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.