Who's That Girl (16 page)

'So what?' She laughs carelessly.

Only she hasn't hit thirty yet, has she? This version of me is still twenty-one, I realise, watching my younger self. I know nothing. I have no idea how much money I'm going to haemorrhage on this stuff in years to come, how many hours I'm going to spend daubing on creams and massaging in scrubs to achieve what I have right now, and what I'm taking for granted. Frustration stabs. God, was I really so clueless?

'You say that now,' I persist, trying not to think of all the UVB and UVA rays that are right now attacking that perfect, peachy, freckle-free skin, sowing the future seeds of pigmentation and discolouration, 'but you'll regret it when you're in your thirties.'

'Thirties? Oh God, I won't care by then,' she dismisses, slurping her cider. 'I'll be old.'

I flinch. 'Thirties isn't old,' I say tetchily, and reach for my cranberry juice. I'm not actually a big fan of cranberry juice, but it's chock-full of vitamin C and antioxidants. I take a virtuous sip. So much better for me than cider, which is just full of empty calories.

'Yeah, it is,' she retorts, and gives a little shudder, as if she doesn't even want to think about it.

'It's ancient.'

What? She's saying I'm
ancient?

I feel a slam of indignation. I've been trying to be patient, but this is too much. I mean, honestly, the cheeky cow! I'm younger than Kylie! I still shop at TopShop! Admittedly only online, but still.
And
I have not just one but
two
pairs of skinny jeans! How on earth can she think I'm ancient?

Because you did, reminds a voice in my head. You did, Charlotte.

And all at once I remember a conversation I had when I was twenty-one. I was with a group of friends and we were talking about the millennium and how old we would all be, and when I realised I was going to turn twenty-five that year, I was appalled. I thought that was
so
old. And as for the few friends who would be in their thirties, well, that was just unthinkable. I didn't know anyone over thirty - apart from my parents - and it wasn't just that: I didn't even
notice
anyone in their thirties. They were invisible to me.

Just like I'm invisible to her, I think, glancing at my twenty-one-year-old self sitting just inches across the table from me, oblivious to who I really am.

She catches me looking and throws a hand over her mouth in horror. 'Oh, sorry, I didn't mean you were…' she trails off, pulls a face. 'Me and my big mouth.'

'It's OK, no offence taken,' I reply tetchily. 'I was just saying…' Absently I scratch the eczema on my elbow. 'Besides, the sun will really make your eczema flare up,' I can't help adding, moving even further into the shade.

She frowns. 'I don't have eczema.'

I look at her in confusion. 'You don't?'

'No, why did you think I did?'

'Oh, no reason.' I shrug quickly. 'It's just very common.' Puzzled, I try remembering when I got my first flare-up. It feels like I've had it for ever, but actually, thinking back, she's right-I don't remember having it when I was her age. In fact the first time I got it was when I was really stressed out over an important deadline.

'What time is it?' I zone back to see her gesturing to my watch. 'I don't have a watch.' She smiles in explanation.

'You don't have a watch?' I repeat in astonishment. It's unthinkable.

'No, I don't wear one.'

Trying to absorb this shocking piece of information, I glance at my own for the umpteenth time that day. 'Um… nearly twenty past six.'

She tuts. 'Typical. She's always late.'

'Who is?' I ask, but I already know.
Vanessa
. It has to be.

'My friend Nessy. She's supposed to be meeting me here for a drink, but she's never on time.'

Well, at least some things don't change, I think, suppressing a rueful smile.

'I'll give her another ten minutes, then I'm going home. I only live round the corner, so I can walk there. Which is lucky, as my car's in the garage being fixed.' She pulls a face. 'I had a bit of an accident.'

Of course. The lamp-post. That's why my old Beetle wasn't parked outside the house.

'Which garage did you take it to?'

'Oh, just some place on the Harrow Road.'

'Barry's Motors?'

'Yes, that's it.' She nods. 'How did you know?'

Because they totally ripped me off, I remember grimly, but instead reply vaguely, 'Oh, I took my car there once.'

The details are fuzzy now, but I'll never forget paying some ridiculously inflated bill because I was young and naive and didn't know to question it, then having to borrow money off Vanessa as I couldn't afford to pay my rent.

'When's it going to be ready?'

'They said next week sometime.'

