Who's That Girl (28 page)

Argh, let me out, let me out, LET ME OUTTTTTT!!!!!!

'Darling, wake up, wake up.'

I snap my eyes open and remove my eye mask to find Miles shaking me by the shoulder.

'Wassup…? Wha…?' I sit bolt upright and look at him, dazedly, trying to get my bearings. I'm in bed, and Miles is lying next to me, his face etched with concern.

'Sshh, don't worry. You were having a nightmare. You were yelling something about "Let me out."'

'Oh… right… yes,' I murmur, feeling a rush of relief. 'Oh God, it was horrible, Miles, just horrible.' I flop back on to the pillow. 'I was being buried alive.'

He smiles reassuringly. 'Well, don't worry, you're fine now. You're safe here with me.' He strokes my hair, which is stuck to my clammy forehead.

Bang, bang, bang, bang.

I stiffen. It's that noise! 'What was that?' I shriek, sitting bolt upright again. See, I wasn't dreaming. It's real.

'Oh, that? Don't worry, darling, that's nothing.' He laughs at my horrified expression. 'Just the estate agent putting up the sign.'

'
Sign
? What sign?' I gasp, jumping out of bed and dashing to the window. Yanking open the curtain and raising the blackout blinds I stare out into the street. Just in time to see a man with a hammer giving a final thwack to the sign. '"FOR SALE,"' I murmur, reading the large red letters. My heart thuds.

'Well, what did you think it was going to say?' says Miles jovially.

'Um… nothing. I dunno…' My mind is swirling in uncertain directions. 'It's just… isn't it a bit
quick?'

'Quick?' replies Miles, propping himself up against the headboard. 'You can't be too quick when it comes to the property market, darling,' he advises sagely. 'Now our offer's been accepted, it's important that the buyers see we mean business, and that means selling our own properties, organising a survey, sorting out the joint mortgage and deposit…'

As his voice drones on, I feel slightly light-headed. I rub my cars agitatedly. 'I think I'll make us a coffee,' I say, cutting him off as he starts talking about setting up a joint account. I suddenly feel claustrophobic, as though I can't breathe. It's almost as if my nightmare of being buried alive is actually becoming a reality.

'Ooh, yes, good idea,' nods Miles. 'I've got a bit of a hangover after last night. All that celebrating.' He looks at me and I feel a twist of panic. 'I must have crashed out on the sofa as it wasn't till the light woke me up, streaming in through the blinds, that I crawled into bed. Not that you'd remember,' he adds, looking at me pointedly.

The twist of alarm tightens a notch. Oh shit.

After leaving my younger self asleep in bed, I'd driven back from my old house and arrived at my flat when it was just getting light. Assuming Miles was still fast asleep on the sofa, I'd headed straight into the bedroom, which was in complete darkness because of my blackout blinds, and flopped straight into bed. But what if Miles woke up while I was out clubbing? What if he came to bed and discovered I wasn't there? What on earth am I going to say? My mind starts frantically flicking through a Rolodex of excuses. How on earth am I going to explain—

'You were fast asleep. Completely dead to the world,' he continues, and I look at him in astonishment. 'You were obviously exhausted. You're normally such a light sleeper.'

I got away with it. He doesn't know! My body almost sags with relief.

'Must have been all the excitement about the house, hey?' He beams.

'Er, yes, absolutely.' I smile uneasily. 'It totally wiped me out.' I do a show of stretching and throw in a faux yawn. Which turns into a real one. Actually, I am still pretty tired.

'Do you want me to help with the coffee?' Misinterpreting my show of exhaustion, Miles starts to get out of bed.

'No, no,' I say urgently. 'You stay there. I'll get it.'

'Hmm, I think I'm going to like this living together,' he says, and looking pleased, he slides back underneath the duvet.

Leaving him behind in the bedroom, I hurry into the kitchen, grab a bag of coffee beans, pour them into the grinder, switch it on and reach for the espresso pot. Then pause. Hugging it to my chest, I lean against the counter and watch the coffee beans whirling round and round, like all the kinds of strange, unfamiliar thoughts that are whirling round in my head. I think back to last night. To all of it: my birthday dinner, Miles and the champagne, Vanessa and Julian, Lottie and the club, Oily the barman… At the memory of Oily my stomach does a little loop and I feel a flash of something. Excitement, fear, foolishness? I don't know what. A scene from our conversation slides across my mind, down my spine, through my groin and comes to an abrupt full stop as my mind throws up an image of the barman at the gastropub. Annoying, irritating, belligerent and
the same person
. God, it's all got so confusing.

