Who's That Girl (18 page)

And smiling to myself, I turn back to my list. Now, where was I?

'Morning.'

Arriving at the office after my meeting, I push open the frosted-glass door expecting to be greeted by Beatrice as usual, but instead find her with her head on her desk, fast asleep, drooling. As the door swings closed behind me, she flips upright like a jack-in-a-box.

'Oh… um… morning,' she flusters, blinking frantically. Her keyboard is imprinted in her face, giving her this strange pink tattoo across her left cheek. 'I was just… er…clearing up our database.'

Strangely, 'clearing up our database' is something Beatrice only ever does when she's suffering from a hangover. And even more strangely, it seems to be something she can do with her face on the desk and her eyes closed.

Hastily stifling a yawn, she takes a sip of her Berocca, which is fizzing merrily away on her desk. Lying next to it is her copy of
Vogue
, which she reads on the bus into work. Or at least that's what she wants people to think. And I used to think that too, until I borrowed it one lunchtime and discovered her guilty secret: a copy of
New Scientist
tucked away inside.

'Are you OK? I ask, looking at her with concern. Her usually rosy cheeks have a greyish pallor, and her blue eyes are bloodshot.

'Yes, fine.' She winces, massaging her temples.

'Because I've got plenty of paracetamol,' I offer, reaching for my family-size bottle. She flinches at the noise. 'No, it's fine, honestly,' she whispers, getting shakily up from her chair and walking unsteadily over to the coffee machine. 'Just a little delicate. I think it might have been those mini-quiches.'

'Or the champagne,' I add teasingly.

She looks at me, chagrined. 'Oh dear, I did get rather sloshed, didn't I? I hope I didn't do or say anything silly.'

Without warning my mind flicks back to yesterday afternoon and her speech about time travel and I'm tempted to share my secret with her. Maybe she can help shed some light on how or why this is happening to me. Either way, it would just be a relief to tell someone who won't think I'm going cuckoo for Coco Pops. The theory being because Bea is already a little bit cuckoo for Coco Pops herself.

'Well, there is one thing—' I begin.

'No, stop, don't tell me.' Putting out her hands to defend herself from what I'm about to say, she squeezes her eyes tightly shut as if she's going to be walloped by some great big embarrassing faux pas. 'It's about Patrick, isn't it?'

'Patrick?' I stop my thoughts mid-track. 'Who's Patrick?'

'The journalist I introduced you to,' she reminds me. 'You know, the super-hot chap who was married.'

Suddenly I realise Beatrice wasn't just sloshed; she was well and truly hammered. Beer-goggles, or in Beatrice's case champagne-goggles, can be the only explanation for turning the slightly chubby, shiny, pink-faced Patrick I met into a 'super-hot chap'.

'No. Why? Should it be?'

She blushes, her neck prickling with bright crimson splodges. Opening one of her large blue eyes, she looks at me woefully. 'I'm afraid after you left I got rather…' she swallows hard '…

flirtatious
.'

'I see.' Though I don't, not really. Beatrice flirting is not an image that comes easily to mind.

'And then his wife appeared.'

'Ouch.' I wince.

'From nowhere.
Poof
. She was there, right in front of me, in a Pringle sweater.'

'Ah, yes, the semi-professional golfer, I remember now.'

Beatrice hangs her head in shame. 'I know it was terrible of me. I knew he was married. And I wasn't going to
do
anything. It's just…' She pauses and lets out a sigh. 'Oh, Charlotte, do you think I'm ever going to meet anyone?'

She looks so utterly crestfallen I really feel for her. 'Of course you will,' I say, giving her shoulder a squeeze. 'You're sweet and kind and super-smart—'

'But that's just it,' she stops me. 'When it comes to a girlfriend, men don't want super-smart. They're looking for beauty, not brains.'

'That's not true,' I argue. 'Look at…' I stall. Actually, now I come to think of it, I can't think of anyone.

'See. You can't think of anyone, can you?' she accuses sadly.

'Of course I can,' I protest, racking my brains. Come on, Charlotte, come on. There must be someone… 'I know! What about Miranda from
Sex and the City?'
I say triumphantly. Beatrice gives me a look that could kill. 'What about her?'

'Well, she was a super-smart lawyer and she got Steve,' I point out. Now Beatrice looks more depressed than ever. 'Exactly,' she says, throwing me a doleful look and turning back to the coffee machine.

