I can’t do this. I can’t speak to Luke Brandon. My questions are jotted down on a piece of paper in front of me, but as I stare at them, I’m not reading them.

OK, I can do this, I tell myself firmly. I’ll just be very stern and businesslike and ask my questions, and...

“Rebecca!” comes a voice in my ear. “How are you! It’s Alicia here.”

“Oh,” I say in surprise. “I thought I was going to speak to Luke. It’s about Flagstaff Life.”

“Yes, well,” says Alicia. “Luke Brandon is a very busy man. I’m sure I can answer any questions you have.”

“Oh, right,” I say, and pause. “But they’re not your client, are they?”

“I’m sure that won’t matter in this case,” she says, and gives a little laugh. “What did you want to know?”

“Right,” I say, and look at my list. “Was it a deliberate for Flagstaff Life to invite their investors to move out of with-profits just before they announced windfalls? Some people lost out a lot, you know.”

“Right…” she says. “Thanks, Camilla, I’ll have salmon and lettuce.”

“What?” I say.

“Sorry, yes, I am with you,” she says. “Just jotting it down... I’ll have to get back to you on that, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I need a response soon!” I say, giving her my number. “My deadline’s in a few hours.”

“Got that,” says Alicia. Suddenly her voice goes muffled. “No, smoked salmon. OK then, Chinese chicken. Yes.” The muffle disappears. “So, Rebecca, any other questions? Tell you what, shall I send you our latest press pack? That’s bound to answer any other queries. Or you could fax in your questions.”

“Fine,” I say curtly. “Fine, I’ll do that.” And I put phone down.

For a while I stare straight ahead in brooding silence. Stupid patronizing cow. Can’t even be bothered to take my questions seriously.

Then gradually it comes to me that this is the way I always get treated when I ring up press offices. No one’s ever in any hurry to answer my questions, are they? People are always putting me on hold, saying they’ll ring me back and not bothering. I’ve never minded before – I’ve rather enjoyed hanging on to a phone, listening to “Greensleeves”. I’ve never cared before whether people took me seriously or not.

But today I do care. Today what I’m doing does seem important, and I do want to be taken seriously. This article isn’t just about a press release and a bunch of numbers. Martin and Janice aren’t hypothetical examples dreamed up by some marketing department. Тhey’re real people with real lives. That money would have made a huge difference to them.

I’ll show Alicia, I think fiercely. I’ll show them all, Luke Brandon included. Show them that I, Rebecca Bloomwood, am not a joke.

With a sudden determination I reach for my dad’s typewriter. I feed in some paper, switch on my Dicta­phone, take a deep breath, and begin to type.

Two hours later, I fax my 950-word article to Eric Foreman.

Extract 6

When we get home, Mum and Janice are both wait­ing at our front door, desperate to see a copy.

“My hair!” wails Janice as soon as she sees the pic­ture. “It looks terrible! What have they done to it?”

“No, it doesn’t, love!” protests Martin. “You look very nice.”

“Your curtains look lovely, Janice,” says Mum, looking over her shoulder.

“They do, don’t they?” says Martin eagerly, “that’s just what I said.”

I give up. What kind of family have I got, that are more interested in curtains than top financial journalism? Anyway, I don’t care. I’m mesmerized by my byline. “By Rebecca Bloomwood”. “By Rebecca Bloomwood.”

After everyone’s peered at the paper. Mum invites Janice and Martin round to our house for breakfast, and Dad goes and puts on some coffee. There’s a rather festive air to the proceedings, and everyone keeps laugh­ing a lot. I don’t think any of us can quite believe that Janice and Martin are in The Daily World. (And me, of course. “By Rebecca Bloomwood.”)

At ten o’clock, I slope off and ring up Eric Foreman. Just casually, you know. To let him know I’ve seen it.

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” he says cheerfully. “The editor’s really going for this series, so if you come up with any more stories like this just give me a shout. I like your style. Just right for The Daily World.”

“Excellent,” I say, feeling a glow of pleasure.

“Oh, and while I’m at it,” he adds, “you’d better give me your bank details.”

My stomach gives a nasty lurch. Why does Eric Foreman want my bank details? Shit, is he going to check that my own finances are in order or something? Is he going to run a credit check on me?

“Everything’s done by transfer these days,” he’s say­ing. “Four hundred quid. That all right?”

What? What’s he–

Oh my God, he’s going to pay me. But of course he is. Of course he is!

“That’s fine,” I hear myself say. “No problem. I’ll just, ahm... give you my account number, shall I?”

Four hundred quid! I think dazedly as I scrabble for my checkbook. Just like that! I can’t quite believe it.

“Excellent,” says Eric Foreman, writing the details down. “I’ll sort that out for you with Accounts.” Then he pauses, “Tell me, would you be in the market for wilting general features? Human interest stories, that кind of thing?”

Would I be in the market? Is he kidding?

