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  “Phew!” she says, coming into the kitchen. “What a stink!”

  “It’s aromatic spices,” I say a bit crossly, and take a swig of wine. To be honest, this is all a bit more difficult than I’d thought. I’m trying to make something called Balti masala mix, which we will be able to keep in a jar and use for months, but all the spices seem to be disappearing into the grinder and refusing to come back out. Where are they going?

  “I’m absolutely starving,” says Suze, pouring herself a glass of wine. “Will it be ready soon?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, peering into the grinder. “If I can just get these bloody spices out …”

  “Oh well,” says Suze. “I might just make some toast.” She pops a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster and then starts picking up all my little bags and pots of spices and looking at them.

  “What’s allspice?” she says, holding up a pot curiously. “Is it all the spices, mixed together?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, banging the grinder on the counter. A tiny dusting of powder falls out and I stare at it angrily. What happened to a whole jarful that I could keep for months? Now I’ll have to roast some more of the bloody things.

  “Because if it is, couldn’t you just use that and forget all the others?”

  “No!” I say. “I’m making a fresh and distinct Balti blend.”

  “OK,” says Suze, shrugging. “You’re the expert.”

  Right, I think, taking another swig of wine. Start again. Coriander seeds, fennel seeds, cumin seeds, peppercorns … By this time, I’ve given up measuring, I’m just throwing everything in. They say cooking should be instinctive, anyway.

  “What’s this?” says Suze, looking at Luke Brandon’s card on the kitchen table. “Luke Brandon? How come he sent you a card?”

  “Oh, you know,” I say, shrugging casually. “He was just being polite.”

  “Polite?” Suze wrinkles her brow, turning the card over in her hands. “No way. You don’t have to send a card to someone just because they returned your twenty quid.”

  “Really?” My voice is slightly higher than usual, but that must be because of the roasting aromatic spices. “I thought maybe that’s what people did these days.”

  “Oh no,” says Suze assuredly. “What happens is, the money’s lent, it’s returned with a thank-you letter, and that’s the end of the matter. This card”—she waves it at me—“this is something extra.”

  This is why I love sharing a flat with Suze. She knows stuff like this, because she mixes in the right social circles. You know she once had dinner with the duchess of Kent? Not that I’m boasting, or anything.

  “So what do you think it means?” I say, trying not to sound too tense.

  “I reckon he’s being friendly,” she says, and puts the card back on the table.

  Friendly. Of course, that’s it. He’s being friendly. Which is a good thing, of course. So why do I feel ever so slightly disappointed? I stare at the card, which has a face by Picasso on the front. What does that mean?

  “Are those spices supposed to be going black, by the way?” says Suze, spreading peanut butter on her toast.

  “Oh God!” I whip the Balti pan off the stove and look at the blackened coriander seeds. This is driving me crazy. Okay, tip them away and start again. Coriander seeds, fennel seeds, cumin seeds, peppercorns, bay leaves. That’s the last of the bay leaves. This one had better not go wrong.

  Somehow, miraculously, it doesn’t. Forty minutes later, I actually have a curry bubbling away in my Balti pan! This is fantastic! It smells wonderful, and it looks just like it does in the book—and I didn’t even follow the recipe very carefully. It just shows, I have a natural affinity with Indian cookery. And the more I practice, the more accomplished I’ll become. Like David E. Barton says, I’ll be able to knock up a quick, delicious curry in the time it takes to call the delivery firm. And look how much money I’ve saved!

  Triumphantly I drain my basmati rice, take my ready-made nans out of the oven, and serve everything out onto plates. Then I sprinkle chopped fresh coriander over everything—and honestly, it looks like something out of Marie-Claire. I carry the plates through and put one in front of Suze.

  “Wow!” she says. “This looks fantastic!”

  “I know,” I say proudly, sitting down opposite her. “Isn’t it great?”

  I watch as she takes her first forkful—then put a forkful into my mouth.

  “Mmm! Delicious!” says Suze, chewing with relish. “Quite hot,” she adds after a while.

  “It’s got chili powder in,” I say. “And fresh chilies. But it’s nice, though, isn’t it?”

  “It’s wonderful!” says Suze. “Bex, you’re so clever! I could never make this in a million years!”

  But as she’s chewing, a slightly strange expression is coming over her face. To be honest, I’m feeling a bit breathless, too. This curry is quite hot. In fact, it’s bloody hot.

  Suze has put down her plate and is taking a large slug of wine. She looks up, and I see her cheeks are red.

  “OK?” I say, forcing myself to smile through the pain in my mouth.

  “Yeah, great!” she says, and takes a huge bite of nan. I look down at my plate and resolutely take another forkful of curry. Immediately, my nose starts to run. Suze is sniffing, too, I notice, but as I meet her eye she smiles brightly.

  Oh God, this is hot. My mouth can’t stand it. My cheeks are burning, and my eyes are starting to water. How much chili powder did I put in this bloody thing? Only about one teaspoonful … or maybe it was two. I just kind of trusted my instincts and chucked in what looked about right. Well, so much for my instincts.

