THE NEXT MORNING, I wake at six o’clock. It’s pathetic, I know, but I’m as excited as a little kid on Christmas Day (or as me on Christmas Day, to be perfectly1 honest).
I lie in bed, telling myself to be grown-up and laid-back and not think about it—but I just can’t resist it. My mind swims with images of the piles of newspapers in newsstands all over the country. Of the copies ofTheDaily World being dropped on people’s doormats this morning; all the people who are going to be opening their papers, yawning, wondering what’s in the news.
And what are they going to see?
They’re going to see my name! Rebecca Bloomwood in print inThe Daily World ! My first national byline2: “By Rebecca Bloomwood.” Doesn’t that sound cool? “By Rebecca Bloomwood.”
I know the piece has gone in, because Eric Foreman phoned me up yesterday afternoon and told me the editor was really pleased with it. And they’ve got it on a color page—so the picture of Janice and Martin will be in full color. Really high profile. I can’t quite believe it.The Daily World!
Even as I’m lying here, it occurs to me, there’s already a wholepile ofDaily World s at the newsstand in the parade of shops round the corner. A whole pile of pristine3, unopened copies. And the newsstand opens at . . . what time? Six, I seem to remember. And now it’s five past six. So intheory, Icould go and buy one right now if I wanted to. I could just get up, slip on some clothes, go down to the newsstand, and buy one.
Not that I would, of course. I’m not quite so sad and desper-ate that I’m going to rush down as soon as the shop’s opened, just to see my name. I mean, what do you take me for? No, what I’ll do is just saunter down casually4 later on—perhaps at eleven or midday—pick up the paper and flip5 through it in mild interest and then saunter home again. I probably won’t even bother to buy a copy. I mean—I’ve seen my name in print before. It’s hardly a big deal. No need to make a song and dance about it.
I’m going to turn over now and go back to sleep. I can’t think why I’m awake so early. Must be the birds or something. Hmm . . . close my eyes, plump up my pillow, think about some-thing else . . . I wonder what I’ll have for breakfast when I get up?
But I’ve never seen my name inThe Daily World, says a little voice in my head. I’ve never seen it in a national newspaper.
This is killing6 me. I can’t wait any longer, I’vegot to see it.
Abruptly7 I get out of bed, throw on my clothes, and tiptoe down the stairs. As I close the door, I feel just like the girl in that Beatles song about leaving home. Outside the air has a sweet, new-day smell, and the road is completely quiet. Gosh, it’s nice being up early. Why on earth don’t I get up at six more often? I should do this every day. A power walk before breakfast, like people do in New York. Burn off loads of calories and then return home to an energizing8 breakfast of oats and freshly squeezed orange juice. Perfect. This will be my new regime.
But as I reach the little parade of shops I feel a stab of nerves, and without quite meaning to, I slow my walk to a funereal9 pace. Maybe I’ll just buy myself a Mars Bar and go home again. Or a Mint Aero, if they’ve got them.
Cautiously, I push at the door and wince10 at the ping! as it opens. I really don’t want to draw attention to myself this morn-ing. What if the guy behind the counter has read my article and thinks it’s rubbish? This is nerve-racking. I should never have become a journalist. I should have become a beautician, like I always wanted to. Maybe it’s not too late. I’ll retrain, open my own boutique . . .
“Hello, Becky!”
I look up and feel my face jerk in surprise. Martin Webster’s standing11 at the counter, holding a copy ofThe Daily World. “I just happened to be awake,” he explains sheepishly. “Thought I’d just come down, have a little look . . .”
“Oh,” I say. “Erm . . . me too.” I give a nonchalant shrug12. “Since I was awake anyway . . .”
My eye falls on the newspaper and I feel my stomach flip over. I’m going to expire with nerves. Please, just kill me quickly.
“So—what . . . what’s it like?” I say in a strangled voice.
“Well,” says Martin, gazing at the page as though perplexed13. “It’s certainly big.” He turns the paper round to face me, and I nearly keel over. There, in full color, is a picture of Martin and Janice staring miserably14 up at the camera, below the headlineCOUPLE CHEATED BY FAT CATS AT FLAGSTAFF LIFE.
Shaking slightly, I take the paper from Martin. My eye skips across the page to the first column of text . . . and there it is! “By Rebecca Bloomwood.” That’s my name! That’s me!
There’s a ping at the door of the shop, and we both look round. And there, to my utter astonishment15, is Dad.
“Oh,” he says, and gives an embarrassed little cough. “Your mother wanted me to buy a copy. And since I was awake anyway . . .”
“So was I,” says Martin quickly.
“Me too,” I say.
“Well,” says Dad. “So—is it in?”
“Oh yes,” I say, “it’s in.” I turn the paper round so he can see it.
“Gosh,” he says. “It’s big, isn’t it?”
“The photo’s good, don’t you think?” says Martin enthusiasti-cally. “Brings out the flowers in our curtains beautifully.”
“Yes, the photo’s great,” I agree.
I’m not going to demean myself by asking what he thought of the article itself. If he wants to compliment my writing, he will. If he doesn’t—then it really doesn’t matter. The point is,I’m proud of it.
“And Janice looks very nice, I thought,” says Martin, still gazing at the photograph.
“Very nice,” agrees Dad. “If a little mournful.”
“You see, these professionals, they know how to light a shot,” says Martin. “The way the sunlight falls just here, on her—”
“What about my article?” I wail17 piteously. “Did you like that?”
