“It’s the old story,” I say wisely. God, I’m enjoying this.
“If Philip knew what I was doing, he’d go crazy,” she says despairingly. “But it’s just so easy. I use a different name — and no one knows!”
“You use a different name?” I say, impressed in spite of myself.
“Several,” she says, and gives a bitter little laugh. “You’ve probably seen some of them around.” She exhales sharply. “I know I’m taking a risk — but I can’t stop. To be honest, you get used to the money.”
Money? Is she a prostitute?
“Clare, what exactly are you—”
“At first it was just a little piece on mortgages in The Mail,” she says, as though she hasn’t heard me. “I thought I could handle it. But then I was asked to do a full-length feature on life insurance in The Sunday Times. Then Pension and Portfolio got in on the act. And now it’s about three articles every week. I have to do it all in secret, try to act normally. .” She breaks off and shakes her head. “Sometimes it gets me down. But I just can’t say no anymore. I’m hooked.”
I do not believe it. She’s talking about work. Work! There I was, thinking she was having a steamy affair, ready to hear all the exciting details — and all the time it was just boring old. .
Then something she’s just said tweaks at my mind.
“Did you say the money was good?” I say casually.
“Oh yes,” she says. “About three hundred quid a piece. That’s how we could afford our flat.”
Three hundred quid!
Nine hundred quid a week! Bloody hell!
This is the answer. It’s easy. I’ll become a high-flying freelance journalist, just like Clare, and earn nine hundred quid a week. What I have to do is start networking and making contacts at events instead of always sitting at the back with Elly. I must shake hands firmly with all the finance editors of the nationals and wear my name badge prominently instead of putting it straight in my bag, and then phone them up with ideas when I get back to the office. And then I’ll have £900 a week. Hah!
So when I arrive at the press conference, I pin my name badge on firmly, take a cup of coffee (no champagne — blast), and head toward Moira Channing of the Daily Herald.
“Hello,” I say, nodding in what I hope is a serious manner. “Becky Bloomwood, Successful Saving.”
“Hello,” she says without interest, and turns back to the other woman in the group. “So we had the second lot of builders back, and really read them the riot act.”
“Oh, Moira, you poor thing,” says the other woman. I squint at her badge and see that she’s Lavinia Bellimore, freelance. Well, there’s no point impressing her — she’s the competition.
Anyway, she doesn’t give me a second glance. The two chat away about extensions and school fees, completely ignoring me — and after a bit I mutter, “Good to meet you,” and creep away. God, I’d forgotten how unfriendly they are. Still, never mind. I’ll just have to find someone else.
So after a bit I sidle up to a very tall guy on his own, and smile at him.
“Becky Bloomwood, Successful Saving,” I say.
“Geoffrey Norris, freelance,” he says, and flashes his badge at me. Oh for God’s sake. The place is crawling with freelancers!
“Who do you write for?” I ask politely, thinking at least I might pick up some tips.
“It depends,” he says shiftily. His eyes keep darting backward and forward, and he’s refusing to meet my eye. “I used to be on Monetary Matters. But they sacked me.”
“Oh dear,” I say.
“They’re bastards over there,” he says, and drains his coffee. “Bastards! Don’t go near them. That’s my advice.”
“OK, I’ll remember that!” I say brightly, edging away. “Actually, I just have to. .” And I turn, and walk quickly away. Why do I always find myself talking to weirdos?
Just then, a buzzer goes off, and people start to find their seats. Deliberately, I head for the second row, pick up the glossy brochure that’s waiting for me on my seat, and take out my notebook. I wish I wore glasses, then I’d look even more serious. I’m just writing down Sacrum Asset Management Pension Fund Launch in capitals at the top of the page, when a middle-aged man I’ve never seen before plonks himself down next to me. He’s got disheveled brown hair and smells of cigarettes, and is wearing an old-looking jacket over a dark red shirt with no tie. Plus, I suddenly notice, sneakers on his feet. Sneakers to a press conference? He sits down, leans back comfortably, and looks around with twinkling brown eyes.
“It’s a joke, isn’t it?” he murmurs, then meets my eye. “All this gloss. All this show.” He gestures around. “You don’t fall for it, do you?”
Oh God. Another weirdo.
“Absolutely not,” I say politely, and look for his name badge, but I can’t see one.
“Glad to hear it,” says the man, and shakes his head. “Bloody fat cats.” He gestures to the front, where three men in expensive suits are sitting down behind the table. “You won’t find them surviving on fifty quid a week, will you?”
“Well. . no,” I say. “More like fifty quid a minute.” The man gives an appreciative laugh.
“That’s a good line. I might use that.” He extends his hand. “Eric Foreman, Daily World.”
“Daily World?” I say, impressed in spite of myself. Gosh, The Daily World. I have to confess a little secret here — I really like The Daily World. I know it’s only a tabloid, but it’s so easy to read, especially if you’re on a train. (My arms must be very weak or something, because holding The Times makes them ache after a while. And then all the pages get messed up. It’s a nightmare.) And some of the articles in the “Female World” section are actually rather interesting.