Who's That Girl (14 page)

And what are you doing exactly, Charlotte
? pipes up that annoying little voice again. I can't answer. Quite frankly I'm too embarrassed. In fact I'm going to have to take this secret with me to the grave. God forbid if anyone were to find out. 'What did you do last night, Charlotte?' 'Oh, I just drove back to the house that I lived in ten years ago, looking for myself when I was twenty-one, as my assistant told me that time travel is possible and I wanted to check.'

Er, yeah, right. Stress or no stress, they'll be carting me off in a straightjacket. Forget Great-Aunt Mary with her talking parrot, I'll go down in the Merryweather family tree as the unmarried career girl who went totally off her rocker. I can hear my mum now: 'Well, it's not surprising - she lived in
Lundun
, you know.'

I head towards number thirty-nine, keeping my eye out for a clapped-out tangerine-orange Beetle. I scan all the parked cars. But no, nothing.

Well, what did you expect, you idiot?

I feel both foolish and relieved at the same time. And something else… a twinge of disappointment. Because as unthinkable as the whole fantasy is, there's a secret part of me that's fascinated by tales of the paranormal, that's watched every single episode of
The X-Files
(I had the
hugest
crush on David Duchovny) and loves the idea of it being possible. After all, let's be honest, who didn't adore
The Time Traveler's Wife?

Abruptly my bladder twinges, interrupting my thoughts, and I realise I need to pee. Damn, it must be the champagne
and
on an empty stomach. I need to find a loo. And fast. Looping round the garden square at the bottom, I do another quick scan of the parked cars - not because I really think it's going to be there, but because I'm the kind of person who always goes back in the house to check I've turned off the gas - then, satisfied, whiz back down Kilmaine Terrace. There must be a loo around here somewhere…

Then I remember - the Wellington. The pub had just opened when I lived here, and Vanessa and I became regulars. It's around here somewhere. I pull up at the give-way sign at the end of the street. I think it's left. Actually no, it might be right. I hesitate for a moment, my bladder nagging me to hurry up and get a move on.

Shit, where is it?

Then I have a flash of inspiration.

I know, I'll type the name into my GPS, I decide, proud of my quick thinking. This thing is brilliant. It will give the precise directions. I just type in the name…

That's funny.

I look at the screen of the system sitting on my dashboard. It's totally blank. I randomly punch a few buttons in the hope it's going to suddenly spring back to life, and then give it a little shake, which is my usual scientific approach at fixing electronic gadgets and which, surprisingly enough, generally works.

But nope, not this time. The screen remains resolutely blank.

My bladder twinges hard. Now of course I really want to pee. Bloody thing, I curse, feeling slightly irritated. Oh, well, the pub's around here somewhere. I'll just have to try and go from memory. I take pot luck and turn left and follow the road as it winds round the church. Now, this is looking familiar. It should be on the right… I turn another corner. No, it's not there. What about the next corner… ?

As I turn right, I feel a rush of happiness as I spot the familiar painted pub sign. Hurrah. There it is, the Wellington Arms. Quickly parking, I dash out of the car and into the pub. God, it hasn't changed a bit, I muse, feeling a rush of nostalgia as I walk inside. Same scuffed floorboards on which are clustered lots of wooden tables and chairs, same large open fire that's all blackened and sooty from winter use, same chalkboards filled with scribbles describing today's specials and a large extensive wine list, which I remember was a totally new thing back in 1997. Wow. It's like stepping back in time.

Then I catch myself and smile with amusement. No pun intended of course. Despite still being early evening, it's quite busy with the after-work crowd, and excusing my way through to the back of the pub, I hurry downstairs to the toilets. They're still in the same place, thank goodness, and I dash gratefully inside an empty cubicle.

Good job I've been doing all those pelvic-floor exercises, I tell myself, finally relaxing my muscles. Boy, that's a relief.

I flush the loo and go outside to wash my hands. It's all exactly the same. As I go to dry my hands under the fan, I glance absently in the mirror to check my reflection. I must have looked in this mirror a thousand times when I was twenty-one - checked my hair was OK, my lipstick was just so, reapplied my eyeliner-and now here I am, a whole decade later, back here again. For a moment I pause, lost in thought. It's strange. So much has happened since then. My life is so different now, I feel so different now, look so different now, that it's hard to imagine me back then.

