Who's That Girl (27 page)

All at once it registers. There hasn't been a robbery, and nobody has ransacked the house -
except
the people who live here
. I pause to take it in. Did I really used to live like this? My flatmates and I were pigs! Actually, no, pigs are cleaner. And they don't leave dirty knickers lying around… My eyes sweep the room - across every surface littered with dirty mugs, half-eaten food, shrivelled-up teabags and bowls with dried-on cereal, which would require a hammer and chisel to remove - and finally land on the pile of dirty dishes. It's almost skyscraper in its proportions. And what about the rubbish? I glance with horror at the plastic swingbin, its top off, the black bin-liner spilling over with empty cans, most of which appear to be Heinz baked beans.
Then there's the smell.

Gagging, I turn away. Unearthing the kettle, which, by the way, has so much limescale there's no need to
ever
take calcium tablets, I fill it up (not an easy task - I have to wedge the spout between the tap and the pile of dishes, in a tricky manoeuvre that reminds me of a game of Jenga) and flick it on.

I think about my own lovely, spotlessly clean flat. Not for the first time am I glad I'm not Lottie any more.

I turn back to Lottie, who's leaning forwards, the side of her face resting on the dining-room table, her eyes closed.

'Coffee won't be a minute,' I encourage, trying not to let out a shriek as I look for a mug that doesn't have mould growing in it.

'Umm,' she moans sleepily.

Somehow in the space of a few minutes she's gone from euphorically life-and-soul-of-the-party drunk to falling-asleep-in-her-clothes-drooling drunk.

'Maybe you should eat something too,' I suggest.

'Mmm.'

Gingerly I tug open a few cupboards. Back at my flat, my shelves are filled with packets of organic wholewheat pasta, jars of sundried tomatoes, a bottle of virgin olive oil…

Pot Noodles.

I stare at them blankly. That's it?

I rummage around a bit. There's got to be something else, apart from Pot Noodles. Oh, hang on, there's something else. A bottle of ketchup, which has gone all congealed and manky around the top and probably has the grand total of about one drop of ketchup left in it, and that's only if you stand it upside down for a week.

Still, she needs to eat something, so it's got to be the Pot Noodle or nothing, I decide, grabbing one in desperation and peeling off the tinfoil lid. Mmm, very nutritious, I muse ironically, looking at the freeze-dried dust in disgust. I dread to think how many additives and E-numbers are in there.

The kettle flicks off and I fill it up to the brim with hot water, then turn back to making coffee. Chipping away at the remnants in the bottom of the jar of Nescafe, I turn to the fridge for milk. Quite frankly, I'm scared what I'm going to find in there.

And with good cause.

Bracing myself, I tug it open and come face to face with more ice than is left in the Arctic. Anyone who's worried about the polar ice caps disappearing would be reassured by this fridge.

'Defrosting' is obviously a word I wasn't aware of when I was younger. Nor was I familiar with the words 'fruit' or 'vegetables'. Instead what lies waiting for me on the top shelf, my shelf in the shared fridge, are two Dairylea triangles, a half-used jar of Ragu and an unidentifiable fossilised object that could be anything, I think, looking at it curiously. Is this how I used to survive? On Pot Noodles, ketchup, Dairylea triangles and Ragu? I'm surprised I never got scurvy or rickets or something.

I think back to my list and add to it:

17. Eat healthily.

'You know, you really should try and eat a balanced diet,' I advise Lottie, spying a dog-eared carton of milk at the back and pouncing on it. 'You should eat a recommended five servings of fruit and vegetables a day to lower your cholesterol and avoid the risk of colon cancer.' I glance over at Lottie, but she's not listening. Crashed out on the dining-room table, she's emitting a faint snore.

I give up on the dietary tips - for now, anyway - and turn back to making coffee. I take a quick sniff of the milk. Euccchh. It's gone totally sour. In fact it's gone past that and is a sort of solidified lump.

Hastily I put it back in the fridge. (Well, I would put it in the bin, but it's already spilling over.) She'll just have to drink it black. It's better than nothing.

'Here you go.'

I put the coffee and Pot Noodle in front of her, but she doesn't stir. She's out cold. I give her a shake and she wakes up, squinting in the light. For a moment she looks blearily around as if not realising where she is, then pounces on the coffee. 'Mmm, thanks,' she mumbles, perking up and taking a large gulp, followed by a spoonful of the gloop that is the Pot Noodle. 'Yummy.' She grins up at me. 'Want some?' She proffers the pot.

