Who's That Girl (30 page)

'That's Welly,' says Oliver, smiling.

'Hi, Welly. I'm Charlotte.' I smile, patting Welly's head.

'Looks like you made a friend.' Squatting down, Oliver clips on his lead. 'Leave the lady alone, boy. She doesn't want to come for a walk.'

Watching them both, I think about going back to my empty flat, packing up Miles's things, reading that self-help book. After all, I can't go for a walk with someone I've just met. Except I haven't just met him, have I?

'Maybe some fresh air would do me good.'

Smiling, he passes me the lead.

Chapter Twenty-eight

We leave the pub and head towards the park, which is only a few streets away. Today, though, those streets suddenly seem to stretch out endlessly in front of me, like those roads you get in America that go on for ever and you always see on the front of album covers. Streets that need filling with conversation, I think, sneaking a look at Oliver, who's silently striding next to me on the narrow pavement, hands tucked deep into his battered jeans.

Anxiously I try to think of something to talk about. He obviously doesn't recognise me as Lottie from ten years ago, otherwise he would have said something by now. So I know, what about:

'Guess what? Last night I went to the Canal Club and met you, only you were ten years younger, and you fancied me when I was ten years younger, but when I was ten years younger, I didn't even notice you, and when I introduced us, I completely ignored you.'

Er, yeah, right, Charlotte. On second thoughts, perhaps not. You're aiming for casual chit-chat, not to get carted off in a straightjacket.

'So, Welly, aren't you a handsome doggy?' I coo, resorting to the much safer option of talking to the dog. Welly ignores me and keeps sniffing the pavement. To tell the truth, I'm not brilliant with dogs. I love them, but I'm not what you call a dog person. I don't know how to do the clicky thing with my tongue and I couldn't tell a Labrador from a golden whatsit. Saying that, this is rather fun, I think, as Welly trots obediently alongside me. Maybe I could
become
a dog person.

'Yes, you are, you're handsome,' I continue, as if Welly has refuted my claim. Oliver catches my eye and I rub Welly's head casually, as if I'm a pro at this. Welly stops at a tree and begins sniffing it enthusiastically. 'Does that smell nice?' I coo. His tail wags excitedly.

'He's like me in the perfume hall at Harrods,' I quip, glancing across at Oliver. See, I can even make doggy jokes too.

'Is that so?' he says evenly.

'Yes, in fact—' I break off as I glance down at Welly. Hang on a minute, what's he doing now?

He's stopped sniffing and is sort of squatting. I bend down to have a look. 'Oh shit,' I gasp, shrinking back.

'Yup,' nods Oliver, his mouth twitching with amusement at my reaction. 'Don't worry, I'll take care of it.' He pulls a plastic bag out of his pocket.

'It's OK, I'll do it,' I protest quickly. I don't want him thinking I'm some kind of stupid girl who's afraid to get her hands dirty.
Figuratively
speaking.

'Hey, don't worry about it.'

'No, seriously,' I insist. 'What's a little bit of dog poo?'

He looks at me uncertainly. 'Well, if you're sure.' Shrugging, he passes me the plastic bag. 'Only Welly's been having a few problems recently. His stomach's a little off…'

I glance down just in time to see the last of Welly's—

Oh dear Lord, I can't actually finish that sentence. My stomach lurches like a car with a dodgy clutch. In fact I really don't think I can do this.

But you have to, I tell myself firmly. You can't lose face now.

Holding my breath, I bob down and start trying to scoop it up.

'Let me show you a trick. You see, you put your hand inside the bag…' he starts explaining. Unfortunately he's a bit late for that.

'Ewwuuggh.' He winces. Sucking the air between his teeth, he throws me a sympathetic look. But I hold firm. Summoning up the same air of forced calm that I need to remove the spiders from my shower, which for some reason is where big hairy spiders like to hang out, I tie the ends of the plastic bag together and dump it in a nearby litterbin.

There, done it.

'First time, huh?' He smiles, looking at my shell-shocked expression. I nod wordlessly. My heart's racing and I feel all trembly.

He laughs. 'It gets easier, trust me.'

With the ice well and truly broken, the conversation flows easily between us as we enter Holland Park and the inner-city buzz gives way to a sanctuary of tennis courts, grass lawns and flower beds laid out like a colourful patchwork quilt. It's a warm, hazy day, and the park buzzes with the sounds of summer: children's laughter, music wafting from transistor radios, footballs being kicked.

