Who's That Girl (40 page)

Larry Goldstein, on the other hand, looks like he's just been shot. Grabbing me roughly by the elbow, he marches me into the corridor outside. His head tips as if he can't compute what I've just said. 'Say that again?' he demands. 'I'm not quite understanding here.'

Shaken, I pull my arm free and take a step back to regain my composure. 'It was too late to call off the press launch at such short notice, and it would also have been unprofessional.' I'm struggling to keep my voice steady. 'And so I followed through on that commitment. However, I'm afraid we can no longer represent you or the actual launch of the Star Smile clinic in December and we wish to formally resign from the account.'

There. I've done it.

As my words register, his eyes turn glassy and he pales underneath his tan. '
You
. Are. Dropping.
Me
.'

'Well, I wouldn't use those words…'

His face turns hard and he laughs scornfully. 'I think you're getting a little bit confused, Charlene. I'm the one who drops people, not the other way round.'

'You can call it what you like, Dr Goldstein, but I'm still firm in my decision. Merryweather PR

will no longer be responsible for your public relations.'

As the words leave my mouth, his face puckers into a glare and it's suddenly as if the smooth veneer has fallen away and the real Larry Goldstein has been exposed.

'Some poxy little agency is dropping me, Mr Celebrity Smile?' His voice is almost a hiss, and his face is contorted with fury. 'Who do you think you are? I'm offering you the chance to go global. To take on a big-name client. To further your career. To play with the big guys. To take your second-rate agency into the major league.'

'If you thought we were so second-rate, why did you choose us?' I fire back defensively.

'Because I thought I saw something in you. I thought you reminded me of me. That you were hungry for success.'

I shake my head. 'No, I'm not like you. I don't want the kind of success that comes from ruining someone's livelihood.'

He screws up his face. 'Huh?'

'The antique shop.'

Even now he doesn't register. And why should he? Business is business to him. He probably didn't even register what kind of shop it was. He just saw it as an opportunity.

'The space you chose for your new clinic,' I explain, 'the space you threw money at to obtain the lease. The man had been in that shop for over sixty years and suddenly his rent was tripled. He's losing his livelihood.' I'm like Lottie now, the old me, speaking my mind, wearing my heart on my sleeve, putting my personal feelings first, and it feels good.

'Well, let me get out the violin,' he says coldly, and I feel a jolt. Any doubt I may have had that I was doing the wrong thing vanishes in that very moment.

'I didn't expect you to understand,' I reply calmly, then add, 'And as neither of us have signed the final contract, it should be a simple parting of ways.'

'Whoah, just one minute, little lady.'

There's such vitriol in his voice that a shiver of fear runs down my spine.

'We might not have signed anything yet, but I know the law. There's legal binding here. I've got emails outlining your intentions to manage this account, the ideas we've discussed, the plans for the future.' He looks at me and it's like the gloves are finally off. 'I'll haul you through the courts and sue your ass off. I'll take everything you own: your company, your home, your livelihood, every fucking thing.'

My heart thuds. This is what I was afraid of.

'Fine, go ahead,' I reply evenly, trying to stop my voice from trembling. I turn to leave, but he yells after me, 'You can't just walk away from me like that. You don't know what you're dealing with here, Charlene.
I'm
the one who calls the shots.' He's shouting now and his perfect tan has been replaced by a livid red flush.

'Honey?' There's a high-pitched twang and his wife pops her head round the door. With everything that's been happening, I'd totally forgotten her.

Holding a cocktail and her beloved chihuahua, she smiles tipsily at him. 'Honey, are you going to come back inside? The shrimp's sensational.'

'Get the hell outta here, Cindy, will ya?' he yells angrily. 'Can't see you I'm talking business?' Her face blanches, and as she scuttles away, he wheels round to face me. 'I'll ruin you. I'll tell everyone in the business that you were unprofessional, incompetent, that you weren't up to the job. I've got friends in high places. I'll go to the press.' He's ranting now, spitting with fury, but I stand firm. I knew this would probably happen, but I was determined to go ahead anyway. I was determined to listen to my instinct.

'Excuse me? Fed-Ex man for Charlotte Merryweather.'

