Confessions of a Shopaholic
Page 51
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“Oh right,” she says, and snaps an elastic band round a pile of letters. “You know, Luke Brandon was asking me if you had a boyfriend the other day.”
For an instant I can’t move. Luke Brandon wants to know if I’ve got a boyfriend?
“Really?” I say, trying to sound normal. “When. . when was this?”
“Oh, just the other day,” she says. “I was at a briefing at Brandon Communications, and he asked me. Just casually. You know.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said no,” said Clare, and gives me a little grin. “You don’t fancy him, do you?”
“Of course not,” I say, and roll my eyes.
But I have to admit, I feel quite cheerful as I turn back to my computer and start typing again. Luke Brandon. I mean, not that I like him or anything — but still. “This plan,” I type, “offers full death benefits and an optional lump sum on retirement. For example, assuming 7 percent growth, a typical woman aged 30 who invested £100 a month would receive. .”
You know what? I suddenly think, stopping midsentence. This is boring. I’m better than this.
I’m better than sitting here in this crappy office, typing out the details from a brochure, trying to turn them into some kind of credible journalism. I deserve to do something more interesting than this. Or more well paid. Or both.
I stop typing and rest my chin on my hands. It’s time for a new start. Why don’t I do what Elly’s doing? I’m not afraid of a bit of hard work, am I? Why don’t I get my life in order, go to a City head-hunter, and land myself a new job? I’ll have a huge income and a company car and wear Karen Millen suits every day. And I’ll never have to worry about money again.
I feel exhilarated. This is it! This is the answer to everything. I’ll be a. .
“Clare?” I say casually. “Who earns the most in the City?”
“I don’t know,” says Clare, frowning thoughtfully. “Maybe futures brokers?”
That’s it, then. I’ll be a futures broker. Easy.
And it is easy. So easy that ten o’clock the next morning sees me walking nervously up to the front doors of William Green, top City head-hunters. As I push the door open I glimpse my own reflection and feel a little thrill go through my stomach. Am I really doing this?
You bet I am. I’m wearing my smartest black suit, and tights and high heels, with an FT under my arm, obviously. And I’m carrying the briefcase with the combination lock, which my mum gave me one Christmas and which I’ve never used. This is partly because it’s really heavy and bumpy — and partly because I’ve forgotten the combination, so I can’t actually open it. But it looks the part. And that’s what counts.
Jill Foxton, the woman I’m meeting, was really nice on the phone when I told her about wanting to change careers, and sounded pretty impressed by all my experience. I quickly typed up a curriculum vitae and e-mailed it to her — and, OK, I padded it a bit, but that’s what they expect, isn’t it? It’s all about selling yourself. And it worked, because she phoned back only about ten minutes after receiving it, and asked if I’d come in and see her, as she thought she had some interesting opportunities for me.
I was so excited, I could barely keep still. I went straight into Philip and told him I wanted to take tomorrow off to take my nephew to the zoo — and he didn’t suspect a thing. He’s going to be gobsmacked when he finds out I’ve turned overnight into a high-flying futures broker.
“Hi,” I say confidently to the woman at reception. “I’m here to see Jill Foxton. It’s Rebecca Bloomwood.”
“Of. .”
I can’t say Successful Saving. It might get back to Philip that I’ve been looking for a new job.
“Of. . just of nowhere, really,” I say and give a relaxed little laugh. “Just Rebecca Bloomwood. I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
“Fine,” she says, and smiles. “Take a seat.”
I pick up my briefcase and walk over to the black leather chairs, trying not to give away how nervous I feel. I sit down, run my eye hopefully over the magazines on the coffee table (but there’s nothing interesting, just things like The Economist), then lean back and look around. This foyer is pretty impressive, I have to admit. There’s a fountain in the middle, and glass stairs rising in a curve — and, what seems like several miles away, I can see lots of state-of-the-art lifts. Not just one lift, or two — but about ten. Blimey. This place must be huge.