'No, thanks,' I say quickly. 'I'm not hungry.'

'Suit yourself.' She smiles, taking another forkful. 'More for me.'

Whatever, it seems to do the trick, and it's not long before she's revived enough to climb the stairs to her bedroom. I follow, partly out of curiosity, partly to make sure she doesn't slip and fall back down the stairs. I throw out an arm as she wobbles precariously on the top step. Phew, that was a close call.

'Well, here we are, home sweet home.' Pot Noodle in one hand, mug of coffee in the other, she bumps open her bedroom door with her hip. It swings open, revealing she's left the light on. Saving energy was not my thing in those days. Neither, it would appear, was picking my clothes up off the floor.

Following her in, I stare at the scene that greets me. The only way I can describe it is this: imagine emptying your drawers and chucking everything on the floor. Then opening your wardrobe and pulling everything off the hangers and chucking those on the floor too. Add on top a few pairs of shoes. A coat. A couple of wet towels. And bingo, you've got my old bedroom.

'Make yourself at home,' grins Lottie, kicking off her shoes and flopping cross-legged on to the Indian bedspread.

I look around for somewhere to sit. The room is so tiny I can barely turn round. There's a small table and a fold-up plastic chair by the window and I perch uncomfortably on the edge. The table is cluttered with books. An ancient IBM computer takes up most of the space, and there's a pile of pages next to it.

'I'm writing a novel,' she says, seeing me look at them.

'Oh wow, I'd forgotten about that,' I murmur, remembering, then catch myself. Luckily Lottie hasn't heard me; instead she's busily tucking into her Pot Noodle.

'I haven't finished it yet, but I'm going to,' she continues assuredly. 'At the moment I'm working at a puzzle magazine, but I really want to be a writer. Ever since I was a little girl it's been my dream. I couldn't imagine doing anything else.' She smiles and takes another forkful. 'What about you? What do you do?'

'Oh, I… um… I run my own PR company,' I say, focusing back.

'Wow, really?' Eyes wide, she looks impressed. 'That's amazing. Your own company. You must be mega successful!'

'I wouldn't say "mega",' I say modestly, but inside I feel a swell of pride at how well I've done, at how far I've come, I think, glancing at Lottie, sitting cross-legged on her rickety futon, in the middle of her poky little room, eating a Pot Noodle.

'I bet you live in an amazing flat, don't you? As well as driving that amazing car.'

I smile as I remember giving her a ride home from the concert last night, and her oohing and ahhing about my heated leather seats. 'Well, I like it…'

'You're so lucky,' she sighs wistfully. 'I'd love my own place and a new car one day. And some money would be nice.'

I smile, basking in her respect.

'So do you love your job?' she asks eagerly.

'Well, I don't know about
love
it,' I admit, thinking about this last week. 'There's a lot of stress involved—'

'Because it's important to do what you love, don't you think?' she interrupts, before I can finish.

'Like my dad always says, you're at work a long time, so you might as well do something you love, something you're passionate about.'

I feel a jolt of uncertainty. God, Dad always does that say that, doesn't he? To tell the truth, I've never been passionate about PR, not even close, but then how many people are passionate about their jobs? I tell myself in justification.

'True.' I nod. 'But that's also a little idealistic. Sometimes you need to compromise and focus on a career that will allow you to pay the bills and give you financial security,' I reason. 'OK, so it might not be doing something you're truly passionate about, but it can still be challenging and fulfilling.' I can see I've got my younger self's attention and I feel pleased. See. This is the amazing thing about being older: having the experience, the hindsight, the maturity to know what's important.

'Ugh, no, thanks.' Lottie pulls a face. ' "Challenging and fulfilling,"' she repeats, as if the words taste nasty. 'That doesn't sound like fun.'

'Well, life isn't always about having fun,' I reply, feeling a little rankled.

'Then what is it about?' she asks simply.

Her question throws me. I open my mouth to try to respond, only I can't. I don't know how to answer that. Because she's right, I suddenly realise. What
is
it about?

I'm saved from replying by the sound of the front door being slammed.

