Who's That Girl (10 page)

'He's been working late at the office for months, and then one day I just happened to pop in to see him and I saw them together.'

'Together doing what?' I demand.

'Nothing that would incriminate them in a court of law, but…' Her voice trails off and she sucks hard on her cigarette. 'It was their body language. I could just tell.'

'You're imagining it,' I say, shaking my head resolutely. 'You're tired with the kids. He's working late. Your mind runs away with itself.

She looks at me doubtfully. 'You think so?'

'Absolutely.' I nod vigorously.

Reaching her house, we walk down the driveway and she plonks herself on the wall. Hidden from the house behind Julian's Range Rover, she stubs out her cigarette and immediately lights up another. 'I don't know… I'm sure I saw something…'

'I promise you, you're imagining it,' I say, sitting down next to her. 'Look, if it's any consolation, I was at the traffic lights yesterday morning and for a moment I thought I saw myself in another car,' I confess.

'God, at least I'm not that bad,' she says, pulling a face.

'Well, obviously I didn't
really
think it was me,' I add quickly. 'I'm not
that
crazy, but even so it was very freaky. She looked just like I did when I was twenty-one.'

'Twenty-one,' sighs Vanessa wistfully. She stares into the middle distance. 'If only I knew then what I know now.'

'Like what?' I ask curiously.

'Like smoking isn't cool, so don't start.' She smiles ruefully. 'Because in ten years' time you're going to find it hell to give up.' She exhales smoke through her nostrils. 'And have as many lieins as you can manage because once you have kids, you'll never have another one. Oh, and wear miniskirts.'

She says this totally seriously and I look at her in surprise. In my whole life I have only ever seen Vanessa in black trousers.

'But you've never worn miniskirts,' I say.

'Exactly,' she replies. 'I should have. I always thought my legs were too fat, but I look at old photos of me and I was so skinny.'

'So wear a miniskirt now.'

'Are you kidding?' she tuts, staring dolefully down at her legs. 'I'm too old and fat.'

'Don't be silly, you look great.'

'I need to lose at least two stone.' Finishing the cigarette, she opens a packet of Maltesers and cracks one open on her back molars. 'I've got my weigh-in tomorrow and I haven't lost a single pound.'

She looks so miserable there's absolutely no way I can tell her to put down the Maltesers and back away.

'Maybe I should go on that Lemonade Diet you were talking about.' She prods at her stomach as if it's a strange object that really shouldn't be there. 'What can you eat on it?'

'You don't eat.'

She looks at me agog, her hand moving on autopilot from Malteser packet to mouth without taking her eyes off me.

'You just drink the lemonade.'

'For how long?'

'Um, I think I did it for five days.'

'Jesus, Charlotte!' she gasps.

'But I was rubbish and gave up halfway through. You're supposed to do it for ten.'

'Ten days,' she squawks. 'Ten days!'

'According to Melody, my client, you can lose ten pounds.'

She stops squawking. 'Right, that's it,' she declares, galvanised. 'Sod counting points. Where do I sign up?'

I look at her uncertainly. Vanessa?
On a cleanse?
'Are you sure… ?' I say doubtfully. 'You won't be able to drink alcohol…'

'I know, I know,' she snaps impatiently. 'Is that it?'

'Well…' I hesitate, wondering how I can put it. 'There are a few side effects.'

'You mean, apart from being thin?' she dismisses.

'Yes.' I look at Vanessa, wondering how I can tell her. Even though we're old friends, I'm not sure how to put it. '
Unpleasant
side effects.'

'Such as?' she demands.

I pause. Oh, what the hell, it's best she knows.

'Sharting.'

There, I've said it.

'Excuse me?' Vanessa crinkles up her brow.

'It's the saltwater enema, you see, that you do as well as drinking the lemonade—' I begin quickly explaining, but she interrupts.

'Charlotte, what on earth's "sharting"?'

'It's when you think you're going to… fart,' I whisper tentatively.

'That's it?' She rolls her eyes.

'Well, no, instead you actually…' I trail off. 'You know.'

'No, I don't know. You're not making any sense,' she snaps impatiently.

