Who's That Girl (12 page)

'Thanks, but I think I might skip coffee this morning and just have some water. Oh, and do we have anything to eat?'

Beatrice looks taken aback. 'Are you sure you're OK?'

'Yes, fine.' I smile gratefully. Shrugging off my jacket, I sit down at my desk and flick on my computer.

'So what did the doctor say exactly?' She starts busying herself in the small kitchen area we have in the corner of the office.

'Oh, you know…' I say vaguely, opening my inbox. My heart sinks. I have fifty-seven unread emails. 'I just need to take it easy.'

'Well, all we have scheduled for this afternoon is the launch party for Exhale, that new spa round the corner. I spoke with the manager earlier and they might be interested in some PR.' She smiles conspiratorially. 'Plus I'm sure there'll be lots of yummy canapes and champagne. That's what you need, a glass of champers,' she advises sagely. 'That always makes me feel heaps better.'

'Well, I'm not sure if I should be drinking alcohol…'

'Nonsense. Best medicine ever, Mummy always says.' She passes me a bottle of Evian and a bran muffin.

'Thanks.' I turn back to my inbox. Sipping my water, I start reading an email from a magazine editor about some press for one of our clients.

'Everything fine?'

I glance up to see Beatrice still hovering around my desk.

'Yes, fine. Thanks.' I smile.

'Super.' She smiles back and begins fiddling with the photo frames on my desk. 'So,' she says, trying to sound casual and failing horribly, 'is there anything else you want to tell me?'

'Um… no, I think that's everything,' I say, shaking my head and turning back to my emails. She doesn't budge. 'About what happened yesterday,' she says pointedly. Apprehension prickles. 'Yesterday?' I repeat, a little nervously.

'Your meeting with Larry Goldstein!' she gasps finally, unable to keep her cool any longer.

'Oh, of course… right,' I fluster, my mind rapidly changing gear. With everything that's been going on the meeting had totally slipped my mind, which is ridiculous as it's the only thing that's been
on
my mind for weeks.

'I've been on tenterhooks ever since, but I didn't
dare
call, and then I didn't hear from you until this morning, when you were at the doctor's.'

'It went really, really well,' I reassure her quickly. 'In fact,' I smile, then blurt simply, 'we got it.'

Her jaw drops and her eyes goggle at me. 'Oh my gosh, that's just…' She trails off, words failing her momentarily, before coming alive again. '
Splendid
? she gushes finally. 'Simply splendid!'

She beams at me, almost trembling with excitement.

Watching her reaction, it suddenly throws my own into contrast. She's absolutely right. It is splendid, though I'd probably choose to describe it as fantastic, I think, bemused by Beatrice's choice of adjective. And yet…

A flashback of Larry Goldstein smiling smoothly at me across the restaurant table stirs a sense of unease. I dismiss it. Firmly. Like I said, nothing happened. It's me and my overactive imagination again.

'I know, isn't it?' I enthuse, mirroring her excitement.

'Absolutely. It's amazing,' she whoops, and then fixes me with a stern look. 'I just can't believe you kept this from me,' she clucks scoldingly. 'When I didn't hear from you…' She arches an eyebrow and pouts. 'Well,
you can imagine.''

I swear, Beatrice has this knack of making me feel like a naughty schoolgirl sometimes.

'I know, and I'm sorry,' I apologise swiftly. 'I did pop back to the office later but you'd already left on an appointment, and then last night I didn't feel well—' I stop myself before I even go there. 'And anyway, as you and I both know, until the deal's actually signed and we've made our press announcement…'

I'm referring to an incident that happened last year in which we thought we'd won a big contract with a hotel chain, only to discover they'd changed their minds and gone with a rival PR

company, just as Beatrice was cracking open a vintage bottle of Bollinger she'd had 'lying around' at home.

As compared to normal people, who have things like coffee cups and loose change lying around.

'Ah, yes, that was rather a waste of good champagne,' she concedes, frowning. 'Well, we'll keep it on ice this time, shall we?' She smiles cheerfully, before adding, 'So when do you want to schedule your next meeting? I'll need to check the diary and make sure you're free.'

The diary is our bible. We don't do anything unless it's in the diary, the keeper of which is Beatrice, who takes her job very seriously. Screwing up her forehead, she returns to her disk and begins jabbing at her keyboard. The calendar opens up on her computer and she peers at it intently. 'What day were you thinking? You've got a window at eleven o'clock next Tuesday.'

