Who's That Girl (19 page)

'Oh, and look, we could have barbecues,' I say, spotting one by a giant fern. I try imagining Miles in a striped butcher's pinny flipping burgers while I stroll around the garden, handing out glasses of Pimm's. Though to tell the truth, I'm not sure when we'd have time to organise a barbecue as we're both always so busy. I look across at Miles, but he's not paying any attention to the barbecue or the garden. Instead he's staring distractedly up at the roof.

'As you know, it's a two-bedroom property, but there's a possibility of a third and even a fourth if you convert the loft,' the estate agent is saying. 'If you'd like to take a look.'

'A loft conversion?' Miles seems galvanised by this news.

'Yes, a lot of the properties on the street have done that. If you'd like to take a look inside…'

'Miles, don't you want to look at the garden?'

But it's no good - he's already gone back inside with the estate agent. I feel a stab of disappointment. I wanted to show him the little fountain, and the barbecue, and all those lovely plants. He didn't seem to notice any of it. Still, I suppose I can do that later, I tell myself, as I follow them back into the house.

Upstairs are two bedrooms and a bathroom, and I'm just taking a peek at the second when Miles joins me.

'Well, what do you think?' he whispers, out of earshot of the estate agent.

'I love it!' I enthuse, as we walk inside the second bedroom.

'You do?' Miles's face breaks into a relieved smile.

'Yes, it's gorgeous.' I nod excitedly. 'There's the lovely fireplace, and the garden.' Pausing to take in the dimensions of the room, I'm suddenly hit by inspiration. 'And this room would be
perfect
for an office.' No sooner has the idea struck than my mind is already working overtime. 'We could put a desk over by the window, and there's plenty of room for a printer and everything.'

'I actually had another idea.'

'Oh, you mean put the desk against the other wall?' I frown, trying to picture it. 'Yes, I suppose that could work.'

'No, silly.' Sliding his arm round my waist, he pulls me close and looks at me meaningfully for a few moments. 'I was thinking this room would be perfect for a nursery.'

'You mean… for a baby?' I falter.

'Well, what else do you put in a nursery?' He laughs, stroking my hair.

'Erm…' I push my hair behind my ears and try to think of something to say. I suddenly feel a bit panicky. One minute we're talking about moving in together, the next I've
given birth
? What happened to the bit in the middle? We've just leapfrogged right over it. The proposal, me saying yes, the wedding…

Not that I think you have to be married to have a baby, and not that I don't want to have a baby -
one day
- it's just that we've never even
talked
about babies, except once when we went to the christening of Miles's nephew (Horatio, which I thought was a bit mean - after all, he was only a little baby). It was on the drive home and we had one of those jokey, hypothetical discussions about what we'd call our children, which went something along the lines of: Me: 'I like Tallulah for a girl.'

Miles: 'Urgh. She sounds like a stripper. What about Tarquin for a boy?'

Me: 'Yuck. He sounds like an idiot.'

Back and forth, until we got bored and started talking about something else and forgot all about it. At least I did. Well, tried to.

'So are you in a chain?' The estate agent reappears with blundering chirpiness and we break apart.

'Well, we'd be putting our own flats on the market, but I can't see that being a problem - they're both desirable one-bedroom properties,' says Miles confidently.

I glance at him sharply. '
We will
?'

God, this is all moving a bit too fast. I don't remember agreeing to that.

'Well, yes, of course, darling,' says Miles. 'We discussed it, remember? Consolidating our assets, selling our individual properties…'

'A wise decision,' butts in the estate agent.

'Um… yes, I think so,' I say dazedly.

Selling our individual properties
? That must have been the point when my attention wandered.

'It makes perfect financial sense.'

'I know, it's just…' I falter, my mind slipping back to the conversation about the fireplace and Miles not understanding the magic of real fires. I don't know how to put it into words. I can't even make sense of it myself, let alone explain it to Miles. Or the estate agent, who's watching me intently for signs of hesitation.

'I have to tell you I've got several other interested parties chomping at the bit on this one,' he warns. 'In fact I've already had a couple of offers over the asking price, so I reckon you'd have to make a really good offer to clinch the deal.'

My stomach tightens. God, it's all suddenly very real. Buying a place together is something Miles and I have talked about over mixed olives and a bottle of wine, and it all sounded lovely in theory, but until now I've never really thought it through. Haven't really grasped what it entails.

'I guess I'm just a bit nervous,' I confess.

'I know, darling.' Miles smiles good-naturedly. 'But don't you love this house? You've always said you want a garden, and there's masses of room…'

It's true. I am always saying that. Maybe I'm just worrying about nothing. I look at Miles. He's so handsome and smart, and he's found us this amazing house, and he wants us to buy it and move in together.

And I'm standing here dithering?

I grab a hold of myself. Charlotte, are you
completely
mad? What more do you want? What more could
any
girl want?

'You're right,' I say decisively. Throwing my arms round his neck, I give him a kiss. 'Let's make an offer!'

Chapter Eighteen

Back in the office, I sit at my desk eating a salad and stare at the glossy estate agent's brochure of the house. It looks gorgeous. It's got everything I've ever wanted: shiny wooden floorboards, big shutters, south-facing garden. It's my dream house.

But even so, for the rest of the afternoon I can't turn off that nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach. Every time I start to work on a press release, and even in my meeting with some journalist from
Sainsbury's
magazine, I find my mind wandering back to that moment in the bedroom when we talked about a nursery, or get a flash of Miles's excited face as we walked around the garden and he talked about extensions and planning permission and loft conversions. As the digital clock on my computer screen flicks from 18.29 to 18.30, I put my computer to sleep. I've got my dinner date with Larry Goldstein in half an hour.

