“A unit trust sale,” says Luke Brandon slowly. “Reductions on all upfront charges.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Everyone’s a sucker for a sale. Even rich people.”

The taxi moves on again, and I gaze out at a woman in a gorgeous white coat, wondering where she got it. Maybe at Harrods. Maybe I should buy a white coat, too. I’ll wear nothing but white all winter. A snowy white coat and a white fur hat. People will start calling me the Girl in the White Coat.

When I look back again, Luke’s writing something down in a little notebook. He looks up and meets my eye for a moment, then says, “Rebecca, are you serious about leaving journalism?”

“Oh,” I say vaguely. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about leaving journalism. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“And you really think banking would suit you better?”

“Who knows?” I say, feeling a bit rattled at his tone. It’s all right for him. He doesn’t have to worry about his career—he’s got his own multimillion-pound company. I’ve only got my own multimillion-pound overdraft. “Elly Granger is leaving Investor’s Weekly News,” I add. “She’s joining Wetherby’s as a fund manager.”

“I heard,” he says. “Doesn’t surprise me. But you’re nothing like Elly Granger.”

Really? This comment intrigues me. If I’m not like Elly, who am I like, then? Someone really cool like Kristin Scott Thomas, maybe.

“You have imagination,” adds Luke. “She doesn’t.”

Wow! Now I really am gobsmacked. Luke Brandon thinks I have imagination? Gosh. That’s good, isn’t it. That’s quite flattering, really. You have imagination. Mmm, yes, I like that. Unless . . .

Hang on. It’s not some polite way of saying he thinks I’m stupid, is it? Or a liar? Like “creative accounting.” Perhaps he’s trying to say that none of my articles is accurate.

Oh God, now I don’t know whether to look pleased or not.

To cover up my embarrassment, I look out of the window. We’ve stopped at a traffic light, and a very large lady in a pink velour jogging suit is trying to cross the road. She’s holding several bags of shopping and a pug dog, and she keeps losing grasp of one or other of them and having to put something down. I almost want to leap out and help her. Then, suddenly, she loses her grasp of one of the bags, and drops it on the ground. It falls open—and three huge tubs of ice cream come out of it and start rolling down the road.

Don’t laugh, I instruct myself. Be mature. Don’t laugh. I clamp my lips together, but I can’t stop a little giggle escaping.

I glance at Luke, and his lips are clamped together, too.

Then the woman starts chasing her ice cream down the road, pug dog in tow, and that’s it. I can’t stop myself giggling. And when the pug dog reaches the ice cream before the lady, and starts trying to get the lid off with its teeth, I think I’m going to die laughing. I look over at Luke, and I can’t believe it. He’s laughing helplessly, too, wiping the tears from his eyes. I didn’t think Luke Brandon ever laughed.