'There you are.'

I twirl round to see Miles standing in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing my bathrobe. It's too small for him and his pale arms and legs are sticking out from the cream waffle towelling, making him look rather comical.

'I wondered what had happened to the coffee.'

I become aware of the noise of the grinder, still buzzing away, and quickly turn it off.

'I thought we could have our coffee and then go take a second look at the house,' he continues, reaching for the Weetabix. He keeps a box at my flat. Apparently he's eaten them since childhood and can't break the habit. Not that he seems to want to. I've never seen anyone get as much pleasure from sprinkling a layer of sugar on top of Weetabix, patting them down with the back of his spoon, carefully pouring milk around them ('like a moat', he once explained), making sure he doesn't pour it on the Weetabix directly, as that would make them soggy, and then eating them with the kind of precision you'd expect from a brain surgeon.

'So we need to hurry up. I've arranged to pick up the keys.'

'Oh, um… yes, right.' I nod, feeling a familiar jangle of nerves.

Turning back to the espresso pot, I rub my ears distractedly. They're still itching. In fact they're actually rather painful, I realise, leaning forwards to peer at them in the shiny stainless-steel toaster. I get quite a shock. My ears are red and inflamed, and there's an angry rash beginning to run down the side of my neck. Oh my God, it must be the pearl earrings. I'm allergic to them. And all at once it's like the earrings are a sign. A sign that this isn't right. Buying this house. Moving in together.
Me and Miles
. I feel a jolt of fear and recognition. It's as if someone just unlocked a door inside me that I've been too afraid to open, •because I know what's on the other side.

I'm not in love with Miles.

As soon as the thought pops into my head, I realise it's been there for longer than I care to remember. I've just been avoiding it, ignoring it, pretending it wasn't true, putting a PR spin on my own relationship, trying to convince myself that we are right for each other, that Miles is right for me. And it's only now I've finally admitted it to myself. Now I just have to admit it to Miles.

Like a drum roll, my heart starts thudding loudly in my chest as I turn to face him. He's sitting on a stool up at the counter, carefully cutting off a slice of Weetabix with his spoon, and still talking.

'There's lots of things we need to start to sort out. For example, are they leaving the curtains and blinds? If not, we'll have to get those ordered and they can take at least four to six weeks.'

I have to tell him. Taking a deep breath, I summon all my courage. 'Miles, I don't know how to say this, but I can't—'

'Oh, don't tell me,' he interrupts, pulling a face. 'You've got yoga.'

I swallow hard. 'No, I haven't got yoga.'

'I mean, surely you can reschedule? This
is
very important,' he continues, turning back to his cereal bowl.

'Miles, you're not listening,' I snap, then immediately feel guilty. He looks at me in surprise.

I hesitate. It's now or never. I just have to come out with it. 'It's about us.'

There. I've said it.

He looks at me for a moment, confused, searching my eyes for a clue, then nods. 'Oh, I know what this is about.'

I feel a curious leap of optimism. Maybe he feels this way too. Maybe it's not just me.

'It's about last night, isn't it?' he continues, looking uncomfortable. 'Me falling asleep on the sofa.'

I look at him blankly.

'We didn't have sex on your birthday.'

Oh my God, he's got it so wrong. So horribly wrong I don't know what to say.

'Weil, we can have it now, if you'd like,' he offers, putting down his spoon and standing up. 'We don't have to pick up the keys and look at the house till ten - we've got time.'

I look at him, standing there, in my towelling bathrobe, his half-finished Weetabix lying soggy in the bowl, and strangely I don't feel very turned on. In fact his offer of sex is so matter-of-fact he might as well be offering to put out the recycling.

'Miles, it's not about last night, and it's not about sex,' I say, quickly glossing over that bit. 'It's about us. Me, this house,
everything
…' I flail my arms around. Miles is looking at me, his face uncomprehending. I'm hoping he's going to butt in, finish my sentence for me, guess what I'm going to say, but after two wrong answers he's not going to, is he?

'I don't want to buy the house,' I finally blurt.

