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guilty for not visiting my parents more often.
    “Well,” I say, trying to give a nonchalant smile. “You know. I’m quite busy with my job and everything.”
    “Oh yes,” says Janice, giving an awe-stricken nod. “Your
job.”
    Somewhere along the line, Janice and Martin have got it into their heads that I’m this high-powered financial whiz kid. I’ve tried telling them that really, I’m not—but the more I deny it, the more high powered they think I am. It’s a catch-22. They now think I’m high powered
and
modest.
    Still, who cares? It’s actually quite fun, playing a financial genius.
    “Yes, actually we’ve been quite busy lately,” I say coolly. “What with the merger of SBG and Rutland.”
    “Of course,” breathes Janice.
    “You know, that reminds me,” says Martin suddenly. “Becky, wait there. Back in two ticks.” He disappears before I can say anything, and I’m left awkwardly with Janice.
    “So,” I say inanely. “I hear Tom’s got limed oak units in his kitchen!”
    This is literally the only thing I can think of to say. I smile at Janice, and wait for her to reply. But instead, she’s beaming at me delightedly. Her face is all lit up—and suddenly I realize I’ve made a huge mistake. I shouldn’t have mentioned Tom’s bloody starter home. I shouldn’t have mentioned the limed oak units. She’ll think I suddenly fancy Tom, now he’s got a starter home to his name.
    “It’s limed oak and Mediterranean tiles,” she says proudly. “It was a choice of Mediterranean or Farmhouse Quarry, and Tom chose Mediterranean.”
    For an instant I consider saying I would have chosen Farmhouse Quarry. But that seems a bit mean.
    “Lovely,” I say. “And two bedrooms!”
    Why can’t I get off the subject of this bloody starter home?
    “He wanted two bedrooms,” says Janice. “After all, you never know, do you?” She smiles coyly at me, and ridiculously, I feel myself start to blush. Why am I blushing? This is so stupid. Now she thinks I fancy Tom. She’s picturing us together in the starter home, making supper together in the limed oak kitchen.
    I should say something. I should say, “Janice, I don’t fancy Tom. He’s too tall and his breath smells.” But how on earth can I say that?
    “Well, do give him my love,” I hear myself saying instead.
    “I certainly will,” she says, and pauses. “Does he have your London number?”
    Aarrgh!
    “I think so,” I lie, smiling brightly. “And he can always get me here if he wants.” Now everything I say sounds like some saucy double entendre. I can just imagine how this conversation will be reported back to Tom. “She was asking
all
about your starter home. And she asked you to call her!”
    Life would be a lot easier if conversations were rewindable and erasable, like videos. Or if you could instruct people to disregard what you just said, like in a courtroom.
Please strike from the record all references to starter homes and limed oak kitchens
.
    Luckily, at that moment, Martin reappears, clutching a piece of paper.
    “Thought you might cast your eye over this,” he says. “We’ve had this with-profits fund with Flagstaff Life for fifteen years. Now we’re thinking of transferring to their new unit-linked growth fund. What do you think?”
    I don’t know. What’s he talking about, anyway? Some kind of savings plan? Please don’t ask me, I want to say. Please ask someone who knows what they’re talking about. But there’s no way they’ll believe that I’m not a financial genius—so I’ll just have to do the best I can.
    I run my eye over the piece of paper in what I hope looks likea knowledgeable fashion and nod several times. It’s a letter making some kind of special offer if investors switch to this new fund. Sounds reasonable enough.
    “The company wrote to us, saying we might want a higher return in our retirement years,” says Martin. “There’s a guaranteed sum, too.”
    “And they’ll send us a