'Well, if I were you—' The irony hits me and I catch myself. 'I think you should take a male friend with you when you go back to collect it, just to check they've done a good job,' I suggest.

'If you're anything like me, you won't know the first thing about cars.'

She smiles gratefully. 'Thanks for the advice.'

'My pleasure.' I stifle a yawn that's just appeared from nowhere.

There's a lull in the conversation. Suddenly I feel very tired. It's a been a long day. The strangest, most bizarre, most remarkable day of my entire life, but now I can feel it all catching up with me and I just want it to be over. I want everything to go back to normal. A wave of tiredness engulfs me, and draining my glass, I reach for my bag. If I leave now, I can get an early night. And then, when I wake up tomorrow, all this will have turned into one of those stories people tell at dinner parties that always goes, 'You're never going to believe this, but…' Like that one Vanessa has about how she saw a ghost sitting on the landing when she was eight years old.

Although I have to say, I think bumping into yourself is
slightly
better than just seeing a paltry old ten-a-penny ghost clanking some chains. But like I said, no one's ever going to believe me.
I
don't believe me and I'm seeing it with my own eyes, I muse, taking in my surroundings one last time.

'Hey, Lottie, I think I'm going to—' I break off as my gaze lands on a poster on the wall:

'Shattered Genius, playing at the Wellington, this Saturday, SOLD OUT.' Hang on a minute, that name rings a bell… There's a grainy picture of a band underneath. Scrunching up my eyes, I peer closer.

'Have you heard of them? They're amazing!'

Her voice grabs my attention and I turn to see her gesturing at the poster. Quite frankly I have no idea, but I nod vaguely and concentrate hard on rummaging around in my memory. I'm so tired that everything's fuzzy, but I know it's going to come back to me any second.

'You know, I've got a spare ticket if you want to go. My friend Nessy was going to come with me, but now she's seeing Julian instead.' She rolls her eyes and smiles. 'He's her new boyfriend and they're totally in love.'

It suddenly strikes me how friendly I used to be. I'd just moved down to London from Yorkshire and the city hadn't rubbed itself off on me yet. Now, after being here over ten years, I tend to keep myself to myself and am wary of talking to strangers. London does that to you.

'Thanks, but I think I'm busy that night,' I reply, shaking my head. Seeing myself once is freaky enough, but twice? I don't think my sanity can handle a repeat performance.

'Oh, what a shame,' she tuts in commiseration. 'I can't wait. I love the lead singer.'

'The lead singer?'

'Billy Romani,' she hisses excitedly.

As she says the name, her face lights up like Oxford Street at Christmas and I feel myself stiffen. I haven't heard that name for years, I've blocked it from my mind, but now it's all coming flooding back. Billy Romani was someone I had a crush on for months, and when we finally ended up spending the night together, I thought it was the beginning of some great big love affair.

For about two days. Until I found out I'd just been a one-night stand and he'd already moved on to another girl and—

Pain stabs. Well anyway, the details aren't important. Suffice to say, at the time I was heartbroken, but of course I bounced back, I remind myself, and since then I've never given him or what happened a second thought. Well, maybe sometimes, on the odd occasion, I've wondered what would have happened if things had turned out differently between us. But they didn't, and I'm glad. Still, it's not something I dwell on. It was so long ago. I'm over it.

'He's so talented, don't you think?' she's saying eagerly.

'Um… yes, sort of…'

Talented at being a total bastard, I think grimly.

A vague memory stirs. Wait a moment. Wasn't it after one of his concerts that I slept with him? I feel a clench of regret. God, if only I hadn't done that, if only someone had stopped me —

An idea strikes and all at once I feel a flurry of possibility.

No, surely not. I can't.

Can I?

It's like a light going off in my brain. Up until a moment ago I wanted everything to go back to normal, for this all to be over, but now… I hesitate, my stomach fluttering nervously as I decide what I'm going to do. I knew before all this went through my head.

'Then again, I'm not
that
busy…' I hear myself saying loudly. Because I might not know
why
this is happening to me or
how
this is happening to me, but one thing's for certain: if I go to this concert, I can save myself from a broken heart. Stirred up, I smile determinedly. 'How much do you want for the spare ticket?'

