Who's That Girl (17 page)

Except stress about it of course.

I clamber out of bed and tug on my dressing gown. Feeling all agitated, I go into the kitchen, flick on the kettle and grab the soya milk from the fridge, but as I reach for the handle, I pause. I have one of those big American types on which are stuck things - like an out-of-date gym timetable, some photographs of Ruby and Sam, a couple of recipes that I've ripped out of magazines and which I keep meaning to try, one day, and magnets that read things like 'The journey is not the destination' and 'Women are like teabags: they don't know how strong they are until they get into hot water - Eleanor Roosevelt.' Vanessa got me that one. Only I'm not looking at any of that stuff. I'm noticing an old photograph, half hidden underneath a postcard Mum and Dad sent when they went to Turkey. It's one of those big drunken group shots taken years ago at some party. Peeling it off the fridge, I look at it closely. The sunlight's faded it, bleaching out colours and washing out details, but I can still make out people's faces. I smile nostalgically. There's me, right at the end, wearing that now-familiar terrible silver eyeshadow, and next to me is Vanessa. She's wearing black, as always, and has her arm draped round Julian, who's doing bunny fingers above her head. I smile to myself. Those two were always joking around back then, I muse, turning the photo over and looking at the date scribbled on the back. 'My twenty-second birthday party'. Wow, what a coincidence. I turn thirty-two on Friday, which means this photograph was taken nearly exactly ten years ago. I peer at the photo again, trying to jog my memory for details, but I can't remember any more. It was so long ago I've completely forgotten.

The kettle boils and I pour hot water on to the teabag, absently watching the water turning a deep brown as my mind starts ticking over. What else have I forgotten? Who else has slipped my memory? How many other make-up horrors have I conveniently erased from my internal harddrive?

On impulse I abandon the tea and, grabbing a torch from one of the kitchen drawers, pad into the hallway. There's a little cubbyhole under the stairs that I use as storage. Crouching down, I pull it open and crawl inside. It's dusty and there are several large cobwebs. Urgh, I'm terrified of spiders. I take a deep breath and try to remember the stuff I read in
Feel the Fear and Do It
Anyway
about facing your fears. Even if they're black and have eight very hairy legs. Trying not to think about spiders dropping on my head or crawling down the collar of my dressing gown (and thinking
only
about spiders dropping on my head or crawling down the collar of my dressing gown), I start rummaging around. I'm sure they're in here somewhere, amongst all this stuff… Christmas-tree decorations, an ancient tea set that was my grandmother's, old clothes that I'm keeping in case they come back into fashion. I hold up a pair of faded, ripped Levi 501s with a bandanna for a patch on the knee. Well, that's the idea…

Aha, there it is. Behind a couple of dusty suitcases I spot a large, old-fashioned hat box. Dragging it out, I carry it into the living room and plonk it on the rug, then sitting cross-legged beside it, tug off the dusty lid.

It's filled with photos. Now everything's digital no one hardly ever gets prints made any more, do they? They're all kept on the computer - I've got the one of Miles and me at his birthday last year as a Screensaver - but in the old days I always used to be getting films developed at Snappy Snaps and putting them in albums. I've got dozens of them.

I start flicking through one randomly, and then another, and another, until I find what I'm looking for: an album containing pictures of me when I was twenty-one. With renewed curiosity, I open it and gaze at the photographs. I'd just moved to London and it's filled with a social whirl of parties, pubs and picnics. Here's one of the many Christmas parties we had at Kilmaine Terrace, when I snogged Simon, who I worked with. I cringe. Boy, did I regret
that
in the morning. Oh, and there's Vanessa and I drunk and dancing at the Notting Hill Carnival - shortly after this picture was taken I fell into a bush and twisted my ankle because I was so drunk. I couldn't wear high heels for months. It was such a pain. Literally.

I turn a page. And here's me again in some horrendous patterned flares I bought from Camden Market. I shudder. I used to think they were so flattering, but looking at them now with the benefit of hindsight, I realise they made me look like someone's sofa. God, talk about a fashion faux pas. I'd never let myself go out in those now.