I'm about to argue, then think better of it. Actually, Bea does have a point. OK, so Steve was a good guy, but he wasn't exactly hunky Aiden or Mr Big, was he? And he did have that really annoying, high-pitched, nasally voice.

'Men want women who spend money on clothes and makeup and designer shoes, not three thousand pounds on a telescope,' she continues, pouring out a fresh brew into two cups.

'Trust me, men don't care what you spend money on, as long as it's not their money—' I break off. 'You spent three thousand pounds on a telescope?' I ask in astonishment.

'Yes, I won it on eBay. Oh gosh, Charlotte, it's just amazing,' she gashes, coming to life, her eyes shining with excitement. 'It's Meade's all-new LX200R telescope with advanced RitcheyChretien optics.'

'Um… is that good?' I ask uncertainly.

Beatrice clutches her pearls and looks at me as if I've just asked if the Red Velvet cupcakes with butter frosting from Sprinkles on the corner are worth trying. 'Nearly every observatory reflector in the world is a Ritchey-Chretien, including NASA's Hubble space telescope!' she announces grandly, then breaks off, her face flushed with exhilaration. Which quickly fades in the space of time it takes to click your fingers. 'See, that's what always happens,' she accuses.

'What always happens?'

'That expression.'

'What expression?' I reply defensively.

'That blank look on your face.'

Oh, shit, is it that obvious? 'That's just how my face is,' I protest hastily. 'That's just how I look.'

'That's not true,' she pouts sulkily. 'I have that effect on everyone. I start talking and people just switch off. Mummy advised me to go into PR "because no man wants a wife who's a scientist". And she's right. Mummy's always right.' Her large blue eyes start to fill up and she blinks rapidly, trying to fight back the tears. She grabs a coffee filter as a tissue.

'Mummy
isn't
always right,' I argue hotly, then quickly catch myself. 'I mean, your mummy…

mum,''
I correct myself, 'isn't always right.'

'You think so?' She looks at me doubtfully, and twists the coffee filter in her hands.

'Absolutely.' I nod firmly, then throw her a reassuring smile. 'You just haven't met the right person yet.'

'Like you met Miles,' she says, looking at me meaningfully.

'Well, yes, like I met Miles,' I say feeling a bit awkward as I suddenly realise that I've barely thought about Miles these past couple of days. What with everything that's been going on, my head's been full of other stuff. But now at the mention of his name I'm reminded that I'm seeing him this lunchtime to look at a house.

Out of nowhere I experience a flutter of nerves. But that's just because I'm excited, I tell myself quickly. After all, who wouldn't be excited to go house-hunting with their boyfriend?

'How did you know he was the right person?'

I zone back in to see Beatrice still looking at me.

'Oh, I don't know, loads of things…' I trail off.

'Like what?' she asks eagerly.

Abruptly I get this feeling as if I'm on stage under the spotlight and it's my cue to say my lines. Only it's like I've got stage fright and I can't remember any of them. 'Everything,' I answer simply.

'Golly, that's so romantic' She sighs and passes me my coffee. 'You're so lucky, you know.'

'Yes, I know.' And it's true. I do know I'm lucky. I tell myself that every day. It's just—

'Ooh! Someone's been on a shopping spree!' interrupts Beatrice. 'Giving yourself a makeover?'

I snap back to see her looking at my bulging carrier bags with curiosity. At exactly the same time as I notice the Nicorette patches and several packets of condoms, which I threw in for good measure, balancing precariously on top.

'Um, yes, I suppose you could say that,' I say, and quickly swooping on them, I stuff them in my desk drawer.

'Oh, what fun!' She beams, and hugging her coffee cup, she totters back to her desk. Leaving me smiling uncertainly and wondering what exactly I've got myself into. For sure, the next few days are going to be a lot of things, but I'm not entirely convinced fun's going to be one of them.

Chapter Seventeen

'Hello, darling.' At one o'clock I park up outside a large red-brick Victorian house on a leafy West London street and find Miles already waiting for me by the gate, a huge grin on his face.

'Isn't it just perfect?' he enthuses, sliding his arm round my waist so we can stand side by side on the pavement and look up at 43 Andlebury Avenue. 'Well?'

As he turns to me, his eyes shining with excitement, I realise I haven't actually spoken yet.

'Gosh,' is all I manage.

