Who's That Girl (15 page)

Now I really
am
speechless. Lost for words. Struck dumb. And every other saying that means my earlier irritation has drained completely away as my mind makes that leap from disbelief to belief. This isn't a hallucination. This is real. And all I can do is stand here in stunned silence as I stare at myself. My twenty-one-year-old self. In the flesh. Right here. In front of me.
Oh, fuck.

I feel a thrust of panic and my mind starts whirling like a merry-go-round.
Fuck-oh-fuck-oh
—

'Are you OK?'

A strong Yorkshire voice stops me spiralling further and I snap back to see my younger self looking at me with concern. God, I'd forgotten how broad my accent used to be.

'Um… yes,' I fluster. 'I'm fine.'

Which is a pretty crap fib as if there's one word to describe my situation right now it certainly isn't fine. Panicked? Maybe. Freaked out? Definitely. This close to losing it any second? Yup, that as well.

Frantically I try gathering myself together, but it's not that easy. Bewildered, I glance down at my shirt with dismay. It's my favourite Nicole Farhi shirt and it's now splattered with cranberry juice. God, just look at it! I only bought it a couple of weeks ago and it's totally ruined. Maybe if I take it to a dry-cleaner's, they can—

Oh, who am I kidding? I don't give a bloody stuff about my goddamn shirt. I'm just trying really hard not to think about the small fact that I'm having a conversation with a girl in a skimpy top and silver eyeshadow who just so happens to be me a decade ago.

As I look back at her, I wobble and nearly lose it. God, this brings a whole new meaning to talking to yourself.

'It was just a bit of a shock,' I say, trying to appear casual, but it's as if the world has tipped on its axis and I'm teetering on the edge, clinging on for dear life, while having to pretend everything is perfectly normal. 'But no big deal.' I shrug and laugh lightly.

But there's no reaction. My younger self is still staring at me, her smooth, wrinkle-free brow furrowed in concentration. As if she's thinking about something very, very hard. As if something's troubling her. As if—

Suddenly it registers.

Of course! Why didn't I think of this before?

She recognises me.

As it hits me, I know I have to pull myself together. No doubt she's going to be as freaked out as I am, if not more. In fact I'll probably have to calm her down, being the older self. Act like a big sister. Tell her not to worry. That it will be OK, to stay calm and not panic, that we'll figure this out.

She opens her mouth to speak, and despite my own feelings, it's all I can do to stop myself from flinging my arm protectively round her shoulder and saying, 'There, there, dear.'

'Salt.'

Or perhaps she's going to burst into tears, or faint, or have some kind of panic attack, or—

Hang on, rewind. Did she just say… ?

'
Salt
?' I repeat, taken aback.

'Yes, that's right. And white wine.' She nods, gesturing at my shirt. 'I'm sure that will get the stain out, though you'll probably need to soak it in hot water.' She smiles apologetically. What? She doesn't recognise me?
She doesn't know who lam
? I stare at her in shocked disbelief. But surely she has to. I'm her. I mean, she's me. I mean, we're the same person. Fuck, this is confusing.

'I think we've met before,' I try prompting.

Maybe she's in denial. Just like I was.

'We have?' Tilting her head on one side, she peers at me and I can see she's racking her brain.

'Nope, I don't think so.' She grins.

I swallow hard and take a deep breath. 'It's me, Charlotte,' I whisper, leaning closer. Her jaw drops open with surprise and she clutches her chest.

I knew it. At last.

I brace myself, ready to do all the explaining. She's going to want lots of answers, lots of why, how, when, why, whats. Which will be quite tricky, as I don't have answers. But never mind, I'm sure I'll think of something. Just as Vanessa did when Ruby asked her why Daddy had a 'thing'

between his legs and she said it was a tail, like George's, their cocker spaniel. Which was pretty inspired, I have to say. Although I don't know what Daddy will do if she asks him to wag it.

'Oh, wow, what a coincidence,' she gasps, her face creasing into a smile. 'That's my name too. But my friends call me Lottie.'

There's not a flicker of recognition. Nothing. It's like I'm a total stranger. I stare at her in confusion. But how can that be? Unless of course this is all some crazy dream and I'm going to pinch myself and wake up to find Bobby Ewing in the shower. Or something like that.

I pinch myself. Nope, I'm still here. Or should I say both of me are still here?