  Tears start running down my face, and I give an enormous sniff.

  “Are you OK?” says Suze in alarm.

  “I’m fine!” I say, putting down my fork. “Just … you know. A bit hot.”

  But actually, I’m not OK. And it’s not just the heat that’s making tears run down my face. Suddenly I feel like a complete failure. I can’t even get a quick and easy curry right. And look how much money I spent on it, with the Balti pan and the apron and all the spices … Oh, it’s all gone wrong, hasn’t it? I haven’t Cut Back at all. This week’s been a complete disaster.

  I give a huge sob and put my plate on the floor.

  “It’s horrible!” I say miserably, and tears begin to stream down my face. “Don’t eat it, Suze. It’ll poison you.”

  “Bex! Don’t be silly!” says Suze. “It’s fantastic!” She looks at me, then puts her own plate on the floor. “Oh, Bex.” She shuffles across the floor, reaches up, and gives me a hug. “Don’t worry. It’s just a bit hot. But otherwise, it’s brilliant! And the nan is delicious! Honestly. Don’t get upset.”

  I open my mouth to reply, and instead hear myself giving another huge sob.

  “Bex, don’t!” wails Suze, practically crying herself. “It’s delicious! It’s the most delicious curry I’ve ever tasted.”

  “It’s not just the curry!” I sob, wiping my eyes. “The point was, I was supposed to be Cutting Back. This curry was only supposed to cost £2.50.”

  “But … why?” asks Suze perplexedly. “Was it a bet, or something!”

  “No!” I wail. “It was because I’m in debt! And my dad said I should Cut Back or Make More Money. So I’ve been trying to Cut Back. But it hasn’t worked …” I break off, shuddering with sobs. “I’m just a complete failure.”

  “Of course you’re not a failure!” says Suze at once. “Bex, you’re the opposite of a failure. It’s just …” She hesitates. “It’s just that maybe …”

  “What?”

  There’s silence, then Suze says seriously, “I think you might have chosen the wrong option, Becky. I don’t think you’re a Cut Back kind of person.”

  “Really?” I sniff, and wipe my eyes. “Do you think?”

  “I think you should go for Make More Money instead.” Suze pauses thoughtfully. “In fact, to be honest, I don’t know why anyone wou
ld choose Cut Back. I think Make More Money is a much better option. If I ever had to choose, that’s definitely the one I’d go for.”

  “Yes,” I say slowly. “Yes, maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s what I should do.” I reach down with a shaky hand and take a bite of warm nan—and Suze is right. Without the curry, it’s delicious. “But how shall I do it?” I say eventually. “How shall I make more money?”

  There’s silence for a while, with both of us thoughtfully chewing on nan. Then Suze brightens.

  “I know. Look at this!” She reaches for a magazine and flips to the classified ads at the back. “Look what it says here. ‘Need extra money? Join the Fine Frames family. Make thousands, working from home in your spare time. Full kit supplied.’ You see? It’s easy.”

  Wow. I’m quite impressed. Thousands. That’s not bad.

  “Yes,” I say shakily, “maybe I’ll do that.” “Or you could invent something,” says Suze. “Like what?”

  “Oh, anything,” she says confidently. “You’re really clever. Remember when the coffee filter broke, and you made a new one out of a knee-high?”

  “Yes,” I say, and a tiny glow of pride spreads over me. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?”

  “You could easily be an inventor. Or … I know! Set up an Internet company. They’re worth millions!”

  You know, she’s right. There’s loads of things I could do to Make More Money. Loads of things! It’s just a question of lateral thinking. Suddenly I feel a lot better. Suze is such a good friend. I reach forward and give her a hug.

  “Thanks, Suze,” I say. “You’re a star.”

  “No problem,” she says, and hugs me back. “So, you cut out this ad and start making your thousands …” She pauses. “And I’ll go and phone up for a takeaway curry, shall I?”

  “Yes please,” I say in a small voice. “A takeaway would be lovely.”

  REBECCA BLOOMWOOD’S CUT-BACK PROJECT

  HOMEMADE CURRY, SATURDAY 24TH MARCH

  Proposed Budget: £2.50

  Actual Expenditure:

  Balti pan £15.00

  Electric grinder £14.99

  Blender £18.99

  Wooden spoon 35p

  Apron £9.99

  Two chicken breasts £1.98

  300g mushrooms 79p

  Onion 29p

  Coriander seeds £1.29

  Fennel seeds £1.29

  Allspice £1.29

  Cumin seeds £1.29

  Cloves £1.39

  Ground ginger £1.95

  Bay leaves £1.40

  Chili powder

  OH GOD, FORGET IT.

