Who's That Girl (6 page)

'Yes, here, please,' says Miles, gesturing at the middle of the table. 'We're splitting the salad. Is that OK, darling?'

'Of course.' I smile brightly, ignoring the barman. 'It looks delicious!'

Honestly, what am I moaning about? This is great. Miles is great. Everything is great. Miles passes me a napkin and impulsively I lean over to give him a kiss. See, we can be fun and spontaneous.

Except my aim is off and I knock over his wine glass instead.

'Oh, shit. Sorry.'

'Whoops, nearly,' gasps Miles, catching it before red wine goes everywhere. 'Phew, that was lucky.' Placing it back upright on the table, he gives a little laugh. 'That could have been a bit embarrassing, couldn't it?'

'Yeah.' I nod, catching the barman's eye and quickly looking away. And now I feel like a total clumsy idiot.

There's a tiny pause, and I think about attempting that kiss again, but somehow the moment has passed.

'Mmm, this looks delicious, doesn't it?' says Miles, picking up his fork.

'Um… yes… delicious,' I reply, doing the same.

And turning our attention to the food, we both fall silent and start eating.

Chapter Five

Laptop?
Check
.

Briefcase?
Check
.

BlackBerry?
Check
.

It's the next morning and as usual I'm rushing around my flat, going through my itinerary to make sure I haven't forgotten anything.

OK, I think that's everything.

Grabbing my keys, I let the front door slam shut behind me as I race down the front steps. Scrambling into my car, I reverse out of my space and right into rush-hour. Ahead, I can see the signs for the diversion and as traffic starts merging into one lane, I resign myself to another long journey into work.

My stomach gurgles. Yet again I haven't had time for any breakfast. Flicking open my glove compartment, I rummage around. I keep a stash of energy bars in here, just for emergencies. OK, so they're not
just
for emergencies - they're usually my breakfast these days, when I
get
to eat breakfast, that is. I buy them in bulk from the health-food store. Finishing a call, I tear open the wrapper and take a bite. These are full of oary goodness and are super-delicious. Well, actually, they're not
that
delicious. In fact, they remind me a bit of the food I used to feed my pet gerbil, but they're a lot healthier than a Twix, which is what I used to eat in my twenties. I chew quickly as we crawl along the high street, taking advantage of the few moments of silence before my phone starts ringing.

It's that Beetle again.

As I pull up at the lights, I feel a jolt of surprise.
Gosh, what a coincidence
. My eyes flick automatically towards the driver and I catch the briefest of glimpses. A split second. Barely long enough to see more than a flash of that same long, dark, curly hair before I'm blinded by the morning sunlight bouncing off the windscreen. Then she's gone. Disappeared behind a sunvisor. And I'm left staring at the car, feeling vaguely unsettled.

And slightly bewildered.

I peer closer. I didn't imagine it. That really
does
look like my old car, I determine, my chest resting against the steering wheel, my brow furrowed as I squint in the sunlight. In fact, it's exactly the same, complete with animal-rights sticker and rusting headlights. And bashed on the left-hand side from when I forgot to put on the handbrake and it rolled down the hill into the village and the farmer's tractor…

As the lights change and the Beetle drives past me, I gaze at it in stunned disbelief. There's nothing else for it, it
has
to be my old car. It failed its MOT years ago on about a hundred different points… A vague memory stirs: the mechanic calling it a death trap and telling me that the next time I put my foot on the brake pedal, my foot would go through the bottom as it was so rusty. Dad very sweetly bought it off me as he loves fixing up old cars. He gave it to Mum as a runaround, something to use for taking the dogs on long muddy walks in the Dales, until eventually they ended up selling it to someone.

Someone who must now be living in London. Someone who must look a lot like I used to when I was twenty-one, I decide, feeling a flash of jubilant triumph.
See
. I knew there had to be a rational explanation.

As I drive off, I glance in my rear-view mirror, but the Beetle has already disappeared. It must have turned off somewhere, I muse idly, sailing across the intersection. And there was me beginning to think—

I catch myself. Well, let's just say I was beginning to think all kinds of silly nonsense. As usual Beatrice is waiting for me with an outstretched cup of coffee. 'Morning,' she trills chirpily.

