Who's That Girl (33 page)

'So do you speak to your parents every day?' I ask curiously.

'Oh, yeah, we're really close.' She nods without hesitation. 'I'm lucky. Some people don't get on with their parents, they never go see them or anything, but mine are great. They're really excited about me getting this job in London, and really supportive, but I know they miss me. And I miss them.'

'That's great.' I smile, but inside I can't help feeling saddened at how far my parents and I have drifted apart. I hardly ring them these days, and it's ages since I last saw them. Guilt tugs as I consider how I've neglected them. I think about Mum calling me in the car, asking about Miles. She still worries about me, even now, even if she has a funny way of showing it. That's just Mum.

'Anyway, where were we?' Lottie looks at me expectantly.

'Oh… um.' I try quickly gathering my thoughts, remembering our conversation about Billy Romani, about what I wanted to say, all the words of advice. There's so much, and yet part of me can't help thinking it's too late now. The moment's gone and so instead I think of the advice I read earlier from the self-help book on Amazon.

'At first you will experience disbelief and shock about what's just happened,' I opine. 'But that's normal after a break-up. Or encounter,' I add tactfully.

'Says who?' she says, a tad sulkily.

'I read about it in this really good book about break-ups,' I explain. 'In fact I was going to buy it today, but I got sidetracked.'

'Why were you going to buy it?' She frowns.

I hesitate. I don't particularly want to talk about it. But then again, what the hell. 'Because I just broke up with my boyfriend,' I confess. Now I'm the one hugging my knees to my chest and staring at the ground.

'You have a boyfriend?' She sounds shocked.

'Did,' I correct her.

'Wow.' She looks astonished. 'I mean… I just thought 'cos you're older you were probably divorced.'

'
Divorced
?' I gasp. Jesus. I thought it was bad enough my mother wanting me to be married, but now my younger self has got me pegged as a divorcee. Then again, I always did have a big mouth and never thought before I opened it.

'Well, you weren't wearing a ring,' she explains, looking remorseful.

'No, I'm not divorced. Or married,' I add, just to make it clear. 'I'm single.'

The irony isn't lost on me. Here we are, sitting side by side, and ten years apart, both single and both talking about men.

Or lack of.

Some things never really change, do they? Except of course now I'm older and more mature and I read self-help books so I know how to deal with these things, I tell myself quickly, relieved I'm not the sobbing wreck I once was.

'God, I'm sorry,' says Lottie. 'So what are you going to do?'

I think back to the blurb on Amazon. 'Well, it's important to mourn the end of a relationship, as this will allow you to move on,' I say, quoting from memory.

Lottie tucks her hair behind her ears and frowns. 'What does that mean?'

'It means you have to get closure,' I explain. I've read a lot about closure. Closure is a big deal in self-help books.

'
Closure
?' she repeats, as if the word's foreign.

And I suppose it is to her, I realise. After all, at twenty-two, I had no idea about any of this stuff. Not like now, I think, feeling proud of how much I've grown. Growing is a big deal in self-help books too.

'You'll need to spend time dealing with what's happened,' I reflect, trying to use the benefit of hindsight. 'But it's going to take time, so you need to be kind to yourself, pamper yourself, spend time with your good friends.' I'm talking about Vanessa. Even now, ten years later, she's always been there for me, whatever's happened. Just as she was back then. My mind flashes back to her sitting next to me on my futon, stroking my hair as I sobbed my heart out. She didn't have to say anything. Just knowing she was there was enough. 'But what's really important to remember is that you can't rush this important healing process,' I add, thinking back to the self-help book. Gosh, I really do sound like Dr Phil, don't I? I feel a beat of satisfaction. See, at least I can be of some help, give some good advice.

'Why not?' she demands, arching an eyebrow.

An eyebrow, I suddenly notice, that has been aggressively plucked to within an inch of its life. She must have used those tweezers I gave her, I realise somewhat regretfully. On second thoughts, it wasn't such a good idea. I was aiming for Jessica Alba arches, not permanently surprised.

'Because it's a process,' I repeat patiently.

'Bollocks,' she admonishes.-I look at her in shock.

