I was so excited, I could barely keep still. I went straight into Philip and told him I wanted to take tomorrow off to take my nephew to the zoo—and he didn’t suspect a thing. He’s going to be gobsmacked when he finds out I’ve turned overnight into a high-flying futures broker.

“Hi,” I say confidently to the woman at reception. “I’m here to see Jill Foxton. It’s Rebecca Bloomwood.”

“Of . . .”

I can’t say Successful Saving. It might get back to Philip that I’ve been looking for a new job.

“Of . . . just of nowhere, really,” I say and give a relaxed little laugh. “Just Rebecca Bloomwood. I have a ten o’clock appointment.”

“Fine,” she says, and smiles. “Take a seat.”

I pick up my briefcase and walk over to the black leather chairs, trying not to give away how nervous I feel. I sit down, run my eye hopefully over the magazines on the coffee table (but there’s nothing interesting, just things like The Economist), then lean back and look around. This foyer is pretty impressive, I have to admit. There’s a fountain in the middle, and glass stairs rising in a curve—and, what seems like several miles away, I can see lots of state-of-the-art lifts. Not just one lift, or two—but about ten. Blimey. This place must be huge.

“Rebecca?” A blond girl in a pale trouser suit is suddenly in front of me. Nice suit, I think. Very nice suit.

“Hi!” I say. “Jill!”

“No, I’m Amy,” she smiles. “Jill’s assistant.”

Wow. That’s pretty cool. Sending your assistant to pick up your visitors, as if you’re too grand and busy to do it yourself. Maybe that’s what I’ll get my assistant to do when I’m an important futures broker and Elly comes over for lunch. Or maybe I’ll have a male assistant—and we’ll fall in love! God, it would be just like a movie. The high-flying woman and the cute but sensitive . . .

“Rebecca?” I come to and see Amy staring at me curiously. “Are you ready?”

“Of course!” I say gaily, and pick up my briefcase. As we stride off over the glossy floor, I surreptitiously run my gaze over Amy’s trouser suit again—and find my eye landing on an Emporio Armani label. I can’t quite believe it. The assistants wear Emporio Armani! So what’s Jill herself going to be in? Couture Dior? God, I love this place already.

We go up to the sixth floor and begin to walk along endless carpeted corridors.

“So you want to be a futures broker,” says Amy after a while.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s the idea.”

“And you already know a bit about it.”

“Well, you know.” I give a modest smile. “I’ve written extensively on most areas of finance, so I do feel quite well equipped.”

“That’s good,” says Amy, and gives me a smile. “Some people turn up with no idea. Then Jill asks them a few standard questions, and . . .” She makes a gesture with her hand. I don’t know what it means, but it doesn’t look good.