“Rebecca?” A blond girl in a pale trouser suit is suddenly in front of me. Nice suit, I think. Very nice suit.
For an instant I can’t move. Luke Brandon wants to know if I’ve got a boyfriend?
“Really?” I say, trying to sound normal. “When. . when was this?”
“Oh, just the other day,” she says. “I was at a briefing at Brandon Communications, and he asked me. Just casually. You know.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said no,” said Clare, and gives me a little grin. “You don’t fancy him, do you?”
“Of course not,” I say, and roll my eyes.
But I have to admit, I feel quite cheerful as I turn back to my computer and start typing again. Luke Brandon. I mean, not that I like him or anything — but still. “This plan,” I type, “offers full death benefits and an optional lump sum on retirement. For example, assuming 7 percent growth, a typical woman aged 30 who invested £100 a month would receive. .”
You know what? I suddenly think, stopping midsentence. This is boring. I’m better than this.
I’m better than sitting here in this crappy office, typing out the details from a brochure, trying to turn them into some kind of credible journalism. I deserve to do something more interesting than this. Or more well paid. Or both.
I stop typing and rest my chin on my hands. It’s time for a new start. Why don’t I do what Elly’s doing? I’m not afraid of a bit of hard work, am I? Why don’t I get my life in order, go to a City head-hunter, and land myself a new job? I’ll have a huge income and a company car and wear Karen Millen suits every day. And I’ll never have to worry about money again.
I feel exhilarated. This is it! This is the answer to everything. I’ll be a. .
“Clare?” I say casually. “Who earns the most in the City?”
“I don’t know,” says Clare, frowning thoughtfully. “Maybe futures brokers?”
That’s it, then. I’ll be a futures broker. Easy.
And it is easy. So easy that ten o’clock the next morning sees me walking nervously up to the front doors of William Green, top City head-hunters. As I push the door open I glimpse my own reflection and feel a little thrill go through my stomach. Am I really doing this?
You bet I am. I’m wearing my smartest black suit, and tights and high heels, with an FT under my arm, obviously. And I’m carrying the briefcase with the combination lock, which my mum gave me one Christmas and which I’ve never used. This is partly because it’s really heavy and bumpy — and partly because I’ve forgotten the combination, so I can’t actually open it. But it looks the part. And that’s what counts.
Jill Foxton, the woman I’m meeting, was really nice on the phone when I told her about wanting to change careers, and sounded pretty impressed by all my experience. I quickly typed up a curriculum vitae and e-mailed it to her — and, OK, I padded it a bit, but that’s what they expect, isn’t it? It’s all about selling yourself. And it worked, because she phoned back only about ten minutes after receiving it, and asked if I’d come in and see her, as she thought she had some interesting opportunities for me.
I was so excited, I could barely keep still. I went straight into Philip and told him I wanted to take tomorrow off to take my nephew to the zoo — and he didn’t suspect a thing. He’s going to be gobsmacked when he finds out I’ve turned overnight into a high-flying futures broker.
“Hi,” I say confidently to the woman at reception. “I’m here to see Jill Foxton. It’s Rebecca Bloomwood.”
“Of. .”
I can’t say Successful Saving. It might get back to Philip that I’ve been looking for a new job.
“Of. . just of nowhere, really,” I say and give a relaxed little laugh. “Just Rebecca Bloomwood. I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
“Fine,” she says, and smiles. “Take a seat.”
I pick up my briefcase and walk over to the black leather chairs, trying not to give away how nervous I feel. I sit down, run my eye hopefully over the magazines on the coffee table (but there’s nothing interesting, just things like The Economist), then lean back and look around. This foyer is pretty impressive, I have to admit. There’s a fountain in the middle, and glass stairs rising in a curve — and, what seems like several miles away, I can see lots of state-of-the-art lifts. Not just one lift, or two — but about ten. Blimey. This place must be huge.
“Rebecca?” A blond girl in a pale trouser suit is suddenly in front of me. Nice suit, I think. Very nice suit.