'That's just bollocks. Why should I have to go through a frigging process, while he goes out with another girl?' she gasps angrily.

'You're obviously at the angry stage,' I say, trying to calm her down.

'But he told me he was falling in love with me!' she cries.

I raise an eyebrow. If there's one thing I've learned as I've got older, it's never to believe a man who says he's falling in love with you just as he's falling into bed with you.

'God! He's such a liar!' she tuts hotly.

'No, this is good - it's important to get your anger out.' I nod encouragingly. 'All these stages are really crucial in getting over something like this. First you go through shock, then depression, now anger.' I'm trying to remember all the different stages.

'I was just a one-night stand to him, and to think…' She lets out an angry howl. 'I could kill him!'

She falls silent, and drags on a cigarette, staring off into the middle distance.

'Acceptance is the final stage. Once you reach this, you'll be able to deal with anything life throws at you.' I pause, thinking about my own life, what's happened in the last ten years since I was wearing Lottie's shoes and for a moment it's like I'm talking to myself. 'You'll be able to move on.'

'Actually, I do feel more positive.'

'Really?' I feel a beat of delight.

'In fact I feel a load better.'

'Wow, that's great.' I smile with satisfaction. Though to be honest, I actually thought it would take a bit longer than a few minutes to go through the process, but I've obviously really helped her. 'And in time you'll feel healed enough to begin a new relationship.'

'Mmm, yeah.' She nods distractedly.

'Though don't worry if at first you're a little nervous.'

'Mmm…'

Hang on a minute. I suddenly get the impression she's not listening. 'Did you hear what I just said?'

'God, he's really hot.'

'Who is? Billy Romani?' I look at her puzzled.

'Billy who?' she says pointedly, as if to say, 'Keep up, Grandma.' '
Him
.' She gestures with her head, and all at once I realise what's grabbed her attention. Across the road I spot a jogger. Barechested, with a body to die for, he's stopped running and is stretching out his muscles. 'Cor, he's gorgeous,' she sighs lustfully.

'Lottie, were you listening to anything I just said?' I feel a snap of annoyance.

'Sorry… um.' She turns to me, her eyes flashing and a big grin on her face. Her tears have miraculously vanished and there's two spots of colour high in her cheeks. 'You were saying something about stages?' she says vaguely.

'Yes, and it's really important,' I remind her.

'Well, I'm sorry, but you can keep all that claptrap,' she replies, looking back at the jogger. 'Do you want to know my advice for getting over a man?'

I look at her questioningly, then back at the jogger, just in time to see him smile over, and her smile back flirtatiously. All thoughts of Billy Romani completely forgotten.

'Get underneath another one.'

Chapter Thirty-one

As weekends go, this isn't up there with my best. My search of my old bedroom fails to show up my watch, which I now fear I might have lost in the Canal Club. Leaving Lottie flirting with Mr Bare-Chested, I drive home. It half crosses my mind to pop into the pub and say hi to Oliver, but it quickly crosses back again. What am I thinking? Don't be so. silly, Charlotte. He was probably only being polite.

But then so was I, I tell myself defensively.

Instead I stay in that evening and pack up the rest of Miles's things, which plunges me further into gloom. To be honest, even though I know I've done the right thing, it's still quite depressing. I console myself that we can remain friends. After all, we're both reasonable adults; we can be amicable about this. Like when celebrities split up and issue those joint press release statements, I think, remembering the one I did for Melody when she split up from her footballer husband. I set about concocting one as I clear out Miles's sock drawer:

Charlotte and Miles have made an amicable decision to separate. Their decision was made by
best friends with a huge amount of love and respect for one another. Their relationship has
ended, but their friendship continues. They would request that the media respect their privacy at
this sensitive time.

Gosh, it sounds great, doesn't it? We sound so mature and laid-back about it all, so cool. It makes you almost
want
to split up with your boyfriend.