After washing my hands thoroughly in the loos, we meander through the serene Japanese garden, walk over the bridge and watch the orange majestic koi swimming beneath. Welly crouches on his haunches, mesmerised by the fish, his nose almost touching the water.

'Gosh, it's so pretty here, isn't it?' I murmur, gazing around me.

'Yeah.' Oliver nods. 'I come here a lot. It's one of my favourite places. You don't feel like you're in London. You really can imagine you're in Kyoto.'

'Have you been?' I ask with interest.

'Yes, a few years ago I spent a month travelling around Japan.'

'Wow.' I nod, feeling both impressed and envious.

'What about you?'

'The furthest I've been in the last few years is Yorkshire. Too busy with work.' I shrug in explanation.

'No one ever dies wishing they'd spent more time at the office,' he replies. 'Or whatever the saying is.'

'Well, my friend did get me tickets for Paris for my birthday,' I say defensively. 'Then again, I don't suppose I'll be going now,' I add as an afterthought.

He furrows his brow questioningly.

'I was supposed to be going with my boyfriend,' I explain.

'Did you guys have a blazing row or something?'

'No, we don't do rows,' I reply ruefully, quoting Miles.

'So what happened?'

Over in the distance, a peacock is fanning out its tail. I watch it for a moment. 'I'm not sure,' I say, shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans. 'It just wasn't right. We weren't right. It's like everything was perfect, but it wasn't.' I look at him, shielding my eyes from the sunlight.

'Does that make any sense?'

'Emotions don't have to make sense.' He shrugs, and we turn and keep walking. Squirrels scurry across our path as we zigzag around the flower beds.

'He didn't seem your type,' he says after a moment.

'I know, that's what Vanessa always says,' I begin, then pause. 'Hang on, how would you know what my type is?' I stop walking and turn to him.

'Well, he's nothing like Billy Romani.' He raises his eyebrows.

It takes a second for it to register, and then—

'You do recognise me!' I exclaim.

'People don't change that much,' he says in explanation, and starts walking again.

'I know, but I thought—' I stop myself. Actually, I'm not sure what I thought.

'I recognised you as soon as you walked into the pub on Monday night,' he continues as we make our way towards a stretch of lawn, which is filled with picnickers. 'To tell you the truth, I didn't think you remembered me,' he says quietly, glancing at me sideways.
I didn't
, whispers a small voice inside my head. And now I'm wondering how on earth that could have happened.

'I wasn't on your radar in those days.'

'Oh, I wouldn't say that.' I laugh nervously, and then catch his expression. Gosh, he actually looks quite peeved about it. I hope he's not holding some kind of grudge against me. A thought stirs. Hang on a minute. 'Is that why you were so mean to me in the pub? To pay me back for ignoring you ten years ago?' I blurt suddenly.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' he refutes, but I can tell by the flash of colour in his cheeks that I've hit the nail on the head. 'When have
I
ever been mean to
you?''
There's no mistaking the way he says that line. It's abundantly clear he thinks I was mean to him.

'Making fun of my allergies,' I retort, 'ridiculing me.'

'Well, do you blame me? Come on, you've got admit they are a bit ridiculous,' he snorts derisively.

'No they're not,' I snap, bristling. In the space of a few seconds our conversation has jackknifed into an argument.

'So let me get this straight, you can't eat any dairy, refined sugar, wheat or nuts, and you can't eat fish more than once a week.' Counting them off on his fingers, he looks at me, eyebrows raised. Now it's my turn to blush. Actually, put like that, it does sound pretty ridiculous.

'So that means a ninety-nine ice cream with extra sprinkles and double fudge sauce is out of the question?' he demands, completely straight-faced.

Huh?

He motions to a Mr Whippy ice-cream van and I feel myself weaken. God, I'd love an ice cream.

'Absolutely,' I manage, trying to stay mad.

'So if I get one, you're not going to get one too?'

We move towards the ice-cream van.

As Oliver goes up to the window, I grit my teeth. Boy, this is hard. 'No, definitely not.' I shake my head decisively as he orders one for himself.

'A ninety-nine with extra everything, please.' He grins cheerily.

I shoot him a look. I'm sure he did that on purpose.

'Mmm, this is delicious.' He takes a large lick of the ice cream the vendor has just passed to him.