Miles smiles. 'Gosh?' he teases. His mouth twitches with amusement. 'Is that it?'

'Well, no… I mean…' I trail off to take in the large windows, the black-and-white tiled path leading up to the front door, the shiny brass door knocker. It's a real, proper, grown-up house. The kind of house in which you put down roots, raise a family and live for the next thirty years.

'Are you sure we can afford it?' I blurt.

'Oh, I'm sure we can work something out,' he says, like he always does, kissing my nose affectionately. 'But let's not worry about that just yet - we haven't even looked inside!'

'No… Yes. I mean, you're right.' I nod.

God, I've never seen Miles this excited. Normally he's so level-headed and moderate about everything, but today he's buzzing with eager anticipation. I feel oddly left out. Why aren't I buzzing too? After all, I'm sure I'm going to love it; I can tell just from the outside, I decide, looking at the shiny navy blue front door and the two large potted yuccas on either side. And we have been talking about moving in together for ages. It's the next step. It makes total sense.

'Mr Richards?'

A sharp voice causes us both to turn round to see a grey pinstriped figure striding along the pavement. It must be at least eighty degrees today in London, and as the man hurries towards us, his jacket flaps open to reveal damp patches spreading out from under the armpits of his blue shirt.

'Benedict Meyers, Formans Estate Agents.' He shakes hands briskly with Miles. 'And Mrs Richards?' Holding out his hand, he turns to me.

'Oh, no,' I correct quickly, then blush. 'I mean…'

'Not yet,' jokes Miles, and we all share a polite chuckle.

'Well, if you'd like to follow me…' The estate agent jangles a huge bunch of keys authoritatively and briskly sets about unlocking the front door, deftly disabling the alarm and flicking on lights, all while providing a running commentary: 'Into the main hallway, where, leading off to the left, we have the full-width reception room, which opens into the breakfast room, offering a fantastic living and entertaining space…'

I walk slowly behind, trying to take everything in. I've always found house-hunting to be slightly bizarre. It's like stepping into someone else's life. All this history, all these memories belonging to someone else… My eyes flit across the photographs lining the shelves and try to imagine them being replaced with photographs of Miles and me.

'… and an actual working fireplace.'

Looking up, I turn to see the estate agent standing in front of a large exposed-brick chimney breast. 'Wow, really?' I smile eagerly. Miles once told me that you're supposed to act like you're not that interested when you're looking at property, so you can haggle over the price, but I can't help myself. I've always wanted a real fireplace.

'Hmm, is there a gas supply as well?' interjects Miles, frowning slightly.

'Why do you need a gas supply?' I ask, puzzled.

'Real fires look lovely, darling, but they're a lot of work.'

'But everyone loves a real fire!' I cry with dismay. 'They're so romantic'

'In hotels maybe,' he says firmly. 'But not when you're shovelling ashes first thing on a morning. I used to have to clear out my housemaster's when I was at boarding school, and trust me, it wasn't fun.'

'Actually, I do believe there is a gas hook-up,' the estate agent is saying, crouching down and pointing at something, 'so if you prefer, you could convert this quite easily.'

'Hmm, right, yes.'

I watch as Miles bobs down next to him, their heads bent together.

'And you can get those very realistic gas fires these days. They almost look like the real thing.'

'But we have the real thing,' I protest loudly.

The estate agent and Miles suddenly both look up at me.

'Darling, I had no idea you loved real fires so much,' Miles says, surprised.

'Well… sort of,' I say, blushing slightly.

God, now I feel like a bit of an idiot. I didn't mean to make such a big deal of it.

'My wife and I can never agree about anything,' chips in the estate agent jovially. 'We argue about everything.'

'Oh, I'm sure we'll work it out,' says Miles amiably. Straightening up, he squeezes my shoulder.

'Won't don't do rows, do we, darling?' he says proudly.

'No.' I smile awkwardly.

'See. All sorted,' laughs Miles, turning to the estate agent. 'So, shall we move on to the kitchen?'

We spend the next ten minutes exploring the rest of downstairs and then move into the garden. I only have a tiny balcony at my flat and I've always dreamed of having my own proper garden. This would be perfect, I think, wandering around the neatly trimmed lawn and looking at all the different flowers and plants that I don't know the names of. Still, I'm sure I could get a book about them, I decide, making a mental note to have a look on Amazon.