Who's That Girl (43 page)

Time: 6.28 p.m.

My stomach suddenly goes into freefall.

Date: 21 August 1997

For a split second I just stare at it, my thoughts frozen in shock. Then I jerk back up to speed. So it did happen! It wasn't a dream. This is the parking ticket that I got the first time I followed myself. I dropped it on the ground, but the council always keeps a record. They never let you get away without paying, not even if it was ten years ago. As the realisation hits, I feel a huge smile playing across my face.

'What is it?'

I snap back to see Oliver staring at me, looking puzzled.

'Oh, nothing,' I say quickly, trying to quell the delight that's rushing up inside of me. 'Just a parking ticket.'

'Crikey, I've never seen anyone so happy to get a parking ticket before.' He smiles with amusement.

I laugh, my mind racing, my thoughts tumbling over each other, everything clicking back into place. And that includes me and Oliver, I realise, glancing across at him and noticing he's still standing by the door.

'Do you want to come in and sit down? Stay a while?' I ask shyly. 'But you don't have to, obviously,' I add hastily, realising he's doubtless just come out of politeness. 'You've probably got to get back to work at the pub.'

Oh God, if he says he has to go, I don't know what I'm going to do.

'Actually, I think I'll take the evening off,' he replies. 'Can't leave the patient on her own, now can we?' Smiling, he folds his tall frame on to the plastic chair next to me.

'You can do that?' I say with surprise, feeling a secret beat of pleasure. 'I don't want you to get in trouble with your boss or anything.'

'Well, considering I am the boss, I don't think that will be a problem.' He smiles ruefully.

'The boss?' I repeat, puzzled.

'Yeah, I own the pub, and I've got another couple in London. Didn't I ever mention it?'

I realise I'm staring at him in astonishment.

'But I'd really like to expand abroad one day… open someplace in France, or Italy maybe.'

I suddenly blush bright red. And to think I called him 'just a barman'. 'No, I didn't know,' I say, with embarrassment.

'I guess there's a lot we don't know about each other,' he says, his eyes meeting mine. 'Maybe when you get out of here, we can do some catching up…' His voice trails off and we gaze at each other as if we're both thinking the same thing. 'Oh, by the way, before I forget…' He digs in his pocket. 'I found this.'

'My watch!' I exclaim. As he passes it to me, his fingers brush mine. A spark runs all the way down my spine.

'It had been kicked into a corner. I think someone must have stood on it.'

As I look at it, I realise it's broken. The hands have stopped. Time is literally standing still.

'I can get it fixed for you, if you'd like,' he says quietly, and I realise he hasn't let go of my fingers. I glance at them, and curling my fingers round his, I look up at him, wanting this moment to last for ever.

'Oh, there's no rush.' I smile. 'No rush at all.'

Nine Months later

Pardon, monsieur? Combien?'

The market trader, an old man with a flat cap and Gauloise cigarette welded to his bottom lip, smiles at me as if I'm a native speaker, and just as I'm thinking that perhaps my pidgin French and dodgy accent aren't so bad, he rattles off something in French and leaves me totally lost.

'Um…' Digging in my purse, I wave a euro note hopefully. 'It's OK?'

Yes, I'm cheating, and trying to make it sound like French by making my sentences go up at the end isn't fooling anyone, but I've got my eye on that fabulous pair of dangly earrings. The trader smiles and takes the note, then passes me my change and the earrings. There's lots of smiling and nodding, and I feel a beat of delight. See, we all speak the same language in the end, I think happily as I loop the earrings through my ears and give them a little shake in the mirror. They dance back, the silver strands and pink glass twinkling in the bright June sunshine.
So
much more me than pearl earrings, I think, feeling a burst of pleasure. Waving goodbye to the vendor and saying
au revoir
(that's one phrase I do know), I continue weaving my way through the maze of stalls - selling everything from ornate jewellery to vintage clothes to handbags of every colour, size and description. Gosh, this is one of the best flea markets I've ever been to, I muse, consulting my guidebook again. 'The most famous flea market in Paris is the one at Porte de Clignancourt, officially called Les Puces de Saint-Ouen, but known to everyone as Les Puces (The Fleas).'

'Les Puces,' I repeat to myself, breathing the aromas from the food stalls: delicious, sweet, sugary crepes, savoury croques-monsieurs, freshly brewed
cafe au lait
. My mouth starts watering. Mmm, I wonder if it's nearly lunchtime yet? I think distractedly, wandering from one stall to the next, like a bumble-bee bouncing from flower to flower.

In the old days I would have known exactly what time it was. I would have already checked my watch a hundred times today, but I don't wear a watch any more. Plus I can't look at the clock on my mobile as I've left it back at the hotel. I pick up a raspberry-pink silk dress that's caught my eye. I'm totally out of communication and it feels great. No phones ringing. No BlackBerry buzzing. No emails pinging. I can actually have a conversation that lasts more than a couple of minutes without being interrupted.