'It's the two words joined together…' I wince. Oh God, this is hard. 'Farting and—'

'Shit!' she says in horror, suddenly getting it. Her jaw drops open and she clamps her hand over her mouth, and just when I think she's going to launch into a disapproving diatribe, she explodes into hysterical laughter. 'That is
so
funny!' she gasps between giggles. '
Sharting
!' Shoulders shaking, she's rocking backwards and forwards on the garden wall, letting out loud snorts, and I can't help but laugh too. 'That's the old Lottie I know and love! Coming out with something like that! It's the funniest thing I've ever heard!'

My laughter subsides. 'What do you mean, the old Lottie?'

'Well, you know, you're a lot more sensible now - you don't say things like that any more. Unfortunately,' she adds, cracking up again.

I feel a twinge of discomfort. I'm not sure I like that.

'Vanessa? Is that you?' Julian's voice calls from inside.

Immediately she stifles her giggles. 'I should go,' she says reluctantly, standing up and hiding her contraband goods in her large tote.

'Yeah, me too.' I nod, glancing at my watch. 'I need to pop back to the office before I go home.'

'We should do this more often.'

'Definitely.' I love Vanessa, but we just never get to see each other enough these days. 'How about two weeks on Thursday?' I say, checking my BlackBerry.

Vanessa rolls her eyes. 'Are you serious?'

'It's my first free night,' I say defensively.

'What about your birthday?' she gasps.

Suddenly I remember. 'God, I'd totally forgotten about that,' I confess.

'Well, it's this Friday,' reminds Vanessa, shaking her head. 'Don't tell me you were planning to work?'

'No, of course not!' I try to look affronted, but it's a bit hard, considering I spent my last birthday at a conference in Milton Keynes. 'I haven't planned anything.'

'Honestly, Charlotte!' she exclaims. 'What happened to the girl who used to love to party?'

I feel a stab of nostalgia, but I quickly dismiss it. 'She grew up,' I reply touchily.

'Well, the four of us will go out for dinner, then,' she announces, ignoring me. 'You and Miles, and Julian and me.

I'll get a babysitter. We can go to that gastropub you were telling me about.' Smiling triumphantly, she gives me a hug. 'Sorted.'

'You make me laugh.' I grin, hugging her back. In the whole time I've known her, I don't think Vanessa has ever taken no for an answer.

'You make
me
laugh,' she retorts, as if I've just insulted her. 'I haven't laughed that hard in ages. I nearly peed myself!'

I laugh and, waving goodbye, cross the street to walk back to the high street, where my car's still parked.

'Oh, and that's another thing I wish I'd known when I was twenty-one —' Standing on her front steps, she calls after me.

'What?' I ask, turning round.

She grins ruefully. 'Start doing your pelvic-floor exercises
now
!'

Chapter Nine

Squeeze and hold. Squeeze and — Damn, they're really quite tricky, aren't they?

Forty-five minutes later, after popping back to the office to pick up some files, I'm sitting in traffic on the way home, busily practising my pelvic-floor exercises. To tell the truth, I've never done them before. Of course I've
heard
of them, but sort of vaguely, like when I was flicking through one of the 'older women's' magazines in the doctor's waiting room - you know, the ones that have adverts for StairMaster and articles about how to reupholster furniture - and saw an advert for the KegelMaster 2000. I remember because I thought it sounded a bit like the broomstick in Harry Potter but instead it was a sort of dumb-bell for
down there
. Anyhow, I always assumed they were something you didn't have to worry about until you were of the age when you start shopping in M&S for Footgloves. In fact, to tell the truth, I'm not even sure how to
do
one.

But after Vanessa's earlier near-miss I need to learn, I tell myself, feeling a little panicked at the thought of myself in adult nappies. I squeeze hard and hold in a rictus of terror. Holding my squeeze, I shift into first gear as the line of cars in front of me starts moving again. The traffic is still bad because of the diversion. It's going to be like this until next week, I muse, glancing at the large yellow signs. It's going to take ages to get home. Still, it means I've got plenty of time to do my Kegels. In fact, I've done a hundred already, I think proudly. Though I can't really tell if I'm getting the right muscles. To be honest, I feel as if I'm just clenching my buttocks. I fidget in my seat as I approach the lights. OK, let's try again. This time I'll count to five. Concentrating hard, I try to focus in on
those bits
and squeeze hard.
One, two, three, four
—

I'm interrupted by the shrill burble of my phone. I slip on my earpiece and answer.

'Hello, poppet,' says a voice with an unmistakable burr. It's my dad.