I pause, the photo albums scattered around me. A seed of thought takes hold, starts to grow…

Hang on a minute. If I can prevent myself from sleeping with Billy the wannabe rock star and save myself from getting hurt, why stop there? What about
all
the hundreds of mistakes I'm going to make,
all
the lessons I haven't yet learned,
all
the dumb, stupid stuff I'm going to do because I'm naive and clueless and don't know any better? Plus let's not forget all these other fashion disasters. I cringe, spotting another photograph. This time I'm wearing PVC trousers that make my legs look like they are encased in bin-liners. Enough said. All at once everything seems to broaden, like being in the movies when the curtains pull back and the screen widens, and I can see the bigger picture. And it's not just about something specific, like the importance of wearing sunscreen, being warned about a dodgy garage or staying away from a loser like Billy Romani; it's about everything. It's about all the Coulda, woulda, shouldas. It's about getting the one-in-a-zillion chance to hang out with my twenty-oneyear-old self. Like Vanessa said, if only you knew then what you know now.

Well, now I can.

I feel a rush of exhilaration. Excitement.
Potential
. And suddenly it hits me. Oh, wow, just imagine. I'll be like Yoda! A wise master, teaching myself the ways of the world, bestowing sage advice and words of wisdom, giving myself the benefit of my experience and hindsight. I can see myself now. I'll be firm but fair, wise but approachable, like Dumbledore in
Harry Potter
, or Mr Miyagi in the
The Karate Kid
.

But of course I mustn't get too carried away, I think, catching myself hastily. After all, Lottie has no idea who I am, so it's important I don't appear like a know-it-all. I mean, I'm not going to give her a set of instructions or dos and don'ts or anything like that. No, I'll just drop a few subtle hints, gently lead her in the right direction, give her a bit of friendly advice. I won't make a big deal of it all.

Chapter Sixteen

OK, so I've made a list.

Fast-forward to nine the next morning and I've popped into a pharmacy before my meeting with a journalist from the
Guardian
. Armed with a basket, I'm navigating the busy aisles, on the hunt for a pair of eyebrow tweezers.

If I'm going to do this properly, I don't want to forget anything, so I've just scribbled down a few random thoughts on a piece of paper. Nothing major, just some things off the top of my head. So for example, first things first:

1. Do not sleep with Billy Romani.

I don't care how handsome he is. How charming he is. How amazing that thing was that he did with his tongue— OK, Charlotte, enough of the reminiscing. He's also a liar, a cheat and a heartbreaker. 2. Invest in property.

My dad's motto was always 'Buy, don't rent.' Of course I didn't listen to him. Maybe now I'll listen to myself.

3. Better still, invest in any of the following:

Starbucks/Google/YouTube.

Admittedly that might be a bit unrealistic. Especially considering I used to have about two fifty pences to rub together at the end of each month. Plus I'm not even sure those things were around back then. But still, it's important to…

4. Think big.

And we're not just talking about you-know-what.

Though of course that's important, I reflect dreamily, my mind wandering off in all kinds of directions, until catching myself, I quickly glance back down at my list of instructions. Right, where was I? Oh, yes.

5. Start a pension.

OK, I'm just going to have to get the boring financial stuff out of the way first, so I can get on to the more important stuff on the list.

Spying the tweezers, I pounce on a super-professional-looking pair made from industrial-strength stainless steel with 'precision edges' for a salon finish. Like, for example…

6. Pluck your eyebrows.

Look, I've got nothing against thick eyebrows, but it's one thing having sexy beetle brows like Brooke Shields in
Blue Lagoon
and it's another having Noel Gallagher's monobrow. And while we're on the subject of grooming…

7. Do your bikini line.

I know for a fact I didn't have my first bikini wax until I was thirty. A fact I remember because it was
that
painful I still bear the emotional scars. Which means down there I'm currently resembling a German tourist.
Nicht gut
.

Grabbing some Nair hair-remover, I throw it in my basket.

8. There is such a ting as too much eye make-up. So throw away the silver eyeshadow.

And while you're at it…

9. Throw away the mousse too.

Scrunch-drying is not a good look. Never was. Never will be.

10. Neither is trying to lighten your hair with lemon juice.

A) It doesn't work and b) it attracts wasps.

11. Start doing your pelvic-floor exercises now.

Remember Vanessa's advice? Kegels are like shoes - there's no such thing as too many. Reminded, I pause in the aisle to do a couple and notice I'm standing right by the sunscreen section. Like I said before…

12. Wear A LOT of sunscreen.

I chuck in a couple of family-size bottles of SPF45. Then a couple more. Well, better safe than sun-damaged.