Though perhaps not in French, I reflect, resorting to hand gestures and facial expressions to try to explain to the stallholder I want a larger size.

But then, I don't really carry my phone with me a lot these days. I don't have to, not since I made Bea partner and gave her full control of running the company. To tell the truth, I wish I'd done it much sooner. She's a complete natural and has hired staff, rented larger premises, taken on more clients. The business is doing better than ever.

And me? Well, I've taken a sabbatical to finish my novel. In fact I've enjoyed it so much that when I finish it, I might just write another. Or try my hand at a short story. Or even a screenplay. Who knows? I'm not going to look too far into the future. I'm living in the moment, and right at this moment I'm doing something I'm passionate about. Now, if ever that little voice in my head asks whether I'm happy, I answer without missing a beat. Yes. Totally. The stallholder returns, smiling and with a larger size. Holding the dress against my body, I look at my reflection. Gone is the stressed-out, blow-dried, fully made-up woman I used to be; in her place is someone who leaves her hair to dry naturally, wears just a slick of lip gloss and can't remember the last time she had eczema. I've also gained a bit of weight these past few months due to my more relaxed diet, but I think I look a lot better, younger even, as my face isn't so gaunt. Plus my boobs have got bigger, and you need boobs for this dress, I decide, doing my best to haggle in French, before giving in and buying it for the asking price. But I don't care - that's all part of the fun of shopping at markets. That's one of the things I rediscovered from my younger self. At least I think I did. To be honest, looking back now, I'm not entirely sure…

It's been nine months since my accident. My broken bones have healed, the scar on my brow has faded, and with it my certainty of what exactly happened the week before my car crash. Or didn't happen. Because, you see, with the passage of time the line's been blurred between what's real and imagined, what I believe and what I
want
to believe. Looking back now, I'm not so certain I ever did see my younger self that morning at the traffic lights, that I ever did get to spend a week with her, getting to know her and myself again. After all, let's face it, it does sound crazy.
More
than crazy.

In the weeks that followed there were a few things that made me wonder if Beatrice was right and I did just dream the whole lot. First of all the parking ticket got lost. When I came out of hospital, I looked for it, but it must have got thrown away by accident, so I never got to check the date.

And I was a bit groggy when I woke up. I could have made a mistake, misread the date, got it wrong somehow. And when I was well enough to drive, the diversion was gone and I never saw my younger self or the old Beetle again. Then, when I went back to my old house and knocked at the door, a young couple with a baby answered.

I continue walking through the market, my eyes wandering across the different stalls, on the lookout for a bargain.

But there is one thing that makes me wonder. When the police called me up to investigate the accident, they told me the last time it was a two-way street was in 1997. According to traffic records, it had been made into a one-way street about ten years ago, after a rather nasty car accident. 'The records appear to have been lost, but I seem to remember it involved a truck and a car,' the policeman had informed me over the phone, 'which is something of a coincidence.'

So maybe it did happen. Well, I like to think it did, but who knows? I was tempted to Google

'morphine and dreams', but I remembered what the doctor said. I'm trying to kick my Google habit. I've been clean for nine months now.

So did I meet my twenty-one-year-old self or not? Was it all a figment of my imagination, a desire so deep down in my subconscious to find myself that I ended up
literally
finding myself? I don't think I'll ever know the answer. But one thing is for certain: I've changed. I'm not that strung-out thirtysome-thing I was before the accident. I've learned how to relax, have fun, take holidays.

'I ordered you a glass of rose.'

Reaching the little pavement cafe where we arranged to meet, I find Oliver already waiting for me at a table. Sunglasses on, sleeves rolled up, he's drinking a beer and examining the menu. Wherever we go Oliver examines menus, looking for interesting new combinations of flavours or unusual dishes.

'Thanks.' I smile, giving him a kiss as he curls his tanned arms round me and pulls me on to his knee. I take a sip of the chilled wine. 'Mmm, delicious,' I enthuse, and I'm not just talking about the wine.

We're in Paris for the weekend. I finally got round to using those tickets Vanessa bought me for my birthday last year. We caught the Eurostar over on Friday and checked into this amazing hotel with its own spa and Michelin-starred restaurant.

Though to be honest, we've spent most of our time in the bedroom, if you know what I mean.

'So what did you buy?' He smiles, then rolls his eyes. 'Don't tell me - everything!'

I laugh and start to show him all my goodies. He oohs and ahhs appropriately at my earrings, exclaims at my dress (even commenting on how it will match my new sandals) and doesn't laugh when I show him the vase I bought that's shaped like a guitar. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Best of all, he doesn't tell me I should have invested the money I just spent in an ISA. And for that I truly love him.

But then there's a lot to love about Oliver. He's funny and kind and makes me laugh, and it doesn't hurt that I fancy the pants off him. That's not to say we don't row about things. Boy, can we row. But it's usually over as quickly as it starts, and then of course there's the making-up that comes afterwards.

