Shit, I hope my legs look OK.
'If I were a Flagstaff customer and this had happened to me, I'd be very angry,' Luke continues. 'There is such a thing as customer loyalty; there is such a thing as playing straight. And I would hope that any client of mine, whom I represent in public, would abide by both of those principles.'
'I see,' says Emma and turns to the camera. 'Well – this is quite a turn-around! Luke Brandon, here to represent Flagstaff Life, now says that what they did was wrong. Any further comment, Luke?'
'To be honest,' says Luke, with a wry smile, 'I'm not sure I'll be representing Flagstaff Life any more after this.'
'Ah,' says Rory, leaning forward intelligently. 'And can you tell us why that is?'
'Oh, honestly, Rory!' says Emma impatiently. She rolls her eyes and Luke gives a little snort of laughter.
Suddenly everyone's laughing, and I join in too, slightly hysterically. I catch Luke's eye and feel something flash in my chest, then quickly look away again.
'Right, well, anyway,' says Emma abruptly, pulling herself together and smiling at the camera. 'That's it from the finance experts – but, coming up after the break – the return of hot-pants to the catwalk…'
'… and cellulite creams – do they really work?' adds Rory.
'Plus our special guests – Heaven Sent 7 – singing live in the studio.'
The theme music blares out of the loudspeakers and both Emma and Rory leap to their feet.
'Wonderful debate,' says Emma, hurrying off. 'Sorry, I'm dying for a wee.'
'Excellent stuff,' adds Rory earnestly. 'Didn't understand a word – but great television.' He slaps Luke on the back, raises his hand to me and then hurries off the set.
And all at once it's over. All finished. It's just me and Luke, sitting opposite each other on the sofas, with bright lights still shining in our eyes and microphones still clipped to our lapels. I feel slightly shell-shocked. Slightly dizzy.
Did all that really just happen?
'So,' I say eventually, and clear my throat.
'So,' echoes Luke, with a tiny smile. 'Well done.'
'Thanks,' I say, and bite my lip awkwardly in the silence.
I'm wondering if he's in big trouble now. If attacking one of your clients on live TV is the PR equivalent of hiding clothes from the customers. If he really changed his mind because of my article. Because of me. But I can't ask that. Can I?
The silence is growing louder and louder and at last I take a deep breath.
'Did you-'
'I was-'
We both speak at once.
'No,' I say, flushing red. 'You go. Mine wasn't… You go.'
'OK,' says Luke, and gives a little shrug. 'I was just going to ask if you'd like to have dinner tonight.'
I stare at him, taken aback.
What does he mean, have dinner? Does he mean
'To discuss a bit of business,' he continues. 'I very much liked your idea for a unit trust promotion along the lines of the January sales.'
My what?
What idea? What's he…
Oh God, that. is he serious? That was just one of my stupid, speak-aloud, brain-not-engaged moments.
'I think it could be a good promotion for a particular client of ours,' he's saying, 'and I was wondering whether you'd like to consult on the project. On a freelance basis, of course.'
Consult. Freelance. Project.
I don't believe it. He's serious.
'Oh,' I say, and swallow, inexplicably disappointed.
'Oh, I see. Well, I. I suppose I might be free tonight.'
'Good,' says Luke. 'Shall we say the Ritz?'
'If you like,' I say offhandedly, as though I go there all the time.
'Good,' says Luke again, and his eyes crinkle into a smile. 'I look forward to it.'
And then – oh God. To my utter horror, before I can stop myself, I hear myself saying bitchily, 'What about Sacha? Doesn't she have plans for you tonight?'
Even as the words hit the air, I feel myself redden.
Oh shit. What did I say that for?
There's a long silence during which I want to slink off somewhere and die.
'Sacha left, a week ago,' says Luke finally, and my head pops up.
'Oh,' I say feebly. 'Oh dear.'
'No warning – she packed up her suitcase and went.' Luke looks up. 'Still – it could be worse.' He gives a deadpan shrug. 'At least I didn't buy the holdall as well.'
Oh God, now I'm going to giggle. I mustn't giggle. I mustn't
'I'm really sorry,' I manage at last.
'I'm not,' says Luke, gazing at me seriously, and the laughter inside me dies away. I stare back at him nervously and feel my heart begin to pound.
'Rebecca! Luke!'
Our heads jerk round to see Zelda approaching the set, clipboard in hand.
'Fantastic!' she exclaims. 'Just what we wanted. Luke, you were great. And Rebecca…' She comes and sits next to me on the sofa and pats my shoulder. 'You were so wonderful, we were thinking – how would you like to stand in as our phone-in expert later in the show?'
'What?' I stare at her. 'But… but I can't! I'm not an expert on anything.'
'Hahaha, very good!' Zelda gives an appreciative laugh. 'The great thing about you, Rebecca, is you've got the common touch. We see you as finance guru meets girl-next-door. Informative but approachable. Knowledgeable but down-to-earth. The financial expert people really want to talk to. What do you think, Luke?'
'I think Rebecca will do the job perfectly,' says Luke. 'I can't think of anyone better qualified. I also think I'd better get out of your way.' He stands up and smiles at me. 'See you later, Rebecca. Bye, Zelda.'
I watch in a daze as he picks his way across the cable-strewn floor towards the exit, half wishing he would look back.
'Right,' says Zelda, and squeezes my hand. 'Let's get you sorted.'
Twenty-Two
I was made to go on television. That's the truth. I was absolutely made to go on television.
We're sitting on the sofas again, Rory and Emma and me, and Anne from Leeds is falteringly admitting over the line that she's never once sent in a tax return.
I glance at Emma and smile, and she twinkles back. I'm one of the team. One of the gang. I've never felt so warm and happy in all my life.
What's really weird is that when it was me being interviewed, I felt all tongue-tied and nervous – but now I'm on the other side of the sofa, I'm in my element.
God, I could do this all day. I don't even mind the bright lights any more. They feel normal. And I've practised the most flattering way to sit in front of the mirror (knees together, feet crossed at the ankle) – and I'm sticking to it.
'I've started doing some cleaning,' says Anne, 'and I never gave it a second thought. But now my employer's asked me if I've paid any tax. I mean, it didn't even occur to me.'
'Oh dear,' says Emma, and glances at me. 'Anne's obviously in a bit of a spot.'
'Absolutely,' I say sympathetically. 'Well the first thing to know, Anne, is that you may not have to pay any tax at all, if you're below the threshold. And the second thing is, you've still got plenty of time to get a tax return in and sort everything out.'
That's the other really weird thing. God knows how – but I know the answers to all the questions. I know about mortgages, and I know about life assurance, and I know about pensions. I know this stuff! A few minutes ago, Kenneth from St Austell asked what the annual contribution limit for an ISA is – and I answered ?5,000 without even thinking about it. It's almost as if some part of my mind has carefully been storing every single bit of information I've ever written in Successful Saving, and now, when I need it, it's all there. Ask me anything! Ask me… the rules on capital gains tax for home owners. Go on, ask me.