Thank God it was a quiet afternoon. They let me fill in the application form on the spot, and Danielle, the manager, gave me an interview straight away. At first, she looked a bit dubious—especially when I said I had a full-time job as a financial journalist and was doing this to get extra money and clothes. “It’ll be hard work,” she kept saying. “You do realize that? It’ll be very hard work.” But I think what changed her mind was when we started talking about the stock. I love Ally Smith—so of course I knew the price of every single item in the shop and whether they have anything similar in Jigsaw or French Connection. Eventually Danielle gave me a funny look and said, “Well, you obviously like clothes.” And then she gave me the job! I can’t wait. I start this Saturday. Isn’t it great?

As I arrive back at the office I feel exhilarated with my success. I look around—and suddenly this mundane office life seems far too boring and limited for a creative spirit like mine. I don’t belong here, among fusty piles of press releases and grimly tapping computers. I belong out there, among the bright spotlights and cashmere cardigans of Ally Smith. Maybe I’ll go into retail full time, I think, as I sit back down at my desk. Maybe I’ll start my own chain of designer stores! I’ll be one of those people featured in articles about incredibly successful entrepreneurs. “Becky Bloomwood was working as a financial journalist when she devised the innovative concept of Bloomwood Stores. Now a successful chain around the country, the idea came to her one day as she . . .”

The phone rings and I pick it up.

“Yes?” I say absently. “Rebecca Bloomwood here.” I nearly add, “of Bloomwood Stores,” but maybe that’s a tad premature.

“Ms. Bloomwood, this is Derek Smeath from Endwich Bank.”

What? I’m so shocked, I drop the phone onto my desk with a clatter and have to scrabble around to pick it up. All the while, my heart’s thumping like a rabbit. How does Derek Smeath know where I work? How did he get my number?

“Are you OK?” says Clare Edwards curiously.

“Yes,” I gulp. “Yes, fine.”

And now she’s looking at me. Now I can’t just put the phone down and pretend it was a wrong number. I’ve got to talk to him. OK, what I’ll do is be really brisk and cheerful and try and get rid of him as quickly as possible.

“Hi!” I say into the phone. “Sorry about that! The thing is, I was just a bit busy with something else. You know how it is!”

“Ms. Bloomwood, I’ve written you several letters,” says Derek Smeath. “And to none of them have I had a satisfactory response.”