In fact I used to wonder why we wasted all that time, why it took ten years and a whole strange set of circumstances to bring us together, but I've come to realise it's a good thing we didn't hook up when I was younger, as I wouldn't have appreciated him like I do now. And it wouldn't be as great. Which goes to prove, there
are
some things I've learned as I've got older. Only now he's acting weird, I realise, as I move to the chair across from him, and he glances at me all shiftily.

'What's wrong?' I ask.

'Nothing,' he says, smiling tightly and taking a big swig of beer. Oh-oh. Something's definitely up. I observe him for a moment, trying to think what it can be. I draw a blank.

'Shall we order?' I suggest brightly.

'Um… sure.' He nods. 'I'll have whatever you're having.'

Right, OK, that's it. Oliver never has what I'm having. He always spends ages deliberating carefully over the menu and then orders all these weird and wonderful combinations. I'm just opening my mouth to tell him so when he suddenly slides off his chair on to his knees.
Correction
: one knee.

I feel my breath catching in the back of my throat. Oh my God, is he doing what I think he's doing?

He looks up at me. I don't think I've ever seen him so nervous. 'The first time I met you, I fell in love with you there and then,' he begins, his voice wobbling, 'but you didn't even notice me.'

I try to protest, but he interrupts, 'No, you didn't,' and smiles ruefully. I blush. 'OK, I didn't.'

'Then you stood me up.'

'I didn't stand you up!' I cry. 'Well, OK, I did,' I admit begrudgingly, 'but only because I didn't get the message.'

'And then I met you again and I hated you.' He grins.

'No, I hated you.' I grin back.

'Well, I tried to hate you, but then when you cleaned up after Welly…'He wrinkles up his nose and glances at the ground. When he looks back up, his eyes meet mine and he holds my gaze. 'I fell in love with you all over again.'

Suddenly realising my throat is dry, I swallow nervously.

'Charlotte, it's been ten years, nine months and nineteen days.' Fumbling in his pocket, he pulls out a small antique jewellery box. 'Will you marry me?'

As he says those words, my heart flips right over.

Wordlessly, he passes me the tiny ring box. I open the lid and find nestled inside the most beautiful antique ring. An emerald, shaped like a tiny flower. And I have the weirdest sensation of having seen it before. It catches the sun, glinting, and I suddenly remember. Nine months ago. The old lady, sitting on the bench. She was wearing this ring. But that's impossible,
unless
…

My mind reels.

Unless that was me. Years from now. My older self, talking to my younger self. What was it she said? 'Life isn't complicated. It's very simple, really.'

I gaze at the ring, a million different emotions whooshing around inside me, then lift my eyes and look into Oliver's. And it's as if everything else disappears but the love I have for him. Suddenly it all makes sense.

'Yes.' I smile. One word. How much more simple can you get?

Oliver's face splits into a huge smile, and slipping the ring on to my finger, he scoops me up and twirls me round and round, until we're dizzy. Then he pulls me towards him and kisses me. Right here. In front of everyone. In a cafe in the middle of a Parisian flea market. With everyone staring. But I don't care. I've never been happier.

My mind slides back to Lottie. Just think, she's got all this to come. She's going to love it. And although I've thrown the list away, there's one last thing I want to add, only this time it's a piece of advice she gave me:

20. Hold on to your dreams.

And saying a silent thank-you to her, I smile up at Oliver and wrap my arms tightly round him. I'm sure as hell holding on to mine.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

If I knew then, what I know now . . .

My top ten list of things I would tell myself:

1
.
Wear sunscreen

Like my heroine, Charlotte Merryweather, I was a sun-bunny all through my twenties - the first sign of sunshine and I would slather myself in Hawaiian Tropic and baste myself until I turned the deepest mahogany. Fast forward to my thirties and you'll find me on the beach, sitting in the shade under a brolly, wearing a hat and slathered in SPF45.

2. Buy a flat in Notting Hill

When I first moved to London I rented a room in a big house and fell in love with the area. It was long before the movie of the same name, and there were none of the chi-chi restaurants and designer shops that are there now. Back then you could pick up a flat for a tenth of what it would cost today but I still thought they were too expensive! Just imagine, I could now be a zillionpound property owner, chatting over the garden fence with my rich and famous neighbours, being invited to lots of glamorous parties… OK, I'll stop before I get too carried away.

3. Get your legs out

Because at twenty-one they're never going to look this good again. So take off your jeans, put on a mini-skirt, and do not take it off until you reach the age of thirty-five.

4
.
Do not
go blonde

You'll look weird and your eyebrows won't match. Plus, the roots will kill you.

5. Buy that round-the-world ticket

Your career can wait. A year won't make any difference and the memories and experiences will last a lifetime.

6. He's not worth it

Trust me. In ten years' time you'll bump into him again and wonder what all the fuss was about.

7. Back away from those leather trousers

At twenty-one I spent a fortune on a pair of hand-made leather jeans. Not only were they highwaisted (gulp) but they were so skin-tight I had to use talcum powder to get them on. Yes. Really.