'Morning.' Scooping up my coffee, I march over to my desk, turn on my computer and start checking my emails. 'Any messages?'

'Larry Goldstein's people called to apologise that he's running late for lunch - I've changed the reservation to two p.m. - but he's very excited about meeting you.' She beams and crosses her fingers.

'Anything else?'

'Oh, and Miles called.'

I look up, surprised. Miles never calls me at the office - he knows how busy I am. Plus he was supposed to be flying up to Leeds this morning. I feel a flicker of worry.

'Is he OK?' I ask, going from zero to panic in less time than it takes to say 'accident and emergency'.

'Yes, fine,' breezes Beatrice. 'He'd just landed.'

Immediately I relax.

'He said he tried calling you this morning but couldn't get through to you on your mobile.'

'Oh, God, I probably forgot to turn it on,' I groan, digging it out of my pocket. 'I was in a bit of a rush this morning.' I glance at the screen. That's funny - it
is
on. I mustn't have been able to get any reception. Like yesterday, I remember. 'He should have tried me on my BlackBerry,' I think out loud.

'He did. He couldn't get through on that either.'

'Really? How odd.' Puzzled, I now look at my BlackBerry. But no, that's on too, and there are five bars of reception.

'They're called dropped calls,' says Beatrice knowledgeably. 'Apparently, they are a growing problem because of the sheer volume of people using mobile devices. In fact, I read in the
New
Scientist
that the number continues to grow at an exceptional rate and it's been predicted that by 2010 there will be more than one and a half billion wireless-device users worldwide —'

'What did Miles say?' I interrupt hastily, before I'm quoted the entire
New Scientist
report. But she's mid-flow. 'Although technically for it to be a dropped call I think you have to be actually cut off in the middle of a call, rather than not be able to get through at all, but essentially it's the same thing - too much phone traffic…' She trails off as she catches my eyes, and blushes.

'Oh, right, yes, sorry, Miles…' Scrambling for her jotter pad, she solemnly reads,' "Has just had word from a contact that an amazing house is about to come on the market and wants to make sure you'll be free to go and look at it with him when he gets back." ' She looks up, her eyes shining. 'Are you two moving in together?'

'Well, we've talked about it,' I say, suddenly feeling a bit awkward.

'Golly, how exciting.'

'Er, yes, isn't it?'

To be honest, I'm feeling slightly taken aback. It's one thing talking about it, but it's another actually going to look at houses. It suddenly all feels very real, and not some far-off plan we talk about every now and again over a bottle of red wine and some mixed olives.

'Apparently, they can't get the keys until Thursday, but fortunately I've already checked the diary and managed to move a meeting with the beauty editor of
Elle
, so now there's nothing in the diary for that lunchtime,' Beatrice is chuntering away. 'I called him back to confirm that you'll meet him there at one o'clock.'

'Wow. Ms Efficiency.' I laugh lightly.

'Well, I do try.' She beams, handing me a Post-it note. 'This is the address.'

I look at it feeling slightly dazed. Beatrice has the neatest handwriting and yet the address seems to swim in front of my eyes. I take a much-needed gulp of coffee.

'You and Miles are like the most perfect couple. That's the kind of relationship I aspire to.'

'You do?' I look back at Beatrice, clutching her jotter pad to her chest, her face all wistful.

'Absolutely,' she exclaims, nodding vigorously. 'You're both so successful and attractive, and you have these exciting designer lives.'

Hearing her talking about us like that, I feel a beat of pride. I suppose we do really, I muse, imagining Miles and me in one of those glossy at-home shoots in
OK
!: 'Property baron Miles and partner Charlotte, owner of Merryweather PR, relax in their stylish new home and talk to us about property, pension plans and—'

Actually, that doesn't sound very exciting, does it? I try to think of something else. I mean, come on. We must do
something
exciting.

But my mind remains blank
. It's too early -
my brain's not
working properly yet, I decide. Plus I've got other things on my mind. Speaking of which.

'Would you get me the Goldstein file, please?'

'Oh, of course. Coming right up.' Snapping out of her romantic daydream about me and Miles, Beatrice dashes over to her beloved filing cabinets.

