring the rest of the drossy change into the bottom of my bag. Oh good, I remember thinking. I won't have to go to the cashpoint. I'd thought that sixty quid would last me for weeks.
So what happened to it? I can't have just spent sixty quid without realizing it, can I?
'Why are you asking, anyway?' says Clare, and she leans forward. I can see her beady little X-ray eyes gleaming behind her specs. She knows I'm looking at my VISA bill. 'No reason,' I say, briskly turning to the second page of my statement.
But I've been put off my stride. Instead of doing what I normally do – look at the Minimum Payment Required and ignore the total completely – I find myself staring straight at the bottom figure.
Nine hundred and forty-nine pounds, sixty-three pence. In clear black and white.
I stare at it silently for thirty seconds, then stuff the bill back into the envelope. I honestly feel, at that moment, as though this piece of paper has nothing to do with me. Perhaps, if I carelessly let it drop down on the floor behind my computer, it will disappear. The cleaners will sweep it up and I can claim I never got it. They can't charge me for a bill I never received, can they?
I'm already composing a letter in my head. 'Dear Managing Director of VISA. Your letter has confused me. What bill are you talking about, precisely? I never received any bill from your company. I did not care for your tone and should warn you, I am writing to Anne Robinson of Watchdog.'
Or I could always move abroad.
'Becky?' My tread jerks up and I see Clare staring at me. 'Have you finished the piece on Lloyds?'
'Nearly,' I lie. As she's watching me, I feel forced to summon it up on my computer screen, just to show willing. But she's still bloody watching me.
'Savers can benefit from instant access,' I type onto the screen, copying directly from a press release in front of me. 'The account is also offering tiered rates of interest for those investing more than ?5,000.'
I type a full stop, take a sip of coffee and turn to the second page of the press release.
This is what I do, by the way. I'm a journalist on a financial magazine. I'm paid to tell other people how to organize their money.
Of course, it's not the career I always wanted. No-one who writes about personal finance ever meant to do it. People tell you they 'fell into' personal finance.
I just answered questions that sounded as though I knew what I was talking about. After a year and a half– believe it or not – I was head-hunted to Successful Saving.
Of course, I still know nothing about finance. People at the bus stop know more about finance than me. Schoolchildren know more than me. I've been doing this job for three years now, and I'm still expecting someone to catch me out.
That afternoon, Philip the editor calls my name, and I jump in fright.
'Rebecca?' he says. 'A word.' And he beckons me over to his desk. His voice seems lower all of a sudden, almost conspiratorial, and he's smiling at me, as though he's about to give me a piece of good news.
Oh my God, I think. Promotion. It must be. He knows it's unfair I earn less than Clare, so he's going to promote me to her level. Or even above. And he's telling me discreetly so Clare won't get jealous.
A wide smile plasters itself over my face and I get up and walk the three yards or so to his desk, trying to stay calm but already planning what I'll buy with my pay rise. I'll get that swirly coat in Whistles. And some black high-heeled boots from Pied Terre. Maybe I'll go on holiday. And I'll pay off that blasted VISA bill once and for all. I feel buoyant with relief. I knew everything would be OK…
'Rebecca?' He's thrusting a card at me. 'I can't make this press conference,' he says. 'But it could be quite interesting. Will you go? It's at Brandon Communications.'
I can feel my elated expression falling off my face like jelly. He's not promoting me. I'm not getting a pay rise. I feel betrayed. Why did he smile at me like that? He must have known he was lifting my hopes. Callous bastard.
'Something wrong?' enquires Philip.
'No,' I mutter. But I can't bring myself to smile. In front of me, my new swirly coat and high-heeled boots are disappearing into a puddle, like the Wicked Witch of the West. No promotion. Just a press conference about… I glance at the card. About a new unit trust. How could anyone possibly describe that as interesting?
'You can write it up for the news,' says Philip.
'OK,' I say, shrugging, and walk away.
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.