'Oh… um hi,' I gasp, feeling a flash of embarrassment at being caught doing pelvic-floor exercises by my father. Which is ridiculous. I mean, it's not as if he just caught me having sex. OK, scrub that image. That does not make me feel any better.

'I'm just ringing to say thanks for the lovely flowers. They came yesterday afternoon.'

'Oh, good.' I smile.

'But you shouldn't have gone to any trouble.'

'Don't be silly, it wasn't any trouble,' I reply. And it's true, it wasn't. I just called up and gave them my credit-card details, I reflect, feeling a twinge of guilt as I think of all the time Dad's spent on me over the years. 'I'm just glad you liked them.'

In my peripheral vision I see a flash of orange and I'm suddenly reminded. 'Hey, Dad, do you remember that old Beetle I used to drive?' I say, glancing quickly sideways. Only now I can't see it. It must have already driven past, I decide, looking at the line of traffic streaming through the traffic lights.

'God, we're going back years now…'

'To 1997,' I say automatically.

'Aye, that's right. Bloody hell, you've got a good memory,' he chuckles, sounding impressed.

'Mine's like a sieve these days.'

'Well, can you remember who you sold it to?'

'Now that I do remember…'

I wait expectantly, my mind running through people I know in the village to whom he might have sold my old car. Not that I've spent much time there in years, but for the life of me I can't remember anyone else having long, dark, curly hair. Actually, what about the girl who works in the fish and chip shop? No, that was more of a shoulder-length perm. Plus if she's working behind the counter battering cod, what on earth is she doing driving around West London?

'… We had it scrapped.'

Startled by his reply, I'm momentarily blown off course.

'But I've seen it in London,' I reply, quickly recovering.

'You can't have done, luv. It failed its MOT so I sold it to a scrap merchant. I remember.'

'I thought your memory was like a sieve,' I remind him teasingly.

'I might have a bad memory, but I'm not bloody senile,' he grumbles. 'I towed it there myself.'

'Well someone must have fixed it up,' I reply stubbornly.

'I saw it being scrapped with my own eyes.'

He's so adamant that for a moment I almost wobble.

'That's impossible,' I argue.

'What's impossible is you seeing it around London.'

This has turned into another one of our arguments. Dad's wrong, and as usual he won't admit it.

'Dad, you're
wrong
.'

'No, I'm not.
You're
wrong.'

Argh. I feel a familiar burst of impatience. This always happens. We go back and forth for hours and nobody ever wins, unless—

Suddenly I get a flash of inspiration. This time I'm going to prove I'm right. Slamming my foot on the accelerator, I pull down sharply on the steering wheel and do a U-turn in the middle of the road.

I'm going to follow it.

'It's probably been made into tin cans by now,' my dad is chuckling down the phone. Damn. Where did it go? My vision is blocked by a large truck in front of me. Then I glimpse it. Just ahead of me. A flash of orange turning down a side street. Trapped behind the truck, I edge slowly forwards until finally…

Indicating left, I pull off the diversion and shoot down a narrow, leafy street in hot pursuit. Just in time to see the tail-lights disappearing round a corner. Cursing under my breath, I race after it. It's a blind corner and as I zoom under a railway bridge, I pop out on to a main road. And there's the Beetle, waiting at the pedestrian crossing. I pull out and up behind it. Now I can see the number plate as clear as day.

'See, Dad, you're wrong,' I say jubilantly. 'MUG 403P. That's my old number plate!'

Ha-ha! Dad is going to have to eat his words!

Only there's silence on the other end of the line.

'
Dad
?' Frowning, I glance at the screen on my phone; there's no reception. How annoying! That keeps happening to me.

Making a mental note to call the phone company and complain, I stuff it in the centre console and switch my attentions back to the Beetle, which has pulled away from the crossing. For a moment I entertain turning round, going back the way I came. After all, I've seen the number plate now. It has to be my old car. There's no other explanation.

Then again, I have come this far. And now I am kind of curious to find out who's driving… Plus if I'm to win this argument with Dad, I'm going to need hard evidence and I've got a camera on my mobile.

A few minutes later and we're zipping down leafy streets in Camden, North London. Now an expensive area, it used to be my neighbourhood when I first moved to London. Way back when you could rent a room for £50 a week, I shared a rambling terrace house with six others on a little dead-end street, tucked away behind the back of a church.