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But the minute I started, I hated it. I hated all the other trainee estate agents. I hated saying

things like 'a lovely aspect'. And I hated the way if someone said they could afford ?300,000

we were supposed to give them details of houses costing at least ?400,000, and then kind of

look down our noses, like, 'You only have ?300,000? God, you complete loser.'

So after six months I a

instead. It was such a fantastic moment, like in a film or something. My dad lent me the

money for a photography course and camera, and I was going to launch this amazing new

creative career, and it was going to be the start of my new life…

Except it didn't quite happen like that.

I mean, for a start, do you have any idea how much a photographer's assistant gets paid?

Nothing. It's nothing.

Which, you know, I wouldn't have minded if anyone had actually offered me a photographer's

assistant's job.

I heave a heavy sigh, and gaze at my doleful expression in the mirror behind the bar. As well

as everything else, my hair, which I carefully straightened with serum this morning, has gone

all frizzy. Typical.

At least I wasn't the only one who didn't get anywhere. Out of the eight people on my course,

one became instantly successful and now takes photos for Vogue and stuff, one became a

wedding photographer, one had an affair with the tutor, one went travelling, one had a baby,

one works at Snappy Snaps and one is now at Morgan Stanley.

Meanwhile I got more and more into debt, and started temping and applying for jobs which

actually paid money. And eventually, eleven months ago, I started as a marketing assistant at

the Panther Corporation.

The barman places a vodka and tonic in front of me, and gives me a quizzical look. 'Cheer

up!' he says. 'It can't be that bad!'

'Thanks,' I say gratefully, and take a sip. That feels a bit better. I'm just taking a second sip

when my mobile starts to ring.

My stomach gives a nervous flip. If it's the office, I'll just pretend I didn't hear.

But it's not, it's our home number flashing on the little screen.

'Hi,' I say, pressing green.

'Hiya!' comes Lissy's voice. 'Only me! So how did it go?'

Lissy is my flatmate and my oldest friend in the world. She has tufty dark hair and an IQ of

about 600 and is the sweetest person I know.

'It was a disaster,' I say miserably.

'What happened? Didn't you get the deal?'

'Not only did I not get the deal, I drenched the marketing director of Glen Oil in cranberry

drink.'

Along the bar, I can see the air hostess hiding a smile, and I feel myself flush. Great. Now the

whole world knows.

'Oh dear.' I can almost feel Lissy trying to think of something positive to say. 'Well, at least

you got their attention,' she says at last. 'At least they won't forget you in a hurry.'

'I suppose,' I say morosely. 'So, did I have any messages?'

'Oh! Erm… no. I mean, your dad did phone, but… um… you know… it wasn't…' She tails

off evasively.

'Lissy. What did he want?'

There's a pause.

'Apparently your cousin's won some industry award,' she says apologetically. 'They're going

to be celebrating it on Saturday as well as your mum's birthday.'

'Oh. Great.'

I slump deeper in my chair. That's all I need. My cousin Kerry triumphantly clutching some

silver Best-travel-agent-in-the-world-no-make-that-universe trophy.

'And Co

said he didn't want to ring your mobile during your meeting in case it disturbed you.'

'Really?'

For the first time today, I feel a lift in spirits.

Co