'Actually, we need to announce on Tuesday, so we've arranged to meet up on Thursday.'

'Thursday next week? Yes, I think that will be fine if I just juggle a few things…' She starts typing.

'No,
this
Thursday.
Tomorrow
.'

She gives a sharp intake of breath.

'Well, it's important to get the ball rolling. We don't have much time.'

'Gosh, yes, absolutely.' She nods, her face serious. 'Well, it's not going to be easy as it's pretty solid, but I'll do it - you can rely on me.' She turns back to the keyboard, a look of determination on her face. 'Now, let me see, you've got a meeting at ten o'clock with Trinny from the
Guardian
, at lunchtime you're seeing the house with Miles, and in the afternoon you've got meetings with some journalists from
Sainsbury's
magazine, but if you'd like, I can rearrange that for—'

'Actually, it's tomorrow evening.'

'
'Evening
? she repeats, her eyebrows shooting up.

'We're having dinner,' I say, trying to sound all casual. 'At his hotel.'

'Oh.' She's nodding, digesting this piece of information. 'How very intimate. Though that's probably what they do in Hollywood,' she muses.

'Yes, probably,' I agree, brushing away my doubts.

Turning back to her keyboard once more, she types, 'Thursday. Evening. Dinner with Larry Goldstein—' 'OK, you're all set.' Grabbing her mouse, she clicks 'save' with a flourish. 'It's in the diary.'

Chapter Eleven

The rest of the day flies by returning calls, talking to journalists, dealing with clients, until before I know it it's late afternoon and Beatrice and I leave the office and walk the few hundred yards to Exhale, the newly opened spa.

Arriving, we discover the party in full swing,
spa-style
: soft, tinkly, harp-like music is wafting from out of the concealed speaker system, a fountain made from a thousand-year-old Indonesian rock is gently trickling water, and dozens of barefoot staff are flitting around in togas, handing out lotus flowers and offering free treatments.

Casting my eye around the large crowd, I take a gulp of ice-cold Moet and savour the sensation of bubbles fizzing on my tongue. I never would have believed it but it seems Beatrice's mother might be right about something. OK, I wouldn't call it the
best
medicine ever, and I wouldn't say I'm
heaps
better, but I've only had half a glass and I have to admit I'm already starting to feel a lot more relaxed about things.

'Canapes?' A waitress walks past with a large silver tray.

'Mmm, yes, please,' I enthuse. 'What are they?'

'Quail's eggs with tomato,' she proffers brightly, passing me one on a napkin. About to take a bite, I hesitate. 'Are they free-range?'

Well, OK. Not that relaxed.

The waitress's smile fades. 'Um… I'm not sure—'

'Ooh, those look yummy,' interrupts Beatrice, helping herself to a couple. She glances at me.

'What? You're not eating yours?' she gasps, staring incredulously at my untouched canape.

'Actually, I'm not that hungry,' I fib.

'Well, if you don't want it…' As the waitress moves away, she swiftly takes it from me. 'Mmm, this is a really good launch party, I have to say.' She nods approvingly. Juggling her pile of canapes, she takes a sip of champagne. 'Are you going to try one of the free treatments?'

I glance at my watch. 'I should get back to the office.'

'Free five-minute facial?' offers a woman in a toga wafting past. She looks at me enquiringly.

'Ooh, Charlotte, go on, you should try one,' elbows Beatrice.

I shake my head. 'I really need to finish up a press release.'

'It will only take five minutes,' she points out insistently.

Honestly, you'd never think I was the boss and she was my assistant. Then again - I hesitate - a relaxing facial might be just what the doctor ordered, and I can always take some work home with me. Saying that, when don't I take work home with me?

'OK, why not? That sounds great.' I smile at the therapist.

She beams back. Her hair's plaited neatly into cornrows and she has the kind of amazing skin that can only be acquired through an exotic heritage, and which is the envy of someone like me, whose entire family tree is made up of freckly skinned, mousey-haired generations from such far-flung places as Yorkshire, Newcastle and the truly exotic Skegness.