Draining the rest of my coffee, I make a start on my inbox - I've got thirty-three unread emails. As for me and Miles, I'll think of something exciting later.

'Another macchiato?' asks the waitress politely.

I glance at my empty cup. I've been mainlining caffeine all morning to make sure I'm totally clear-headed and focused for this meeting, but I think I might have overdone it. I feel more jittery and anxious than ever. 'Er, no, thanks, I'll just have some water instead.'

It's nearly two o'clock and I'm sitting at a table at the Electric, a trendy private members' club in Notting Hill, waiting to meet Larry Goldstein, the Hollywood cosmetic dentist, famous for the whiter-than-white smiles of all the big-name celebrities, and owner of a hugely successful chain of Star Smile clinics in the US. He's over from LA to meet with PR companies to discuss
launching the first Star Smile clinic here in the UK
.

My body tenses and I realise I've begun shredding my business card. Despite my shiny, suited veneer, I'm really nervous. I'm up against some stiff competition, but if I can win this launch, it will give Merryweather PR a huge amount of international publicity and put us firmly on the map.

'Still or sparkling?'

'Definitely still,' says a voice with an American accent before I can answer. I look up to see an older man. Attractive in that square-jawed, classic kind of way, he's wearing a pale blue Ralph Lauren shirt and his steel-grey hair is swept back from his tanned temples, as if he just ran his fingers effortlessly through it while stepping off a yacht in St Tropez. And not, as is more likely, a result of half an hour with a hairdryer and lots of product. He reminds me of Blake Carrington from
Dynasty
. In fact, for a moment there I almost think it
is
Blake Carrington from
Dynasty
.

'Dr Goldstein?' I ask, hurriedly sweeping the little scraps of business-card confetti off the tablecloth into the palm of my hand. I stuff them into my tote bag under the table as I stand up.

'Well, I was the last time I looked,' he says, laughing confidently.

'Charlotte Merryweather from Merryweather PR,' I reply, giving him one of my professional smiles as I go to shake his hand. 'A pleasure to meet you finally.'

'Please, call me Larry.' He grins. 'And I assure you the pleasure's all mine.' Taking my hand in both of his, he squeezes his fingers around my own.

'OK, Larry it is,' I say cheerfully, doing my best to appear like this super-confident career woman with her own successful PR company. And not how I really feel, which is so anxious I can feel damp patches forming under my armpits despite wearing a ton of anti-perspirant.

'Excellent!' He beams.

He's still holding my hand and I'm beginning to feel a little self-conscious. But that's probably because he's American, I tell myself, as he finally lets go. They're all very touchy-feely, aren't they? Unlike us reserved Brits with our brisk handshakes.

We break apart and sit down facing each other. As first impressions go, he's much older than I thought he was going to be. When I Googled him, his age came up as a vague late forties, but sitting here in the flesh, it's obvious those photographs on his website are airbrushed as he looks at least a decade older. Saying that, he's incredibly well preserved. Evidently no stranger to Botox, his forehead is unnaturally smooth and his eyes are a little stretched, but apart from that, he looks normal.

Except for his smile, that is.

As the waitress reappears with a bottle of still water and starts pouring, I gaze at his smile, transfixed. We're just not used to these kind of smiles in the UK. These perfect white-picketfence smiles are the preserve of the Hollywood A-list and British reality-TV stars who
think
they're Hollywood A-listers. It's slightly bizarre to see teeth like this in real life. I mean, they're so
white
. And so, well,
big
.

'Carbonated drinks erode the tooth enamel,' he's saying now, flashing me his blindingly white smile, which has nothing to do with tooth enamel and everything to do with porcelain veneers the size of dinner plates. 'Just a little tip.'

'Oh, right… um, thank you.' I nod, mentally striking another thing off my list. God, what next?

Soon I won't be able to eat or drink
anything
. In fact, at this rate I'll be on a drip. 'So have you visited London before?' I ask brightly, quickly brushing away the worrying image of me being fed saline solution intravenously.

'Many times. London is one of my favourite cities. I always feel so at home here,' he enthuses, taking a sip of water.

I suppress a smile of amusement. With his California tan and perfect smile, Larry Goldstein couldn't look
less
at home among grey-faced, wonky-toothed Londoners,