Chapter 3 How scary can a few numbers be in the first part? -3

unsympathetic guy Michael was our associate editor, and when he left three weeks ago, I volunteered to buy him a present.I entered the store with a brown envelope full of coins and bills, and selected a hooded jacket (which I thought would be perfect for him).At the last minute of the payment, now that I think about it, I decided to pay the bill with a credit card and keep all the cash on hand for myself. I can vividly recall picking out the four five-pound notes and carefully putting them in my wallet, picking out the one-pound coins and putting them in the change purse, and finally pouring out the remaining change. into the bottom of the bag.Oh, yes, I was thinking, so I don't have to go to the ATM to withdraw money.I thought that £60 would last me for weeks!

So what about the £60? There's no way I'd spend them all without feeling the slightest bit, would I? "Why on earth are you asking that?" said Claire, leaning forward.I could see her clairvoyant little round eyes shining behind the lenses.She knew I was looking at a VISA card statement. "Nothing," I said, flipping quickly to the second page of the bill. But I'm in a mess.Normally I would just look at the minimum amount due and ignore the total amount on the bill, but I found myself staring at the number at the bottom of the bill. £949 63p.Black and white, clear.

For about 30 seconds, I stare at it blankly, then slip the bill back into the envelope.At that moment, I really felt as if this piece of paper had nothing to do with me.Perhaps, if I accidentally drop it on the floor behind the computer, it will disappear.The cleaners would have swept it away, and I can claim I never received it.There's no way they're going to ask me to pay a bill that's never been received, can they? I'm already drawing up a letter in my head: "Dear VISA Manager, I'm confused by your letter. What bills are you talking about? I've never received any bills from your company. Your letter I don't mind the tone, but I should remind you that I'll be writing to Anne Robinson of The Overseer!"

Or I can move abroad. "Becky?" I jerked my head up, and Claire was staring at me. "Have you finished that article about Lloyds Bank?" "Soon." I lied.She was looking at me and I felt compelled to turn it on on my computer just to be obedient, but she was still looking at me savagely. "Savers can benefit from deposits and withdrawals for the month," I typed on the screen, copying a press release right in front of me. "The account also offers tiered rates for those investing over £5,000." I put a period, sipped my coffee, and turned to the second page of the press release.

That's what I do, by the way, as a reporter for a financial magazine.My job is to tell other people how to manage their money. Of course, this isn't the job I've always wanted, and it's not something any writer of personal finance articles really wants to do.Maybe someone will tell you how committed they are to the work.That's what they're lying about! They're saying there's really no other more interesting job.They're saying they've applied to The Times, Express, Marie Claire, Vogue, GQ, Loaded, and all the answers have been "Fuck off". So they turn to Metalware Monthly, The Encyclopedia of Cheese Making, or Investment Guide.They may be hired as the most worthless editorial assistants, with little money and gratitude.They've been writing about metal or cheese or savings ever since—because they know nothing else.I myself started out with an attractive Personal Investing Journal.I learned how to copy a press release, how to nod my head in a press conference, and how to ask questions that sound like I know what I'm talking about.A year and a half later—believe it or not—I was scouted for Money Success by a headhunter.

Of course, I still know nothing about finance.The people at the bus stop know better than me, and the kids at school know better than I do.Now that I've been in this job for three years, I'm still worried that someone will find a hole in me. That afternoon, Philip, the editor-in-chief, called my name, and I jumped up in surprise. "Rebecca?" he said. "Say something." He beckoned me to his desk.His voice suddenly dropped a lot, a bit like a conspiracy, and he smiled at me, as if he had some good news to tell me. Oh my god, I thought, promotion, it must be.He knows I make less than Claire and it's not fair! So he's going to make me her equal, if not higher.He's going to tell me on the sly so Claire won't be jealous.

With a smile on my face, I got up and walked over to his desk three yards away, trying to keep my composure, but deep down I was already thinking about what to buy with the increased salary.I'll go to the "Whistles" to buy that swivel coat; go to Pied a Terre to buy some black high-heeled boots; maybe I can go on vacation; and pay off the damn VISA card in one lump sum .I felt a relief after a burst of relief.I just knew everything was going to be alright... "Rebecca?" he shoved a ticket in front of me. "I can't make it to this press conference," he said, "but it's sure to be very interesting. Would you like to go? In Brandon broadcasting company."

I felt the euphoria slipping off my face like jam.He is not trying to elevate me.I won't get a raise either.I have a feeling of being cheated.Why is he smiling at me like that? He must know he's stirring up my hopes.Unsympathetic guy. "Is there a question?" Philip asked. "No." I murmured, but I couldn't laugh.My swirl coat and high-heeled boots were disappearing into puddles like the Wicked Witch of the West.No promotion at all, just a press conference... I glanced at the admission ticket.It's about investing in new unit trusts.How could anyone say this is interesting?

"You could make it a piece of news," said Philip. "Okay." I said, shrugged and walked away.