'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.

'If I were you, Anne,' I finish, 'I'd contact your local Inland Revenue office and ask them for their advice. And don't be scared!'

'Thanks,' says Anne's crackly voice. 'Thanks a lot, Rebecca.'

'Well, I hope that helps you, Anne,' says Emma, and smiles at the camera. 'Now we're going to Davina for the news and weather – but then, since so many of you are ringing in, we'll be coming back to this phone-in on "Managing your Money".'

'Lots of people with money problems out there,' chimes in Rory.

'Absolutely,' "says Emma. 'And we want to help. So whatever your query, however big or small, please call in for Rebecca Bloomwood's advice, on 0333 4567.'

She freezes for a moment, smiling at the camera, then relaxes back in her chair as the light goes off. 'Well, this is going very well!' she says brightly, as a make-up girl hurries up and touches up her face with powder. 'Isn't it, Zelda?'

'Fantastic!' says-Zelda, appearing from out of the gloom. 'The lines haven't been this busy since we did "I'd like to meet a Spice Girl".' She looks curiously at me. 'Have you ever done a course in television presenting, Rebecca?'

'No,' I say honestly. 'I haven't. But… I've watched a lot of telly.'

Zelda roars with laughter.

'Good answer! OK, folks, we're back in thirty.'

Emma smiles at me and consults the piece of paper in front of her, and Rory leans back and examines his nails. They're treating me like a fellow professional, I think joyfully. They're treating me like one of them.

I've never felt so completely and utterly happy. Never. Not even that time I found a Vivienne Westwood bustier for ?60 in the Harvey Nichols sale. (I wonder where that is, actually. I must get round to wearing it some time.) This beats everything. Life is perfect.

I lean back, full of contentment and am idly looking around the studio when an oddly familiar figure catches my eye. I peer harder, and my skin starts to prickle in horror. There's a man standing in the gloom of the studio – and honestly, I must be hallucinating or something, because he looks exactly like-

'And… welcome back,' says Rory and my attention snaps back to the set. 'This morning's phone-in is on financial problems, big and small. Our guest expert is Rebecca Bloomwood and our next caller is Fran from Shrewsbury. Fran?'

'Yes,' says Fran. 'Hi. Hi, Rebecca.'

'Hi there, Fran,' I say, smiling warmly. 'And what seems to be the trouble?'

'I'm in a mess,' says Fran. 'I… I don't know what to do.'

'Are you in debt, Fran?' says Emma gently.

'Yes,' says Fran, and gives a shaky sigh. 'I'm overdrawn, I owe money on all my credit cards, I've borrowed money off my sister…, and I just can't stop spending. I just… love buying things.'

'What sort of things?' says Rory interestedly.

'I don't know, really,' says Fran after a pause. 'Clothes for me, clothes for the kids, things for the house, just rubbish, really. Then the bills arrive… and I throw them away.'

Emma gives me a significant look, and I raise my eyebrows back.

'Rebecca?' she says. 'Fran's obviously in a bit of a spot. What should she be doing?'

'Well, Fran,' I say kindly. 'The first thing you've got to do is be brave, and confront your problem. Contact the bank and tell them you're having trouble managing. They're not monsters! They want to help.' I turn directly to the camera and look earnestly into the lens. 'Running away won't solve anything, Fran. The longer you leave it, the worse it'll get.'

'I know,' comes Fran's wobbly voice. 'I know you're right. But it's not easy.'

'I know' I say sympathetically. I know it's not. Just hang in there, Fran.'

'Rebecca,' says Emma. 'Would you say this a common problem?'

'I'm afraid it is,' I reply, turning back to her. 'Sadly, a lot of people out there simply don't put financial security first.'

'Oh dear,' says Emma, shaking her head sorrowfully.

'That's not good.'

'But it's never too late,' I continue. 'As soon as they turn that corner, and wake up to their responsibilities, their lives are transformed.'

I make a confident sweeping gesture with my arm, and as I do so, my gaze takes in the whole studio. And … Oh my God it's him.

I'm not hallucinating.

It's really him. Standing at the corner of the set, wearing a security badge and sipping something in a polystyrene cup as though he belongs here. Derek Smeath is standing here in the Morning Coffee studios, ten yards away fromme.

Derek Smeath of Endwich Bank.

But it… it can't be.

But it is. It's Derek Smeath. I don't understand.

What's he doing here?

Oh God, and now he's staring straight at me.

My heart begins to pound, and I swallow hard, trying to keep control of myself.

'Rebecca?' Emma says, and I force myself to turn my attention back to the show. I can't even remember what we're talking about. 'So you think Fran should go and see her bank manager?'

'I… ahm…, that's right,' I say, my cheeks suddenly burning red.

What am I going to do? He's staring right at me. I can't escape.

'So,' says Emma. 'You think that once Fran faces up to reality, she'll be able to get her life in order.'

'That's right,' I say like an automaton, and force myself to smile brightly at Emma. But underneath, my confident happiness is evaporating. Derek Smeath is here. I can't block him out of my vision; I can't forget about him.

And now all the parts of my life I'd so carefully buried at the back of my mind are starting to worm their way out again. I don't want to remember any of them – but I've got no choice. Here they come, wriggling into my mind, one piece of horrible reality after another.