'Sure you don't want even a lick?' he asks, taking a bite of Flake and doing a very good impression of that woman in the advert.

The bastard.

'No, I can't,' I say stiffly, though I can feel myself salivating. 'A nutritionist told me I'm intolerant, remember?'

'Oh, now, I don't know if I agree with that nutritionist.' He cocks his head and looks at me. 'I think you're pretty tolerant. What do you say, Welly?'

Welly wags his tail as if in agreement and I struggle to stifle a giggle.

'In fact I'd say you were jo tolerant you'd probably agree to holding this ice cream for a minute while I go to the little boys' room.'

'Oh, you reckon?'

'Uhhuh.' He nods. 'And I think your tolerance levels are so high that even if the ice cream starts melting down the cornet, you'll lick it to stop it going all over your hand.'

'Really?'

'Definitely.' Smiling, he thrusts it at me and walks off.

Leaving me standing there feeling my anger melting away faster than the ice cream, which is already trickling on to my fingers in the hot sunshine. I shoot his retreating figure a smile. 'You know what?' I mutter, curling my tongue round the cornet and tasting the sweet vanilla. 'Sod the nutritionist. I think you might be right.'

Emerging from the park, we wind our way down the skinny side streets that lead into Notting Hill and Portobello, the world-famous market, which is brimming with stalls selling everything from flowers to furniture to fake you name it. Weaving our way through the throngs of tourists, we hit the main road and a row of shops and restaurants. Designer clothes, designer lingerie, designer cappuccinos… my eyes skim over the windows, until unexpectedly Oliver stops in front of an antique shop.

'I just need to pop in here for a minute,' he explains, reaching for a well-worn brass knocker. Immediately Welly starts wagging his tail manically.

I suddenly recognise it as the shop I walked past with Vanessa a few days ago, when I saw Oliver through the window. 'Oh, OK.' I nod, following him as he pushes open the door. Inside, the shop is cluttered with all kinds of treasures in its dimly lit corners, and there's a musty smell of pipe smoke and furniture polish.

'Hello, anyone home?' calls out Oliver as Welly sniffs around, pressing his nose up against the legs of an old leather chair.

'Hmm, it doesn't look like there's anyone around. Maybe I should make off with that rather nice French watercolour,' he says in a low voice, pointing to a painting. 'What do you reckon?'

I look at him in horror, then realise he must be joking. 'Ha, ha, very funny,' I whisper.

'No, seriously,' he says, glancing shiftily around. 'Reckon I could get it under my T-shirt?' He picks it up.

Oh my God, he's not joking! I look at him aghast. Jesus. Oliver the nice barman has turned into a thief!

And I'm his accomplice.

'What are you doing?' I hiss frantically, trying to tug it from him. 'Put it down, put it—'

'Ahem.' Someone coughs loudly and I look up to see an elderly man has appeared from the back and is standing there with a pipe in his mouth, staring at us.

'—
down
,' I finish, throwing a strangulated look at Oliver. Fuck. Rooted to the spot, my mind spins. How did this happen? I was only looking for my watch and now I'm committing daylight robbery. Literally.

'So what've you got there, son?'

'A rather nice sunset by Claude Derbec'

I close my eyes. This is all too much. I wait for the inevitable.

'Painted when?'

'Around 1870, I think.'

Wait a second
. I open one eye.

'Not bad, not bad at all.'

I look at the old man. He's beaming and stroking Welly, who's lapping up the attention and returning it with giant sloppy licks on his hand.

'So you did learn something,' he's saying, with a hint of pride in his voice.

'Well, I had a good teacher.' Oliver is smiling.

Confused, I watch as they embrace.

'Hello, Granddad. How are you doing?'

''
Granddad
!' I repeat in astonishment.

And anger. I could kill him. I really could.

Oliver throws me a sheepish look. 'Sorry, I couldn't resist. You should have seen your face.'

I shoot him a look of fury. I want to throw something at him, but considering I'm surrounded by antiques, I'd best not.

'And who's your lady friend?'

'Oh, hi. I'm Charlotte,' I say, remembering myself. 'Nice to meet you.' I hold out my hand. He grabs it and hits my knuckles in a hip-hop handshake.

'Granddad's a huge fan of Jay-Z,' smiles Oliver, seeing my expression, then adds in explanation,