'Hang on.' I turn round. 'What do you mean, they'll send me a cheque?' Suze looks at me as though I'm stupid.
'Well, Bex, they are your frames.'
'But you made them! Suze, you should get the money!'
'But I did them for you!' says Suze, and stares at me. 'I did them so you could make your three hundred quid!'
I stare at her silently, feeling a sudden thickness in my throat. Suze made all these frames for me. Slowly I sit down on the bed, pick up one of the frames and run my finger along the fabric. It's absolutely perfect. You could sell it in Liberty's.
'Suze, it's your money. Not mine,' I say eventually. 'It's your project, now.'
'Well, that's where you're wrong,' says Suze, and a triumphant look spreads over her face. 'I've got my own project.'
She comes over to the bed, reaches behind the pile of made-up frames, and pulls something out. It's a photo frame – but it's nothing like a Fine Frame. It's upholstered in silver furry fabric, and the word ANGEL is appliqued in pink across the top, and there are little silver pom-poms at the corners. It's the coolest, kitschiest frame I've ever seen.
'Do you like it?' she says, a bit nervously.
'I love it!' I say, grabbing it from her hands and looking more closely at it. 'Where did you get it?'
'I didn't get it anywhere,' she says. 'I made it.'
'What?' I stare at her. 'You… made this?'
'Yes. During Neighbours. It was awful, actually. Beth found out about Joey and Skye.'
I'm completely gobsmacked. How come Suze suddenly turns out to be so talented?
'So what do you reckon?' she says, taking the frame back and turning it over in her fingers. 'Could I sell these?'
Could she sell these?
'Suze,' I say quite seriously. 'You're going to be a millionaire.'
And we spend the rest of the evening getting very pissed and mapping out Suze's career as an Anita Roddick-style businesswoman. We get quite hysterical trying to decide if she should wear Chanel or Prada when she goes to meet the Queen – and by the time I get into bed, I've forgotten all about Luke Brandon and Bank of Helsinki and the rest of my disastrous day.
But the next morning, it all comes rushing back to me like a horror movie. I wake up feeling pale and shaky, and desperately wishing I could take a sickie. I don't want to go to work. I want to stay at home under the duvet, watching daytime telly and being a millionairess entrepreneur with Suze.
But it's the busiest week of the month, and Philip'll never believe I'm ill.
So, somehow, I haul myself out of bed and into some clothes and onto the tube. At Lucio's I buy myself an extra large cappuccino, and a muffin, and a chocolate brownie. I don't care if I get fat. I just need sugar and caffeine and chocolate, and as much as possible.
Luckily it's so busy, no-one's talking very much, so I don't have to bother telling everyone at the office what I did yesterday on my day off. Clare's tapping away at something and there's a pile of page proofs on my desk, ready for me to check. So after checking my e-mails – none – I scrunch miserably up in my chair, pick up the first one and start to read it.
'Balancing the risks and rewards of stock-market investment can be a dangerous business, especially for the novice investor.'
Oh God this is boring.
'While returns may be high in certain sectors of the market, nothing is ever guaranteed – and for the smalltime investor…'
'Rebecca?' I look up, to see Philip approaching my desk, holding a piece of paper. He doesn't look very happy, and for one terrible moment I think he's spoken to Jill Foxton at William Green, has discovered everything, and is giving me my P45. But as he gets nearer, I see it's only some dull-looking press release.
'I want you to go to this instead of me,' he says. 'It's on Friday. I'd go myself, but I'm going to be tied up here with Marketing.'
'Oh,' I say, without enthusiasm, and take the piece of paper. 'OK. What is it?'
'Personal Finance Fair at Olympia,' he says. 'We always cover it.'
Yawn. Yawn yawn yawn…
'Barclays are giving a champagne lunchtime reception,' he adds.
'Oh right!' I say, with more interest. 'Well, OK. It sounds quite good. What exactly is it…'
I glance down at the paper, and my heart stops as I see the Brandon Communications logo at the top of the page.
'It's basically just a big fair,' says Philip. 'All sectors of personal finance. Talks, stands, events. Just cover whatever sounds interesting. I leave it up to you.'
'OK,' I say after a pause. 'Fine.'
I mean, what do I care if Luke Brandon might be there? I'll just ignore him. I'll show him about as much respect as he showed me. And if he tries to talk to me, I'll just lift my chin firmly in the air, and turn on my heel, and…
'How are the pages going?' says Philip.
'Oh, great,' I say, and pick the top one up again.
'Should be finished soon.' He gives a little nod and walks away, and I begin to read again.
'… for the small-time investor, the risks attached to such stocks may outweigh the potential of reward.'
Oh God this is boring. I can't even bring myself to focus on what the words mean.
'More and more investors are therefore demanding the combination of stock market performance with a high level of security. One option is to invest in a Tracker fund, which automatically "tracks" the top 100 companies at any time…'
Hmm. Actually, that gives me a thought: I reach for my Filofax, flip it open and dial Elly's new direct number at Wetherby's.
'Eleanor Granger,' comes her voice, sounding a bit far-off and echoey. Must be a dodgy line.
'Hi, Elly, it's Becky,' I say. 'Listen, whatever happened to Tracker bars? They're really yummy, aren't they? And I haven't eaten one for…'
There's a scuffy sort of sound on the line, and I gape at the receiver in surprise. In the distance, I can hear Elly saying, 'I'm sorry. I'll just be a…'
'Becky!' she hisses down the phone. 'I was on speaker phone! Our head of department was in my office.'
'Oh God!' I say, aghast. 'Sorry! Is he still there?'
'No,' says Elly, and sighs. 'God knows what he thinks of me now.'
'Oh well,' I say reassuringly. 'He's got a sense of burnout, hasn't he?'
Elly doesn't reply.
'Oh well,' I say again, less certainly. 'Anyway, are you free for a drink at lunchtime?'
'Not really,' she says. 'Sorry, Becky, I've really got to go.' And she puts the phone down.
No-one likes me any more. Suddenly I feel a bit cold and shivery, and I scrunch up even more in my chair. Oh God, I hate today. I hate everything. I want to go hooome.
But by the time Friday arrives, I have to say I feel a lot more cheerful. This is primarily because:
1. It's Friday.
2. I'm spending all day out of the office.
3. Elly phoned yesterday and said sorry she was so abrupt, but someone else came into the office just as we were talking. And she's going to be at the Personal Finance Fair.
Plus
4. I have completely put the Luke Brandon incident from my mind. Who cares about him, anyway?
So as I get ready to go, I feel quite bouncy and positive.
I put on my new grey cardigan over a short black shirt, and my new Hobbs boots – dark grey suede – and I have to say, I look bloody good in them. God, I love new clothes. If everyone could just wear new clothes every day, I reckon depression wouldn't exist any more.
As I'm about to leave, a pile of letters comes through the letterbox for me. Several of them look like bills, and one is yet another letter from Endwich Bank. But I have a clever new solution to all these nasty letters: I just put them in my dressing-table drawer and close it. It's the only way to stop getting stressed out about it. And it really does work. As I thrust the drawer shut and head out of the front door, I've already forgotten all about them.