Confessions of a Shopaholic
Page 87
“And I’ll buy one,” I say. “Or two, perhaps.” I carelessly reach for a handful and plonk them on the counter.
“Six copies?” says the cashier. “Are you sure?”
“I need them for my records,” I say, and blush slightly.
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 writing general features? Human interest stories, that kind 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 Brandon’s curt voice — and my heart freezes. “Could you please tell me what the fuck 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.”
“Six copies?” says the cashier. “Are you sure?”
“I need them for my records,” I say, and blush slightly.
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 writing general features? Human interest stories, that kind 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 Brandon’s curt voice — and my heart freezes. “Could you please tell me what the fuck 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.”