He stares at me, his face a picture of astonishment. 'Why? What's wrong with the house?' he demands.

'Nothing's wrong with the house,' I reply quickly. 'It's perfect. It's a perfect house.'

'Well, then!' His astonishment has disappeared and he's annoyed now. 'Look, Charlotte, I know you're nervous, but you're being ridiculous. What's got into you?'

'Nothing, it's just…' I stare fixedly at the floor. 'Miles, I can't do this. I can't move in with you.'

There. Finally I've said it.

There's silence. I drag my eyes upwards. He looks stunned. Then his face sets, harder. 'Can't, or
won't
?'

I swallow hard. 'Miles, I'm not doing this on purpose. You're a wonderful person. It's not you, it's me. I've been having doubts for a while, and I just never realised…' God, I'm really making a mess of this, aren't I? I take a deep breath and continue, 'But now everything's sort of come to a head and it wouldn't be fair on either of us to carry on.'

'You've met someone else, haven't you?' he suddenly accuses.

Every nerve in my body seems to jump and I look at him in shock. 'No, of course not!' I protest quickly.

'Yes you have,' he continues. 'I just knew it. You've been acting really strangely these last couple of days. Different. Ever since I got back from Leeds. So come on, who is it?'

'No one.'

Oh God, why is he asking me all these questions? And why am I feeling so guilty? I ask myself, thinking about Oily.

'Tell me who it is and I'll punch him.' Curling up a fist, he shakes it menacingly. Only Miles could never look menacing. Especially not in my terry-towelling bathrobe.

'Miles!' I gasp in exasperation, feeling the conversation veering wildly off course. Fuck, this is not what I planned to happen at all. 'This isn't about anyone else. It's about me.'

His chest deflates, and stuffing his fist in his pocket, he composes himself. 'Look, Charlotte, I'm sure we can work this out. We always do,' he says practically.

He's right. If we ever have a difference of opinion, we don't argue about it, we work things out. But that usually involves a compromise. And this time it's about more than just a fireplace.

'No, Miles, we can't.' I shake my head sadly. 'We can't work this out, not this time.'

'Well, I think you're making a huge mistake,' he snaps.

Guilt stabs. God, I feel like such a bad person.

'We're going to lose out on a real steal with that house,' he continues. 'It's a great investment. How can you do this?'

Slowly it registers. Hang on a minute, he's talking about
the house
?

'Plus I've already organised for the survey. That's at least seven hundred pounds down the drain, unless I can cancel it, but I doubt it, at such short notice.'

Obviously he's upset and just trying to distract himself. It's his way of coping. After all, men aren't like women, are they? I watch as he snatches his mobile off the counter, where it's charging, and starts punching in a number. Then again, maybe he really
is
more bothered about the house.

'I'll call them now, see what I can do…'

'Miles, listen, I'll pay for the survey,' I offer. 'I'll pay for all the costs we've incurred so far. It's not important.'

'Of course it's important, Charlotte,' he snaps.

'No it's not, it's really not.' I shake my head. 'It's just a house. We're talking about the rest of our lives.'

'Just a house?' He laughs in disbelief. 'I don't think so, Charlotte. It's in a prime location. It's a hot property.'

'I don't care if it's a hot property!' I yell, before I can stop myself. 'I don't care if it's in a prime location, or if we can get planning permission for a loft conversion, or if it's a great investment. I don't care if we drink Pinot Noir or Cabernet Sauvignon. And I don't care if I never see another episode of
Location, location, Location
. Or talk about pension plans. Or listen to another James Bond theme tune as long as I live —' I break off, panting.

We both look stunned by my outburst.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout…' I trail off and spread my hands awkwardly. 'It's just that I've been trying to convince myself, going along with things. And I can't any longer. I've got to be true to myself.'

'But you said you loved Licence to Thrill. I bought you the CD.' He looks at me, his face hurt.

'I know, I'm sorry,' I repeat again, only this time more softly.

'Me too,' he replies stiffly, and putting the phone back to his ear, he turns away and stalks out of the kitchen. 'Ah, yes, hello. I'm calling about the survey…'

Chapter Twenty-seven

OK, so let's recap. In less than an hour I've gone from having a boyfriend, buying a house and being inches away from being what my mother calls 'settled' to having no boyfriend, no new house and feeling very
un
settled.