“Oh, it’s very good!” says Martin. “Sorry, Becky, I should have said! I haven’t read it all yet, but it seems to capture the situation exactly. Makes me out to be quite a hero!” He frowns. “Although I never did fight in the Falklands, you know.”
“Oh well,” I say hurriedly. “That’s neither here nor there, really.”
“So you wrote all this yesterday?” says Dad. “On my type-writer?” He seems astounded18.
“Yes,” I say smugly. “It looks good, doesn’t it? Have you seen my byline? ‘By Rebecca Bloomwood.’ ”
“Janice’ll be thrilled,” says Martin. “I’m going to buy two copies.”
“I’m going to buy three,” says Dad. “Your granny will love to see this.”
“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!” wails19 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 inter-ested in curtains than top financial journalism20? Anyway, I don’t care. I’m mesmerized21 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 festive22 air to the proceedings23, and everyone keeps laughing a lot. I don’t think any of us can quite believe that Janice and Martin are inThe 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 forThe 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 lurch24. 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 topay 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 dazedly25 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 forTheDaily 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 curt16 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 inThe Daily World” he says scathingly. “Your one-sided, unbalanced, probably libelous26 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 busywriting 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.”
“Itried to get the other side of the story!” I exclaim furiously. “I phoned your PR company yesterday and told them I was writ-ing the piece!”
There’s silence.
“Who did you speak to?” says Luke.
“Alicia,” I reply. “I asked her a very clear question about Flagstaff’s policy on switching funds, and she told me she’d get back to me. Itold her I had an urgent deadline.”
Luke gives an impatient sigh. “What the fuck were you do-ing, speaking to Alicia? Flagstaff’s my client, not hers.”
“I know! I said that to her! But she said you were a very busy man and she could deal with me.”
“Did you tell her you were writing forThe Daily World ?”
“No,” I say, and feel myself flush slightly red. “I didn’t specify27 who I was writing for. But I would have told her if she’d asked me. She just didn’t bother. She just assumed I couldn’t possibly be doing anything important.” In spite of myself, my voice is rising in emotion. “Well, she was wrong, wasn’t she? You were all wrong. And maybe now you’ll start treating everybody with respect. Not just the people youthink are important.”
I break off, panting slightly, and there’s a bemused silence.
“Rebecca,” says Luke at last, “if this is about what happened between us that day—if this is some kind of petty revenge—”
I’m really going to explode now.
“Don’t you bloody28 insult me!” I yell. “Don’t you bloody try and make this personal! This is about two innocent people being hoodwinked by one of your big-shot clients, nothing else. I told the truth, and if you didn’t have a chance to respond, it’s your own company’s incompetence29 that’s to blame. I was completely professional, I gave you every opportunity to put out your side of the story.Every opportunity. And if you blew it, that’s not my fault.”
And without giving him the chance to reply, I slam the phone down.
I’m feeling quite shaken as I go back into the kitchen. To think I ever liked Luke Brandon. To think I table-hopped with him. To think I let him lend me twenty quid. He’s just an arro-gant, self-centered, chauvinistic—
“Telephone!” says Mum. “Shall I get it?”
It’ll be him again, won’t it? Ringing back to apologize. Well, he needn’t think I’m that easily won round. I stand by every word I said. And I’ll tell him so. In fact, I’ll add that—
“It’s for you, Becky,” says Mum.
“Fine,” I say coolly, and make my way to the telephone. I don’t hurry; I don’t panic. I feel completely in control.
“Hello?” I say.
“Rebecca? Eric Foreman here.”
“Oh!” I say in surprise. “Hi!”
“Bit of news about your piece.”
“Oh yes?” I say, trying to sound calm. But my stomach’s churning. What if Luke Brandon’s spoken to him? Oh shit, I did check all the facts, didn’t I?
“I’ve just hadMorning Coffee on the phone,” he says. “You know, the TV program? Rory and Emma. They’re interested in your story.”
“What?” I say stupidly.
“There’s a new series they’re doing on finance, ‘Managing Your Money.’ They get some financial expert in every week, tell the viewers how to keep tabs on their dosh.” Eric Foreman lowers his voice. “Frankly, they’re running out of stuff to talk about. They’ve done mortgages, store cards, pensions, all the usual cobblers . . .”
“Right,” I say, trying to sound focused. But as his words slowly sink in, I’m a bit dazed. Rory and Emma read my article? Rory and Emma themselves? I have a sudden vision of them holding the paper together, jostling for a good view.
But of course, that’s silly, isn’t it? They’d have a copy each.
“So, anyway, they want to have you on the show tomorrow morning,” Eric Foreman’s saying. “Talk about this windfall story, warn their viewers to take care. You interested in that kind of thing? If not, I can easily tell them you’re too busy.”
“No!” I say quickly. “No. Tell them I’m . . .” I swallow. “I’m interested.”
As I put down the phone, I feel faint. I’m going to be on television.
BANK OF HELSINKI
Helsinki House
124 Lombard St.
London EC2D 9YF
Rebecca Bloomwood
c/o William Green Recruitment
39 Farringdon Square
London EC4 7TD
27 March 2000
Dere Rebecca Bloomwood:
Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish“Daily World” Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish Finnish
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Finnish good-bye,
Jan Virtanen
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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byline
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| n.署名；v.署名 | |
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pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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flip
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| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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energizing
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| v.给予…精力，能量( energize的现在分词 )；使通电 | |
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funereal
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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standing
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shrug
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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astonishment
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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journalism
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mesmerized
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festive
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proceedings
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lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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dazedly
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| 头昏眼花地，眼花缭乱地，茫然地 | |
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libelous
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specify
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bloody
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incompetence
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