The door swings open and another girl enters. I snap out of my reflections. Catching the door before it swings shut, I scoot out of the ladies' and back up the staircase, fully intending to walk right out of the pub and drive home. But that was before I caught the ponytailed barman's eye. He cocks an eyebrow. 'So did you find it OK?'

I stop mid-step, like a thief caught in his tracks. Oh God, is he talking to me? 'Um… excuse me?'

I feign innocence.

'The toilet,' he says pointedly, giving me a look. A look that says, 'I know your type, just waltzing in here to use the loo without buying a drink. What do you think this is, a public toilet?'

Trust me. It was that kind of look.

'Oh, yes, thank you.' I smile awkwardly.

'Anything else we can help you with?'

'Just a cranberry juice, please,' I hear myself saying.

Honestly, Charlotte, you don't have to buy a drink if you don't want to. Just turn round and walk out. Who cares what he thinks? He's just a barman.

But it's too late. He's already getting out the Ocean Spray.

'There you go.' He passes me my drink. 'That'll be a pound, please.'

I'm pleasantly surprised. Well, I'm glad to see the prices are still reasonable, I think, digging out my purse. There's nothing worse than those poncy, overpriced bars that charge you £3.50 for a soft drink. But then this pub always was good value for money.

'Thanks, great.' As I hand over the money and take my drink, I look around for a spare seat. It's really busy. I finally spot an empty table and dive on it gratefully. Fab! Pulling up a chair, I am just getting comfy when—

I wrinkle up my nose. Hang on a minute,
can I smell cigarettes
?

As a blast of smoke wafts in my direction, I glance sideways. Sure enough, there, right next to me, is a couple smoking.
Inside
! Haven't they heard of the smoking ban?

'Erm… excuse me…' They both look over. 'Would you mind?' I say politely, and gesture to their cigarettes. Well, I hate to be one of those people who complain about smoking, but it's really bad for my sinuses. Saying that, I shouldn't feel that bad as it is illegal to smoke in pubs.

'Sure. Go ahead, take one.' He smiles, proffering his packet of Marlboro Lights. 'Do you need a light?'

Oh, no, he's totally misunderstood. 'Um… no… thank you,' I fluster, shaking my head. 'I didn't mean… I meant…' Watching him puffing away unfazed, I trail off at a loss. 'My sinuses .'. .' I gesture, sniffing a bit for emphasis.

'Right, yeah, summer colds. A bummer.' He nods agreeably and drags hard on his cigarette. I feel a sting of indignation. I can't believe it. The arrogance of some people! He's just going to sit there and carry on smoking. That's so bloody rude. And when I asked nicely and everything. Right that's it. Picking up my cranberry juice, I stand up huffily.

'You should go sit outside, get some sun,' he advises, slurping his pint.

'Yes, I think I'll do that,' I reply tightly, and throwing my tote bag over my shoulder, I turn and stalk across the scuffed wooden floorboards.

Outside, the beer garden is already jostling with people crowding the few wrought-iron tables and chairs. This is just how I remember it: jammed-packed and buzzing with chatter, I think, weaving my way through. It's also still just as pretty. Vibrantly coloured hanging baskets dangle from the walls scenting the air, and there's a lovely sycamore tree just round that corner. Gosh, I can remember when they planted that tree, I reflect, casting my mind back. It was nothing more than a skinny little sapling, but just look at it now!

Oh.

As it comes into view, I feel a pang of disappointment. Gosh, it hasn't grown very much in ten years, has it? I thought it was going to be this great big spreading tree and I was going to sit underneath its shady boughs. I peer at the weedy little branches. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was still a sapling.

But then, that shows you how much I know about gardening, I muse, spotting a free spot and plonking myself down with my back to the sun. Well, better not get any more sun-damage…

I look around me. The crowd looks pretty much the same - lots of cool, trendy people in lowslung jeans and floaty dresses, showing off summer tans and those Celtic armband tattoos that were so fashionable in the nineties. Gosh, am I glad I never got one of those - you're stuck with them for ever. And I used to think they were so cool! How funny.