Chapter Fifteen

That night I go to bed and have the strangest dream. I'm with Christopher Lloyd, the crazy scientist in
Back to the Future
, and we're driving along the freeway in the DeLorean. Only we're not travelling at the speed of light, we're going about five miles per hour because of the diversion and now the car has changed into my old VW Beetle, and being an American, Christopher Lloyd can't drive a car with gears, so we swap seats.

But when I sit back down, I'm not in a car any more, I'm in the Wellington and it's not the crazy scientist sitting next to me, it's Suki and she's tutting and holding up a mirror so I can see my sun-damage. When I look at my reflection, though, my face is super-smooth and blemish-free and suddenly I realise there is no mirror. It's me, aged twenty-one.
And I'm sunbathing. Without any sunscreen.

And my tan is getting darker and darker, deeper and deeper, and I'm trying to stop myself before I turn into an old leather handbag, but I'm not listening. I'm smoking cigarettes and drinking cider and singing along to Billy Romani.

Hang on a minute, are you sure this is a dream, Charlotte?

Snapping open my eyes, I tug off my eye mask and peer at my alarm: 2 a.m. Urgh. It's the middle of the night and I'm wide awake. For a moment I lie there, watching as the clock changes from 02.00 to 02.01, my mind replaying footage from the pub, over and over and over and over…

OK, that's enough. I've got to get up for work in less than five hours. I need to go back to sleep, otherwise I'm going to be exhausted. I feel a gnaw of anxiety. There's nothing worse than the pressure of knowing you have to go to sleep to prevent you from falling asleep, is there?

Flopping back on to the pillow, I put my eye mask back on. I just need to relax. Drift away. In the background the sound machine is set to 'Relaxing Ocean Lullaby' and I listen to the waves rushing in, and rushing out, rushing in and—

This pillow is too hot. I turn it over and place my cheek on the cool cotton. Ah, that's better. I squeeze my eyes closed again and try to fall asleep.

Also, it's a bit lumpy. Hitching myself up on one elbow, I bash the pillow with my fist, pummelling the allergy-free feathers into submission, before flopping back down again. Right, OK. Sleepytime. I wriggle down underneath my duvet. The sound machine is still whooshing rhythmically, the humidifier is still puffing steam. Any minute now I'm going to be lulled into a drowsy slumber.

But first I have to get comfy. I toss, then turn, then toss back again. Gosh, is it me or is it really hot in here? I throw off my duvet and lie there relishing the cold air. Mmm, this is better. Much, much better…

Though now my feet feel a little cold. And is that a draught? In fact, you know what, I'm actually quite chilly. I tug back the duvet and strike a compromise by splaying my body half in, half out. OK. Perfect.

I lie very still and focus on clearing my mind, emptying it completely of all thoughts. Like, for example, me with bushy eyebrows, big hair and that God-awful silver eyeshadow that I'd forgotten all about. Or me smoking and drinking and sunbathing and basically doing everything that's bad for me. Or me fancying losers like Billy bloody Romani. Oh God, this is useless. I'm a terrible sleeper at the best of times, but now, with all this stuff spinning round in my head?

Not a flipping chance. I know, I'll read for a bit, I decide. Flicking on the bedside lamp, I sit up and reach for my new self-help book,
Stress Is a Four-Letter Word
. I turn to Chapter Two: Relax Your Mind. 'You're walking through a beautiful forest. The sun is shining. Birds are singing as they fly gracefully overhead. Tilting your face to the sky, you watch them, imagining what it would be like to be a bird.'

A bird? What kind of bird? I know, I'll be an eagle. No, I can't be an eagle - they don't sing. What about a sparrow? No, too boring. A robin? OK, I'll be a robin.

'You imagine what it would be like to be able to fly away, to soar away into the sky, higher and higher.'

How high? I don't like heights. I get vertigo. In fact I'm not that keen on flying either, especially not after that terrible flight I had years ago coming back from Spain. Oh my God, the turbulence was terrible, I remember anxiously. Everyone was screaming, even the air hostesses! I swear, I thought I was going to die —

OK, that's it. Sod it.

I snap the book shut and chuck it down. It's no good, I can't relax, I'm too restless. Only a few days ago I was living my perfectly normal life, my head full of perfectly normal things like deadlines at work, dinner arrangements with Miles, those extra five pounds I've been trying to shift since Christmas, but now everything's been shaken up and turned upside down and I'm not sure what to do about it.