  PGNI FIRST BANK VISA

  7 CAMEL SQUARE

  LIVERPOOL LI 5NP

  Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood

  Flat 2

  4 Burney Rd.

  London SW6 8FD

  6 March 2000

  Dear Ms. Bloomwood:

  PGNI First Bank VISA Card No. 1475839204847586

  Thank you for your letter of 2 March.

  I can assure you that our computers are regularly checked, and that the possibility of a “glitch,” as you put it, is remote. Nor have we been affected by the millennium bug. All accounts are entirely accurate.

  You may write to Anne Robinson at Watchdog if you wish, but I am sure she will agree that you have no grounds for complaint.

  Our records inform us that payment on your VISA account is now overdue. As you will see from your most recent VISA card statement, the minimum payment required is £105.40. I look forward to receiving your payment, as soon as possible.

  Yours sincerely,

  Peter Johnson

  Customer Accounts Executive

  Eight

  OK, SO PERHAPS the Cutting Back didn’t go that well. But it doesn’t matter, because that’s all in the past. That was negative thinking—now I’m seriously into positive thinking. Onward and upward. Growth and prosperity. M.M.M. It’s the obvious solution, when you think about it. And you know what? Suze is absolutely right. Making More Money suits my personality far better than Cutting Back did. I’m already feeling much happier. Just the fact that I don’t have to make any more grotty cheese sandwiches, or go to any more museums, has lifted a huge weight off my soul. And I’m allowed to buy all the cappuccinos I like, and start looking in shop windows again. Oh, the relief! I’ve even chucked Controlling Your Cash in the bin. I never did think it was any good.

  The only small thing—tiny niggle—is I’m not quite sure how I’m going to do it. Make More Money, I mean. But now I’ve decided to go ahead with it, something will turn up. I’m sure of it.

  When I get into work on Monday, Clare Edwards is already at her desk—surprise—and on the phone.

  “Yes,” she’s saying softly. “Well, it’s certainly been a wonderful first year.”

  When she sees me, to my surprise, she blushes a faint pink and turns away slightly. “Yes, I understand,” she whispers, scribbling in her notepad. “But what about the future?”

  God knows why she’s being so secretive. As if I’m interested in her tedious life. I sit down at my desk, briskly flip on my computer, and open my diary. Oh goody, I’ve got a press conference in the City. Even if it is some boring old pensions launch, at least it means a trip out of the office and, with any luck, a nice glass of champagne. Work can be quite fun, sometimes. And Philip isn’t in yet, which means we can sit and gossip for a while.

  “So, Clare,” I say, as she puts the phone down, “how was your weekend?”

  I look over, expecting to hear the usual thrilling account of what shelf she put up where with her boyfriend—but Clare doesn’t even seem to have heard what I said.

  “Clare?” I say puzzledly. She’s staring at me with pink cheeks, as though I’ve caught her stealing pens from the stationery cupboard.

  “Listen,” she says in a rush. “That conversation you heard me having just now … could you not mention it to Philip?”

  I stare at her in bemusement. What’s she talking about? Oh wow—is she having an affair? But then, why should Philip care? He’s her editor, not her—

  Oh my God. She’s not having an affair with Philip, is she?

  “Clare, what’s going on!” I say excitedly.

  There’s a long pause, as Clare blushes deep red. I can’t believe this. A piece of office scandal at last! And involving Clare Edwards, of all people!

  “Oh, come on, Clare,” I whisper. “You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.” I lean forward sympathetically. “I might even be able to help.”

  “Yes,” says Clare, rubbing her face. “Yes, that’s true. I could do with a bit of advice. The pressure’s starting to get to me.”

  “Start from the beginning,” I say calmly, just like Dear Abby. “When did it all begin?”

  “OK, I’ll tell you,” whispers Clare, and looks nervously about. “It was about … six months ago.”

  “And what happened?”

  “It all began on that Scottish press trip,” she says slowly. “I was away from home … I said yes without even thinking. I suppose I was flattered, more than anything else.”

  “It’s the old story,” I say wisely. God, I’m enjoying this.

  “If Philip knew what I was doing, he’d go crazy,” she says despairingly. “But it’s just so easy. I use a different name—and no one knows!”

  “You use a different name?” I say, impressed in spite of myself.

  “Several,” she says, and gives a bitter little laugh. “You’ve probably seen some of them around.” She exhales sharply. “I know I’m taking a risk—but I can’t stop. To be honest, you get used to the money.”

  Money? Is she a prostitute?

  “Clare, what exactly are you—”

  “At first it was just a little piece on mortgages in The Mail,” she says, as though she hasn’t heard me. “I thought I could handle it. But then I was asked to do a full-length feature on life insurance in The Sunday Times. Then Pension and Portfolio got in on the act. And now it’s about three art
icles every week. I have to do it all in secret, try to act normally …” She breaks off and shakes her head. “Sometimes it gets me down. But I just can’t say no anymore. I’m hooked.”

  I do not believe it. She’s talking about work. Work! There I was, thinking she was having a steamy affair, ready to hear all the exciting details—and all the time it was just boring old …

  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.