Resting my drink on the table, I start rooting around in my bag for my mobile. I need to call Miles back. He left a message earlier today when I was at the doctor's saying, 'Nothing important, just checking in,' which is what he always says whenever he calls. When we first started going out, I thought that was really sweet - and I still do. Only, it might be nice if it
was
something important sometimes. Not scary important. Just interesting important. Dialling his number, I press the mobile to my ear and wait to hear his phone ringing. Except it doesn't.

Frowning, I look closely at the screen and notice all the bars have disappeared and I don't have a signal.
Again
. Irritation stabs. I called T-Mobile yesterday, but they said there wasn't a problem with reception in the area. I don't understand it. I dig out my BlackBerry, but it's the same. No signal. I stare at in confusion. What was Beatrice talking about the other day? Oh, right, yes. Something about too many people using their mobile phones, I remember, glancing around me. Maybe she's right.

Except…

Wait a minute. That's odd. My eyes flick from person to person. Usually everyone is chattering away, handsets pressed to their ears, earpieces dangling, Bluetooth headsets flashing lights as they seemingly jabber away to no one. But now, looking around me, I can't actually see anyone using their phone.

Maybe they don't allow mobiles here, I decide, feeling a little bewildered, though I can't see any signs. Oh, no, look, there's a couple of people on their phones. A few tables away, I spot a guy chatting into his phone. As he finishes his call, I jump up and walk over to him.

'Excuse me.' He looks up. 'Are you with T-Mobile?'

He looks at me blankly. 'Sorry?'

'I saw you on your phone,' I explain, 'but I don't have any reception.'

'Um… no, I'm with Vodafone and it seems fine.' He shrugs, putting his mobile down on the table in front of him. I glance at it. God, he must have had that phone for years - it looks really oldfashioned. Still, it has five big black bars showing. Unlike either of my phones.

. 'Gosh, that's weird.' Confused, I peer at the bars on my BlackBerry again. Nope. They've all disappeared.

'What's that?' He looks at me quizzically.

I pause from performing my usual scientific approach of pressing every button and jabbing the screen. 'Excuse me?'

'Is that a phone?'

'Oh, you mean my BlackBerry?'

'BlackBerry?' he repeats, as if it's a foreign-sounding word. 'I've never seen one of those.'

'Really?' I look at him in surprise. I assumed everyone knew what one was, even my mother. Then again, she does still call it 'that thingamajig'. 'Oh, well, they're not that great, trust me,' I say ruefully. 'Though they're useful for getting your emails.'

'Emails?' he repeats. 'On a phone?' He laughs and shakes his head. 'Yeah, right. Since when? You need dial-up and a computer for those.'

Suddenly I get this really odd feeling.

OK, so now he's definitely pulling my leg, right?

A shiver runs up my spine and despite the beery warmth I can feel goosebumps prickling. There is something very weird going on here.

'Oops, sorry.'

A voice cuts into my consciousness as someone from behind bangs into me, spilling what's left of my cranberry juice down my shirt. Oh, shit. I look down to see it covered in red, seeping splodges.

'Oh God, I'm really, really sorry. It was an accident.'

Digging out a tissue, I start dabbing at my shirt. Damn. It's white linen. I'm never going to get the stain out.

'Can I buy you another drink?'

'No, thank you.'

Except in the split second it takes for me to answer something registers as not quite right; something about her voice sounds familiar. I stiffen. Hang on minute. I twirl round, my heart thudding loudly in my chest, my breath caught tight in the back of my throat. Because I already know exactly who's standing behind me. Even before I see her, I know who she is. Just like I know that voice.

Our eyes lock. And in that instant every single rational thought I've ever had flies right out of the window.

Because it's me.

Chapter Thirteen

For a moment nothing happens. Time freezes. As if someone just pressed 'pause' on the DVD

that is my life and said, 'OK, so what do you think about that, then?'

Except I can't answer.

In books I'm always reading about people being rendered speechless, and I've often thought it an interesting concept, but one that was more literal than realistic. After all, no one's ever
really
speechless, are they? You can always think of
something
to say. Even when I was dumped by Colin Pickles at middle school with a blunt 'I don't like you any more' I found my tongue fast enough to reply with a 'Well, I don't like you either, Spotty.' OK, so it wasn't going to win any awards for the most witty riposte, but at least I said
something
. Unlike now.