'Wonderful.' Pressing her hands together, she does a little bow. 'My name's Suki, and if you'd just like to come over to one of the chairs…'

Dutifully I follow Suki over to one of three large leather recliners, which are tucked away behind a small painted screen featuring a Zen-like landscape. Aromatherapy candles are burning, and there's a large pot of bamboo in the corner. It screams relaxation and inner peace. Sinking into the soft leather, I close my eyes as Suki removes my make-up and presses a hot towel on my face. It smells of eucalyptus and I take a deep breath.

'Now, we're just going to open your pores,' Suki's voice chants soothingly. As she begins gently dabbing the towel against my cheeks, then slowly on to my forehead and over to my chin, I can feel the tension slowly trickling out of my body like sand through an eggtimer. The doctor was right: I am really stressed.

'And then we're going to apply a cleanser to draw out impurities and clean pores.'

With Suki's fingertips gently massaging my face in a circular motion I can feel myself drifting off. Gosh, this is rather lovely.

'Followed by a special mask made of clay minerals that will revitalise the skin and help balance out skintone…'

Mmm, this is bliss. Sheer, unadulterated bliss.

'… because you've got rather a lot of sun-damage.'

'What?' Jolted out of my reverie, my eyes snap open.

Clucking her tongue reprovingly, she continues massaging. 'All over your cheeks and forehead' - I stiffen - 'resulting in quite severe pigmentation and discolouration.'

Severe pigmentation and discolouration?

'But I always use sunscreen,' I cry with alarm.

'Mmm,' she murmurs, and continues massaging.

'SPF forty-five,' I say urgently, trying to sit upright, but she pushes me back down firmly.

'Ssh, relax,' she soothes. 'You're very tense.'

'And I never sunbathe,' I protest, but I'm muffled by a hot flannel as she wipes off the cleanser and begins rubbing on a thick layer of clay. Actually, this facial is getting a bit irritating.

'Eight-five per cent of irreversible sun-damage is caused before the age of twenty-five,' she intones. She stops sweeping clay across my temples and fixes me with a beady eye. 'Did you sunbathe in your youth?'

My memory produces a snapshot of me slathered in Hawaiian Tropic and frying in the midday sun. Actually, there's not just the one snapshot; there are whole albums full of them. From my teenage years right through to my late twenties I would dive into a string bikini at the first ray of sunshine.

'A little,' I fib, under the beady glare of Suki.

'Well, that explains it.' She nods, arching an eyebrow and tutting. 'The sun is the skin's numberone enemy. It causes premature ageing, fine lines, wrinkles, sagging, loss of collagen…'

As she reels off a long list of terrible things I've done to my skin, I listen with horror. It's all right for Suki: she has skin the colour of an iced mocha latte. She's never had to suffer the milk-bottleleg syndrome that haunts every fair-skinned woman when it's time to ditch the trusty opaques at the end of spring. She doesn't know what it's like to have a complexion that, without bronzer, prompts complete strangers to enquire about your health.

'Isn't there anything I can do?' I ask anxiously, clutching my face.

'Well, we do have some specialist laser treatments that could help.' Suki passes me a leaflet. I glance at the price list. 'Five hundred pounds?' I gasp.

'I'd recommend a course of five or six sessions.'

Five or six? That means… Hurriedly I do the calculations. Oh my God, that's a fortune. I glance up at Suki, who's smiling at me brightly.

'Would you like me to book your first session today?'

'Um… I think I might wait.'

'Are you sure that's wise? We're giving away complimentary foot rubs as part of a special promotion…' she continues with her sales pitch.

I'm beginning to feel quite stressed. I only wanted a relaxing facial.

'… and I would also recommend a whole new range of products to treat your damaged skin—'

'Excuse me, but I think the five minutes might be up,' I interrupt as she draws breath.

'Oh, yes, so they are.' She smiles, taking two cotton-wool pads and wiping my face clean. 'Well, if you change your mind…' She hands me a card and a bag. 'Here are some free samples for you to try.'

'Great. Thank you,' I say, standing up with relief. Five more minutes and my credit card and I would have caved under the pressure.

Beaming widely, she puts her hands together and gives a little bow. '
Namaste
.'

After hastily reapplying my make-up in the loos, I find Beatrice on her third glass of champagne and chatting animatedly to a journalist. As with most launches, it's largely press and industry people here, though as always there's the odd C-list celebrity with prerequisite fake boobs and blonde hair extensions posing for photos in a white spa robe.