In fact by Sunday morning I feel cheered up and am imagining Miles and I doing Demi-andBruce-type dinners with our future partners. That is until Miles arrives at my flat waving an itemised telephone bill and demanding £7.38 'because it's the principle and everyone has to be financially responsible', bitterly dumps two bin-liners full of my stuff on my doorstep and then informs me in a triumphant voice that he's got tickets to see the James Bond tribute band Licence to Thrill, and he's taking Helen, his bookkeeper, who apparently is a
huge
fan (and has a huge cleavage), and who I know has always had a not-so-secret crush on him. On second thoughts, perhaps forget the Demi-and-Bruce dinners.

I lie awake on Sunday night, unable to sleep for mulling over recent events in my head. I feel as if I've made a complete mess of things. Miles now hates me, and my younger self hasn't taken any of my advice. And what's worse, I don't blame her. I mean, when it comes to love and relationships, I've hardly got it sussed, have I? What was I doing, thinking I could give advice about men? Maybe she does know better. What was it she said? The conversation starts replaying in my head: 'My advice for getting over a man - get underneath another one.'

Abruptly my mind throws up an image of Oliver. I throw it back again like a hot potato. Honestly, as if. That's just nonsense. You can't go rushing from one man to the next. Even if I did think he was sexy and wanted to sleep with him -
which I don't - he's
not going to be interested in me, not when I ignored him all those years ago. No doubt he's forgotten about me already. But that's fine. Meeting him again was one of those weird, interesting coincidences, but I don't plan to make a habit of it. After all, it was ten years since I last saw him. Chances are, it's going to be another ten till I see him again.

I wake up on Monday morning in a much better mood. It's like that saying 'Today's the first day of the rest of your life.' So I've decided. Last week was full of surprises and all kinds of upheaval, but this week I'm determined not to have any more surprises. I can do without it. So I'm going to put everything that's happened behind me. I'm going to forget about relationships and men and giving advice to my younger self and concentrate one hundred per cent on work. And I'm going to need it. I've got a big week ahead of me. Despite it being a bank holiday today, I still have to go into the office. Tomorrow's the press launch for Star Smile UK and there's masses to organise. Plus I'm supposed to be 'touching base' with Larry Goldstein sometime today, so I need to focus.

In fact it's probably a really good thing I'm not going to have any other distractions, I decide, hurrying into my walk-in wardrobe. The yellow sequinned blouse I bought on Saturday catches my eye, but I brush past and grab a pair of smart cream trousers and a crisp white cotton shirt. A really good thing indeed.

I arrive at the office feeling motivated and positive.

'Morning, Bea.' Throwing her a large smile, I sweep up my coffee and stride over to my desk.

'Gosh, you're in a jolly mood.' She beams, which is impressive considering she's working the bank holiday too. But then, she insisted. She knows how important tomorrow's press launch is.

'Good weekend?'

Briefly I consider telling her about Miles. Then I see her shiny, happy eyes and realise I can't do it. According to Beatrice, we're the perfect couple. I can't face telling her the truth. It would be like telling a child Santa Claus doesn't exist.

'Busy,' I reply, swiftly sidestepping the issue. Well, that's not a fib. It
was
busy. I was up half the night packing Miles's collection of property magazines. He saves all the back issues so he can keep track of house prices. He even drew a graph and stuck it on to his fridge. 'How about you?

What did you get up to?'

'Oh, not much.' She shrugs, pushing up her sleeves and folding her arms over her large bosom.

'On Saturday I watched polo - my eldest brother, Toby, was playing. Saturday night I went to the opera with my friend Maddy, who has a box there, and then on Sunday it was Granny's birthday and we all had dinner at the Dorchester.'

'Um, yes, you're right, just a regular weekend, then.' I smile teasingly. I love hearing about Beatrice's weekends. It's like reading the society pages of
Tatler
. She lives in a completelydifferent world to most people, and yet the thing I love about her is that she has absolutely no idea and thinks it's all terribly normal, darling.

'Which reminds me, I saw that friend of yours at the Dorchester.'

Sipping my coffee, I start leafing through the post. 'Who?' I murmur distractedly.

'You know, your friend's husband. The one in the photo.'

I stop what I'm doing and glance up sharply. 'You mean Julian?'

'Yes, that's it. The one I thought could possibly be thought of as sexy,
but only
if he was totally single and definitely not married in any way, shape or form…'