13. Put down those PVC trousers and back away.

Yes, sadly it's true. Last night I found the damning evidence: a photograph of myself vacuumpacked into a pair of skintight, belly-button-skimming, shiny, PVC trousers. The word 'mortified'

doesn't even come close.

14. Cancel that trip to Sicily in 1998.

It rained all week and I was forced to comfort-eat pizza and
gelato
. 15. On second thoughts, don't cancel that trip. :)

Reaching the end of the aisle, I turn into the next one. There are still a few things I haven't found yet, I muse, as I spot that rare creature: a sales assistant.

'Excuse me?'

For a moment I think she's going to pretend she hasn't seen me and dart off into the back - a bit like Vanessa's cocker spaniel if you catch him sitting on the sofa - but at the last minute she seems to change her mind. 'Yes?' she asks, turning. 'Can I help you find something?'

'I'm looking for Nicorette patches.' Which brings me to…

16. Stop smoking.

'Oh, I see.' She nods briskly. 'To help you with stopping smoking?'

'Oh, no, I don't smoke,' I say, quickly putting her right.

Before realising by her confused glance that that might not have been the best answer.

'Um… I mean, I don't smoke any more,' I correct myself.

She peers at me in confusion. 'I'm sorry, I'm not sure if I quite understand…'

Welcome to my world, I think ruefully, switching my basket on to the other arm. I've thrown in quite a lot of stuff and it's really heavy.

'I wouldn't advise wearing nicotine patches unless you are suffering the withdrawal effects of nicotine,' she continues, rather firmly.

Oh God, she probably thinks I'm one of those people who get high by drinking cough syrup or something.

'Yes, absolutely,' I agree in my most responsible voice. 'Of course I won't. Unless I am. Which I will be.'

Fuck. I'm digging myself a bigger hole here.

She looks at me sharply, then thinking better of it, says, 'We keep the patches in our prescription section, just on the left.'

'Oh, OK, thank you.'

Hurriedly turning away, I'm heading towards the sign that says, 'Prescriptions', when I see a flash of suit and a familiar profile. Gosh, that looked like Julian, but it can't be - what would he be doing in this part of town? His office is miles away. I glance again to get a better look. But no, it's definitely Julian. A smile spreads over my face in readiness to say hello as I make my way towards him.

'Hey, Julian, fancy seeing you here!' I exclaim, tapping him on the shoulder. He swings round like he's been shot. 'Charlotte!' he gasps, clutching his tie to his chest, his eyes wide.

'Oh, sorry,' I apologise, smiling. 'Did I startle you?'

He quickly composes himself. 'A little bit.' He laughs awkwardly.

'So what are you up to?'

'Excuse me?' He looks at me blankly.

'In this part of town. I thought your office was in Chancery Lane.'

Gosh, he's acting really weird.
Shifty
, almost. Which is ridiculous. It's Julian. What's he got to be shifty about?

'Oh, right, yeah.' He shakes his head distractedly. 'I have a meeting close by.'

'Snap.' I smile, but he doesn't. 'With a journalist…' I trail off uncomfortably and absently glance down into Julian's basket. And there, among the shaving foam and Gilette razors, I see them.
Trojans. Extra large. Ribbed for comfort.

Suddenly it dawns on me exactly why Julian is acting so weirdly. He's all self-conscious, as am I, I muse, feeling a flush of embarrassment. Which is silly as we're both adults.

'Look, Charlotte, I'm running late.'

I snap back to see Julian checking his watch.

'Er, yeah, me too.' I smile, blushing beetroot. 'Well, I'll see you tomorrow.'

He looks at me as if he doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about.

'For dinner,' I add to jog his memory. 'It's my birthday. Did Vanessa mention it?'

'Oh Christ, yes, that's right.' He rakes his fingers through his hair and smiles apologetically.

'Sorry, I've got a lot on my mind at the moment.'

'Well, bye.'

'Yeah, bye, Charlotte.'

I watch as he strides away down the aisle, his dark-suited figure causing a few turned heads among some girls by the make-up counter. Gosh, Vanessa is such a dark horse. Haven't had sex for ages, indeed! Just wait till I see her!