'Sorry, I'm dreadful with faces, especially once I've had a drink.' She gestures to her empty glass and laughs widely, showing off a mouthful of silver fillings.

God, I'd forgotten about those too. I had them all replaced about five years ago, after reading an article about mercury poisoning and freaking out. I also had my two wonky front teeth straightened with braces. And I had them bleached. In fact my smile's completely different now. Like so many things about me…

And then, all at once, it dawns on me. No wonder she doesn't recognise me - not only do we look completely different now, but we are completely different. Of course I'm like a stranger to her: I
am
a stranger to her. She doesn't know me yet.
Me
, the person she's going to become in the future, in ten years' time. The person who no longer goes by her nickname of Lottie, but prefers Charlotte as it's more grown-up and mature. The person without silver fillings, long, brown scrunch-dried hair, bushy eyebrows and an accent that's pure Pennines. We're not the same person at all: I'm not her any more and she's not me yet. We're two completely different people. I mean, for God's sake, does that look like my cleavage! I stare at it now in astonishment. My younger self is wearing a flimsy top that her boobs appear to be almost spilling out of. Automatically I fasten a button on my shirt. God, I'd forgotten how much heavier I was when I was younger, but then that's not surprising as I didn't do any exercise and used to eat rubbish. Now I work out and watch what I eat and I look and feel so much better.

'Um… nice top,' I comment, as she catches me staring.

'Thanks. I made it myself.' She grins proudly.

Yes, I know. From a handkerchief, I reflect, remembering how I thought it was a fab idea at the time. Ten years later it's so revealing I might as well have come to the pub wearing a doily. Seriously, what on earth was I thinking?
I'm practically naked
.

'Aren't you… um, a little chilly?' I suggest, resisting the urge to grab someone's jacket from the back of a chair and throw it over her shoulders.

'Chilly?' She laughs. 'Oh, no, not at all. In fact it's really hot out here.' She starts fanning herself with a beer mat to cool down, her wrists covered in bracelets, which chink loudly as they start jiggling up and—

I stiffen. The bracelets aren't the only thing jiggling up and down. The handkerchief is made out of this thin, silky fabric and - oh my God.
Is that a nipple
? Suddenly I realise two things: 1) I'm not wearing a bra and 2) I've magically turned into my mother.

Right, that's it. This is too much. I'm getting out of here. Grabbing my bag, I start to leave.

'Are you sure you don't want another drink?' Lottie asks, following me back inside.

'Er, no… thanks. I have to go,' I say hurriedly, shaking my head and gesturing to the door.

'Oh, OK.' She shrugs, and walks over to the bar. I hear her ordering a half of cider. I feel an unexpected wave of nostalgia. Cider used to be my favourite drink before my tastes became more sophisticated and I started drinking wine, and for a moment I pause and glance back in her direction. Fiddling with her hair, she's waiting for her drink and chit-chatting with the person next to her at the bar, absently playing with her earring, laughing at some joke, chewing her fingernails, pulling faces, making different expressions.

I watch, completely fascinated. It's the weirdest feeling. A bit like when I go home to see Mum and Dad and they get out the old home videos and we all sit on the sofa and hoot with laughter at our funny clothes and hairstyles. Only I'm not laughing. I'm transfixed. This is just so surreal. Did I really used to wear my skirts so short? And what's with all that big, poofy hair? Hang on a minute… I watch as the guy next to her offers her a cigarette.
Am I smoking
?

Deep down in my brain I can hear a voice yelling at me to get out of here as fast as my legs can carry me. Quickly! Go on, scram! It's easy - just turn round, get in your car and drive back the way you came. Do not stop until you're safely home and in your pyjamas with a brandy and a box set of
Sex and the City
.

Well, that's always my guaranteed cure-all in any crisis.

I mean, this is insane, Charlotte. It's INSANE.

But it's also exciting, whispers another voice and out of nowhere I suddenly feel a tingle of adventure. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to stay a little longer, have another drink. After all, it's not as if this kind of thing happens every day, is it?

'Actually, Lottie…'

She looks over her shoulder and, seeing me, smiles. 'I thought you already left.'

'No, not yet. I've actually got some time to kill. So I was wondering…'

'Cranberry juice, right?'

'Yes, please.' I smile, and hold out a pound coin, but she pushes it away.

'Don't be daft - it's on me,' she protests.