I whirl round to see the Fed-Ex man appear in the corridor.
Just in time
. I feel a rush of relief. My younger self might have helped me rediscover my dream, get my priorities right and speak my mind, but my older self knows it doesn't hurt to take out insurance.

'The person at the front desk said I might find you down here, said it was urgent.'

'Actually, it's for him.' Signing for it, I gesture to Larry Goldstein.

'Huh?' Having stopped yelling, he looks at me, breathless and confused. The Fed-Ex man shrugs and passes him the envelope. Turning it over in his hands, Larry Goldstein stares at it, a look of bewilderment on his face.

'I think you might want to open that,' I instruct.

'What is this bullshit?' he snaps, finally finding his voice. 'Because I can—'

'Sue me? Go to the press?' I interrupt, trying to keep calm, even though inside my heart is beating very, very fast. 'I wouldn't do that if I were you.'

Impatiently he strips open the envelope, a scornful expression on his face, which immediately disappears when he sees what's inside.

'
Jesus
,' he whispers, turning pale with shock.

Lottie accused me of ignoring my gut instinct, and when it comes to Larry Goldstein, I've been ignoring mine from that first meeting in the restaurant. I was sure I felt his hand grope me under the table, yet I dismissed it, just as I dismissed the intense looks, the flirty innuendo, the uncomfortable feeling I got in the pit of my stomach. It was only later, outside the shop, when he turned to me and said, 'If you throw a lot of money at a problem it goes away,' that I knew for certain. Right then that little voice inside of me knew.

But it wasn't until last night that I finally listened to that voice and, acting on my instinct, decided to do a bit of research.

Because it seems I'm not the first. An entry in the
Santa Barbara Evening Post
in 1992 mentions the case of a sixteen-year-old who accused her then dentist, a Dr Goldstein, of groping her while she was in the dentist's chair. No further details were mentioned. Which is why I called Katie Proctor. Being a journalist, she's got access to all the international press databases and court transcriptions. I asked her to investigate. My gut told me it was the same person, but I couldn't be sure. There must be hundreds of Goldsteins. And if it was, what had happened? Had he been found guilty? Struck off? Imprisoned?

Her enquiries confirmed my fears, and more. Because there hasn't been just one accusation against Dr Goldstein. Over the years there have been numerous complaints of sexual harassment

- from former employees to patients and ex-mistresses - but in every case all the charges were dropped after huge out-of-court settlements.

'And you were right - his first name is Larry,' Katie had said when she'd called me this morning to tell me she was Fed-Exing over all the press cuttings, court transcriptions and documents she'd uncovered.

Otherwise known as Mr Celebrity Smile, I muse, looking at him. Although he suddenly looks nothing like his TV-personality self. His perfectly coiffed hair is now all mussed up, revealing a sizeable bald patch, and he cuts a rather pathetic figure.

'This is blackmail,' he says finally.

'And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?' I reply evenly.

He swallows hard, still clutching the damning evidence against him. 'So what are you going to do?'

'Nothing,' I say simply. 'Goodbye, Dr Goldstein.' I start to walk away, then stop and turn. 'Oh, and for the record my name's Charlotte.' And turning back, I keep on walking. Somehow I don't think that's a name he's going to forget in a hurry.

Chapter Thirty-eight

By the time I reach the lobby, my legs are wobbly. I've been running on adrenalin since early this morning, but now my face-off is over, I feel limp and drained. Steadying myself against the wall, I take a deep breath. I can't believe I did it. I feel a warm glow of euphoria, mixed with a shot of relief, not to mention disbelief. I did it.
I did it
.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. For a moment I just stay like that, letting it all sink in, letting my heart rate return to normal.

'There you are!' I open my eyes to see Beatrice bursting through the fire doors. I briefed her on what I was going to do. I thought it only fair - after all, I was putting the company at risk, and with it her job.

But if she'd felt any reservations, she didn't show it. Instead she'd given me a rib-crushing hug and replied rousingly, 'I'm with you. Remember, "We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender."' I'd looked at her in confusion.

'Winston Churchill, Daddy's icon,' she'd explained gravely.

'So how did it go?' she's asking now as she reaches me. 'I just saw Dr Goldstein leaving in a cab with a peroxide blonde and a yappy dog.'