'Oh, bloody hell, that'll be one of the boys coming in,' she groans. 'Hang on a sec, I'm just going to nip to the bathroom before they do.'

She jumps up and disappears out of the room and I'm suddenly reminded of what it was like sharing a bathroom with six other people. Waiting your turn to take a shower in the morning and finally getting in there only to discover all the hot water has gone. Dashing to the loo in the middle of the night and finding someone already on it. Listening out for the door to unlock so you can go in and have a nice, long, relaxing bath, then one of the boys coming out complaining about last night's curry…

'Sorry, what were you saying?' asks Lottie, reappearing.

I look up in surprise. I'd expected her to be ages, brushing her teeth, flossing, rinsing, taking off her make-up, applying creams. I mean, the whole bathroom routine takes me for ever. Then it twigs. 'Oh, was someone in there already?' I pull a face in consolation.

'No.' She smiles, and flops back on to her futon. 'All done.'

All done?

I stare at her in confusion. What does she mean, all done? How can it all be done in about ten seconds? I'm in there forty-five minutes.

Then I realise she hasn't taken her make-up off.

Yet
, pipes up a little voice inside my head. Surely she's going to take off her make-up? I mean, every woman knows that your skin regenerates overnight and it has to be squeaky clean to soak up the nutrients from all those creams you've slathered on.

I feel a stab of worry.

Don't they?

'Um, aren't you going to take your make-up off?' I say casually.

'Nah. I can't be bothered.' She yawns, rubbing her eyes with the palm of her hand and smearing black eyeliner across her cheek.

I give a little inward shudder and, trying not to think of my poor skin, mentally add to my list: 18. Always take off your make-up.

Speaking of the list…

'You know, instead of renting, you really should think about buying your own place,' I suggest.

'Then you'll have your own bathroom.'

'Yeah, right.' She laughs as if I've just cracked a very funny joke. 'With what?'

'Your savings,' I continue, bending down and picking up a wet towel. It's been bugging me ever since I got in here. Folding it up, I lay it over the back of the chair.

'I don't have any savings,' she tuts. 'Apart from my overdraft. Actually…' she pauses, thinking '…

I've got a three-hundred-quid overdraft and there's sixty quid left, so does that count?'

'No, that doesn't count,' I retort quickly, suddenly feeling a bit like Miles must do when I get confused about investment funds. Saying that, I can see her logic. Sort of. 'But you should start a savings account,' I continue, reaching for another towel. 'You don't have to put much in, just a few pounds a month, but it will all add up.' Finished with the towels, I begin tidying up the rest of the stuff. Well, now I've started…

'And if I were you,' I add pointedly, 'I'd start a pension, and maybe invest.' Putting some dresses on hangers, I start running through my list. 'A little bit of an insider tip; if you can, buy shares in something called Google.' Going off into a little fantasy land, I start imagining how I'd spend my millions. Though first of all I'd give a large chunk to my family and friends. My mind jumps to Vanessa, and her advice. 'Oh, and before I forget, you must start doing your pelvic-floor exercises.'

Suddenly I realise Lottie has gone silent and I turn round. 'No, don't worry, they're not difficult.'

My younger self is fast asleep.

I stare in disbelief.

No sound machine. No mouthguards. No aromatherapy mask. No humidifier. No blackout blinds. And with the light on. It's incredible. I obviously didn't suffer from insomnia back then, I reflect, feeling a tug of envy.

Gently I pull the Indian bedspread over her and she mumbles something faintly in her sleep and turns over. I pause, watching her sleeping, then go to leave. My eyes sweep the room for one last look and land on the unfinished novel, sitting on the desk.

And it's never going to be finished, I realise, suddenly feeling a beat of sadness. Because I gave up the dream.

I can't remember how long I stand there, feeling reflective, looking at the girl I used to be. Until finally, switching off the light, I leave her behind and close the door.
Chapter Twenty-six

Bang, bang, bang, bang.

What's going on? It's pitch-black and I'm trapped in a wooden box. I can't see. I can't move. All I can hear is this incessant—

Bang, bang, bang.

Oh my God, I'm being buried alive. That's the sound of the nails being hammered into my coffin.
Bang, bang, bang, bang.

I'm going to suffocate. I won't be able to get out. I'm going to die.
Bang, bang, bang.