“No problem,” I say. “The sooner the better.”
“I have to say, you look very well,” says Zelda, surveying me with a slight air of disappointment. “Have you lost weight?”
“A little, I suppose.”
“Ah… stress,” she says wisely. “Stress, the silent killer. We’re doing a feature on it next week. Now!” she exclaims, bustling me into the makeup room. “This is Becky…”
“Zelda, we know who Becky is,” says Chloe, who’s been doing my makeup ever since I first appeared on Morning Coffee. She pulls a face at me in the mirror and I stifle a giggle.
“Yes, of course you do! Sorry, Becky, I’ve just got you down in my mind as a guest! Now, Chloe. Don’t do too good a job on Becky today. We don’t want her looking too glowing and happy, do we?” She lowers her voice. “And use waterproof mascara. In fact, everything waterproof. See you later!”
Zelda sweeps out of the room, and Chloe shoots her a scornful glance.
“OK,” she says. “I’m going to make you look as good as you’ve ever looked in your life. Extra happy and extra glowing.”
“Thanks, Chloe,” I say, grinning at her, and sit down on a chair.
“Oh, and please don’t tell me you’re really going to need waterproof mascara,” she adds, tying a cape around me.
“No way,” I say firmly. “They’ll have to shoot me first.”
“Then they probably will,” says a girl from across the room, and we all start giggling helplessly.
“All I can say is, I hope they’re paying you well to do this,” says Chloe, as she starts to smooth foundation onto my skin.
“Yes,” I say. “They are, as it happens. But that’s not why I’m doing it.”
Half an hour later, I’m sitting in the Green Room when Clare Edwards comes walking in. She’s wearing a dark green suit that really doesn’t do much for her — and is it my imagination, or has someone made her up far too pale? She’s going to look really pasty under the lights.
“Oh,” says Clare, looking discomfited as she sees me. “Hello, Becky.”
“Hi, Clare,” I say. “Long time no see.”
“Yes. Well.” She twists her hands into a knot. “I was very sorry to read of your troubles.”
“Thanks,” I say lightly. “Still — it’s an ill wind, eh, Clare?”
Clare immediately blushes bright red and looks away — and I feel a bit ashamed of myself. It’s not her fault I got sacked.
“Honestly, I’m really pleased you got the job,” I say more kindly. “And I think you’re doing it really well.”
“Right!” says Zelda, hurrying in. “We’re ready for you. Now, Becky.” She puts a hand on my arm as we walk out. “I know this is going to be very traumatic for you. We’re quite prepared for you to take your time… again, if you break down completely, start sobbing, whatever… don’t worry.”
“Thanks, Zelda,” I say, and nod seriously. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
We get to the set, and there are Rory and Emma, sitting on the sofas. I glance at a monitor as I walk past, and see that they’ve blown up that awful picture of me in New York, tinted it red, and headlined it “Becky’s Tragic Secret.”
“Hi, Becky,” says Emma, as I sit down, and pats me sympathetically on the hand. “Are you all right? Would you like a tissue?”
“Erm… no, thanks.” I lower my voice. “But, you know. Perhaps later.”
“Terrifically brave of you to come and do this,” says Rory, and squints at his notes. “Is it true your parents have disowned you?”
“Ready in five,” calls Zelda from the floor. “Four… three…”
“Welcome back,” says Emma somberly to camera. “Now, we’ve got a very special guest with us today. Thousands of you will have followed the story of Becky Bloomwood, our former financial expert. Becky was, of course, revealed by The Daily World to be far from financially secure herself.”
The picture of me shopping appears on the monitor, followed by a series of tabloid headlines, accompanied by the song “Hey Big Spender.”
“So, Becky,” says Emma, as the music dies away. “Let me begin by saying how extremely sorry and sympathetic we are for you in your plight. In a minute, we’ll be asking our new financial expert, Clare Edwards, just what you should have done to prevent this catastrophe. But now — just to put our viewers straight… could you tell us exactly how much in debt you are?”