'It went… well.' I nod, searching for the right adjective.

She almost crumples with relief. 'Oh, thank goodness,' she cries, before turning pensive. 'So was he terribly angry?' Her voice is hushed and fearful.

'You could say that.'

Beatrice takes a sharp intake of breath. 'Honestly, Charlotte, you're my hero.'

'Oh, I wouldn't say that.' I smile wearily.

'No, you are,' she exclaims loyally. 'You're like a superhero. Like Spiderwoman!'

'Spiderman,' I correct.

'Really? I could have sworn…' She frowns, then gives herself a little shake. 'Anyway, chopchop!' She claps her hands together. 'Let's go have a drink. There are a few cocktails left - we need to hurry up and get them before the journos do.' She reaches out to link arms, but I shake my head.

'No, I think I'm going to go home,' I say quietly, clutching my head, which is beginning to throb.

'I didn't sleep much last night and I'm leaving early tomorrow.'

And that's another thing. After hearing Lottie on the phone to Mum and Dad, it made me realise it's been too long since I saw them, too long since we just sat around watching TV together and chatting about nothing, too long to miss people. Which is why I've decided to drive up tomorrow as a surprise and spend a few days with them.

'Oh, absolutely, of course,' nods Beatrice, who's aware of my plans. 'You run along.' She gives me another hug, then, remembering herself, blushes. 'I'll stay and hold the fort. Finish off the cocktails.' She shoots me a mischievous smile. 'Well, someone has to.' And turning, she stalks quickly away on her sturdy calves.

Leaving me alone in the empty lobby with just my thoughts. I feel slightly numb, dazed almost. Like in the lull after the storm, I realise, wandering over to the cloakroom, where I'd checked in my jacket. Because now it's over, and today is the first day of the rest of my life.
Without Oliver.

Once again I feel that familiar nagging ache, though it's not worry this time. I've been trying to block it out, but I can't, it's impossible. Just when I least expect it, his face pops into my mind. I can be driving in my car and I'll remember something he said, or walking down the street and that erotic moment on the balcony will rush through my head and I'll feel a tugging deep inside. Ironic, isn't it? Ten years ago I didn't even notice him and now I can't forget him. Reaching the cloakroom, I zip open my bag and rummage for my ticket. God, there's so much crap in here, I muse absently, while still thinking about Oliver. I'll probably never see him again, never be able to tell him I'm sorry, that I quit the contract, and he's never likely to find out. Well, it's hardly front-page news, is it?

Anyway, so what if he does? It's not as if I will have saved his granddad's shop. No doubt Larry Goldstein will just go ahead and get a different PR firm and it will be business as usual. Ultimately my stand won't make a difference to anyone - not to Larry Goldstein, not to Oliver and certainly not to his granddad.

Except that's not true, I tell myself as I pass my ticket to the attendant. It will always make a difference to me.

'Excuse me, miss?'

I snap back to see the attendant shaking her head. 'This isn't your ticket.'

'It's not? Oh, sorry.' I dive once more into my handbag. Oh, there it is. I hand it to her with an apologetic smile and she passes me back the wrong ticket. Only it's not even a ticket; it's just a scrap of paper. Wow, I really am out of it, I realise, as I glance at it. At the untidy handwriting, at someone's address.

Olly's address.

My heart suddenly plummets. I must have given Lottie the wrong piece of paper. It's my stupid bag - it's filled with so much rubbish.
The dinner party's tonight
. As a thought strikes, I feel a clutch of panic. Oh my God, if she doesn't get it, she's not going to know where to go. She's not going to turn up.
She's going to stand him up
.

Grabbing my bag from the counter, I make a dash for it.

'Miss, your coat, miss,' cries the attendant, but I don't stop. I just keep on running. Fifteen minutes later I'm back in my car hurtling through London, zigzagging between other cars, jumping traffic lights, speeding past speed cameras. Come on, come on, come on… I get caught up in the diversion again, and as I pull up at the lights, I thump the steering wheel in frustration. I have to get there in time to give her the address. I can't let her stand him up. But what if you already did?

As the thought fires through my brain, I have a sudden flashback to yesterday in my flat, explaining to Oliver why I didn't pop into the pub: 'I thought you'd stood me up again. Just joking.'