“Sure,” I say, trying not to sound too thrilled. “In fact... I’d probably prefer it to finance.”

“Oh right,” he says. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for bits that might suit you. As I say, I think you’ve got the right style for us.”

“Great,” I say. “Thanks.”

As I put the phone down, there’s a huge smile on my face. I’ve got the right style for The Daily World! Hah!

The phone rings again, and I pick it up, wondering if it’s Eric Foreman offering me some more work already.

“Hello, Rebecca Bloomwood,” I say in a businesslike voice.

“Rebecca,” says Luke Brandons curt voice – and my heart freezes. “Could you please tell me what is going on?”

Shit.

He sounds really angry. For an instant I’m paralyzed. My throat feels dry, my hand is sweaty round the receiver. Oh God. What am I going to say? What am I going to say to him?

But hang on a minute. I haven’t done anything wrong.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, playing for time. Keep calm, I tell myself. Calm and cool.

“Your tawdry effort in The Daily World,” he says scathingly. “Your one-sided, unbalanced, probably libelous little story.”

For a second I’m so shocked I can’t speak. Tawdry? Libelous?

“It’s not tawdry!” I splutter at last. “It’s a good piece! And it’s certainly not libelous. I can prove everything I said.”

“And I suppose getting the other side of the story would have been inconvenient,” he snaps. “I suppose you were too busy writing your purple prose to approach Flagstaff Life and ask for their version of events. You’d rather have a good story than spoil it by trying to give a balanced picture.”

“I tried to get the other side of the story!” I exclaim furiously. “I phoned your PR company yesterday and told them I was writing the piece!”

There’s silence.

“Who did you speak to?” says Luke.

“Alicia,” I reply “I asked her a very clear question about Flagstaff’s policy on switching funds, and she told me she’d get back to me. I told her I had an urgent dead­line.”

Luke gives an impatient sigh. “What were you doing, speaking to Alicia? Flagstaff’s my client, not hers.”

“I know! I said that to her! But she said you were a very busy man and she could deal with me.”

“Did you tell her you were writing for The Daily World?”

“No,” I say, and feel myself blush slightly red. “I didn’t specify who I was writing for. But I would have told her if she’d asked me. She just didn’t bother. She just assumed I couldn’t possibly be doing anything impor­tant.” In spite of myself, my voice is rising in emotion. “Well, she was wrong, wasn’t she? You were all wrong. And maybe now you’ll start treating everybody with respect. Not just the people you think are important.” I break off, panting slightly, and there’s a bemused silence.

“Rebecca,” says Luke at last, “if this is some kind of petty revenge–”

I’m really going to explode now.

“Don’t you bloody insult me!” I yell. “Don’t you bloody try and make this personal! This is about two innocent people being hoodwinked by one of your bigshot clients, nothing else. I told the truth, and if you didn’t have a chance to respond, it’s your own company’s incompetence that’s to blame. I was completely professional, I gave you every opportunity to put out your side of the story. Every opportunity. And if you blew it, that’s not my fault.”

And without giving him the chance to reply, I slam the phone down.

I’m feeling quite shaken as I go back into the kitchen.

“Telephone!” says Mum. “Shall I get it?”

It’ll be him again, won’t it? Ringing back to apologize. Well, he needn’t think I’m that easily won round. I stand by every word I said. And I’ll tell him so. In fact, I’ll add that–

“It’s for you, Becky,” says Mum.

“Fine,” I say coolly, and make my way to the telephone. I don’t hurry, I don’t panic. I feel completely in control.

“Hello?” I say.

“Rebecca? Eric Foreman here.”

“Oh!” I say in surprise. “Hi!”

“Bit of news about your piece.”

“Oh yes?” I say, trying to sound calm. But my stomach’s churning. What if Luke Brandon’s spoken to him? Oh shit, I did check all the facts, didn’t I?

“I’ve just had Morning Coffee on the phone,” he says. “You know, the TV program? Rory and Emma. They’re interested in your story.”

“What?” I say stupidly.

“There’s a new series they’re doing on finance, ‘Managing Your Money.’ They get some financial expert in every week, tell the viewers how to keep tabs on their dosh.” Eric Foreman lowers his voice. “Frankly, they’re running out of stuff to talk about. They’ve done mort­gages, store cards, pensions, all the usual cobblers...”

“Right,” I say, trying to sound focused. But as his words slowly sink in, I’m a bit dazed. Rory and Emma read my article? Rory and Emma themselves? I have a sudden vision of them holding the paper together, jostling for a good view.

But of course, that’s silly, isn’t it? They’d have a copy each.

“So, anyway, they want to have you on the show to­morrow morning,” Eric Foreman’s saying. “Talk about this windfall story, warn their viewers to take care. You interested in dial kind of thing? If not, I can easily tell them you’re too busy.”

“No!” I say quickly. “No. Tell them I’m...” I swallow. “I’m interested.”

As I put down the phone, I feel faint. I’m going to be on television.