I know she's broke, because I was always broke back then, and as she pays the barman with what little she has, I feel a glow of affection towards my own self. Which is
beyond
weird, but hey. At this point, beyond weird is beginning to feel normal.

'Try not to spill it this time,' she jokes, as she passes me my juice.

'Thanks.' I take it from her. 'Oh, by the way,' I add, before I can help it, 'you get a stain out by soaking it in cold water.'

'Not hot?' She looks at me in surprise.

'No, that sets it.'

'Bloody hell, trust me!' She laughs, pulling a face. 'I guess I've still got a lot to learn.'

I smile.

Actually, it's funny you should say that…

Chapter Fourteen

OK, so now what?

Five minutes later Lottie and I have decamped once more to the beer garden. We share a table and for a few moments we both sit there in silence, sipping our drinks, while I grope around for something to talk about. I feel absurdly nervous. As if I'm on a first date.

'So,' I finally say, 'nice… um… weather we're having.'

No sooner have the words left my mouth than I feel myself cringe. God, Charlotte, is
that it?

You bump into yourself aged twenty-one and of all the millions of things you could say you're chatting about the goddamn weather?

'Mmm, yeah, isn't it?' She nods, closing her eyes and tipping her face to the sun. Triggering a flashback to Suki's lecture about sun-damage.

'Arggh, no, don't—' I blurt out, then stop myself.

Jerking her head back down, Lottie looks at me, startled. 'Jesus, what's wrong?'

I hesitate. Oh, shit. I really haven't thought this through, have I? I mean, what do I say now?

You're going to ruin my skin? I have severe pigmentation and discolouration and it's
all your
fault
?

'Um… there was a wasp,' I mumble weakly.

'Oh, crap, really?' Waving her hands around, her eyes dart from side to side, looking for the invisible wasp.

'Actually, I think it's gone now,' I add quickly.

'It has? Phew.' Settling back in her chair, she hitches her skirt even shorter and sticks her legs out into the sun. 'God, it's amazing that it's still really hot, isn't it?' she enthuses, basking like a cat in the early evening rays.

'Yes, isn't it?' I nod, watching her helplessly while trying to block out Suki's voice, which is now ringing in my ears. 'Um… are you sure you don't want to sit in the shade?'

'
The shade
?' My twenty-one-year-old self turns and looks at me with such horror you'd think I suggested she stick red-hot pokers in her eyeballs. 'Why on earth would I do that? I'm trying to get a suntan.'

Trust me, this girl has a suntan. She's practically mahogany.

'You know, I use this great fake tan—' I confide, but she cuts me off.

'Fake tan? Urgh.' She pulls a face. 'No, thanks. I want a real tan.'

I smile. Tightly.

There's a beat as I watch her turn her face to the sun again and close her eyes. God, this is ridiculous. I can't just sit here and do nothing.

'I have some sunscreen if you want to borrow it,' I suggest, trying to sound nonchalant.

'No, it's OK.' She shakes her head. 'I don't wear sunscreen.'

Now it's my turn to look at her with horror as visions of all the skincare products in my bathroom cabinet swim before my eyes, followed by visions of all my credit-card bills. I've spent enough on miracle creams that promise to reverse the signs of ageing to make a dent in Third World debt.

And no wonder, I realise, watching myself as I sizzle in the sun. In fact, to be quite honest, I'm lucky I don't look like beef jerky.

'Well, it's never too late to start,' I reply, pulling out my sunscreen from my bag while simultaneously fighting the urge to grab hold of her and smother her in it till she looks like a cross-Channel swimmer. 'Sure you don't want some?' I ask, squirting a bit on my hand and rubbing it on my face.

'SPF forty-five?' she says, looking aghast. 'Blimey, no wonder you're so pale.'

'I'm not
that
pale.' I frown, looking at the remnants of my spray-on tan. 'And anyhow, sunbathing is really bad for your skin, you know. In fact a tan is just melanin,' I quote from one of the many skincare articles I've read on this subject, 'which your skin produces to protect itself. So in fact you could say that a suntan is actually a sign that your skin is already damaged,' I finish, feeling rather impressed by how knowledgeable I sound. I hadn't really realised how much you learn as you get older, but by the time a woman hits thirty, she's been exposed to enough magazines, beauty products and mirrors to have become an expert in skincare.