'OK, I'll see you tomorrow,' I say to Beatrice, who's hidden behind a barricade of files that are piled up on her desk. Her decision to reorganise the filing cabinets at four o'clock this afternoon not being one of her wisest.

'You're leaving?' Popping her head up above the A4 parapet, she looks at me with disbelief.

'
Already
?'

'I'm having dinner with Larry Goldstein at Claridge's,' I remind her. She rolls her eyes. 'Of course.' She nods, then shoots me a bright smile. 'Good luck! And don't forget to order the chocolate profiteroles.'

Arriving at Claridge's, I valet the car and hurry up the front steps. A uniformed doorman opens the door for me and I smile appreciatively. Gosh, I love Claridge's. It has to be the nicest hotel in London. I always dream about staying here. Once, after a night-out in the West End, I suggested to Miles that we splurge on a suite and spend the night here, but he looked at me as if I'd gone bananas. Why on earth would we pay a fortune to spend the night in a hotel when we only lived a few miles away? Which wasn't really the point, but anyway…

I'm a little bit early, so I cross the grand marbled lobby to where a couple of immaculately groomed receptionists are fielding telephone calls and queries from guests.

'Hi, I'm here to meet Larry Goldstein.'

At the mention of his name a look passes between the two receptionists. 'Ah, yes, Mr Celebrity Smile,' says one, smiling brightly.
Too brightly
. I get the impression he's not the most popular guest at the hotel. 'I'll call his room. May I ask your name?'

'Charlotte Merryweather, from Merryweather PR,' I add out of habit.

'One moment.'

As she dials the room, I take in the elegant lobby and try to steady my nerves. Several welldressed guests are milling around, while over in the corner there's a blond man wearing sunglasses and muttering into his mobile. He looks a bit like Daniel Craig. Actually, I think it
is
Daniel Craig! Excitement stabs. Oh my God, just wait till I tell Miles! A real, live 007. And he's
gorgeous
. Though of course Miles doesn't like Daniel Craig. He says having a blond James Bond is a travesty…

He turns to face me. Oh, it's not him at all.

'Miss Merryweather?'

'Yes?' I snap out of my thoughts and look across at the receptionist.

'Mr Goldstein's running a little late, so he has invited you up to his room for drinks before dinner.'

My heart thuds. '
His room?''

'On the third floor. Number thirty-five. The lift is to your right.'

Fuck. This is it. There's no escaping now. Gripping the handles of my bag, I walk nervously to the lift. My palms have begun to perspire, and as the lift doors open and I walk inside, anxiety grips me. Now come on, Charlotte, I tell myself firmly. Stop worrying. He's just being polite and hospitable.

The doors ping open and I walk down the dimly lit corridor to his room. Nervously smoothing down my skirt, I tuck my hair behind my ears and knock tentatively on the door. I hear footsteps. I get a sudden image of Larry Goldstein greeting me in a slinky robe. Argh, no. Stop it.

The door swings open, and bracing myself, I pin a smile on my face.

'Hi, Dr Goldstein—'

Only it's not Dr Goldstein. It's a woman with peroxide-blonde hair wearing a bright pink velour Juicy tracksuit and clutching a small furry dog. At first glance she looks about twenty-five, but on closer inspection I realise she's older. Although I'm not sure how I know this. It's one of those weird situations when there are no visible signs of ageing - no wrinkles, no eyebags, a perfectly taut neck - and yet somehow it's fairly obvious this is a woman nudging sixty.

'You must be Charlene!' she drawls, flashing an identikit smile to Larry Goldstein's.

'Charlotte,' I manage, trying not to stare.

'Well, come in, come in,' she demands, waggling her fearsome-looking acrylic nails at me. I follow her inside, my mind racing. What's going on? Where's Larry Goldstein? My eyes sweep across the huge room, filled with antique furniture, a large flower arrangement and dozens of bags littered everywhere embossed with designer names: Gucci, Prada, Dior…

'I'm sorry, we haven't been introduced…'

'Oh, I love those English manners - so formal.' She laughs gaily, then, cradling her small furball in the crook of her arm, sticks out a diamond-encrusted hand. 'I'm Cindy, Larry's wife.'

Larry Goldstein's wife? Well, that explains the smile. Two for the price of one, I realise, looking at her in astonishment, not to mention a great deal of relief.

'Twenty-five years.' She smiles proudly.

' Congratulations.'

'I can see you're surprised.' She pats her hair, still smiling. 'Most people are when I tell them.'

'Oh, right, yes, because he doesn't wear a wedding ring.' I smile back.

'No, because I don't look old enough,' she says sharply. 'Larry doesn't wear a ring because he's a cosmetic dentist. His hands are his tools.'

Fortunately, before things get any more awkward, the door opens from the en-suite bathroom and Larry emerges from a cloud of steam, like a super-hero appearing from a swirl of dry ice. Primped and smelling strongly of aftershave, he's talking loudly on the phone. 'Yeah Roger, I received the fax. The designs look awesome…' Seeing me, he gives a cheerful wave. 'Yeah, my PR person's here right now, so I'll run those ideas by her and get her take on it. OK, later.' He snaps the phone closed and turns his full attention to me. 'Hey, sorry about that.' He smiles brightly, not looking very sorry at all. 'So, I see the two of you have met.'

He walks up to his wife and puts his arm round her. They both smile as if someone's taking a picture of them: Cindy, Larry and the dog. It reminds me of when you see those official-looking photos of the American President and his First Lady.

'Cindy flew over to join me yesterday. She wanted to take in the sights, do some shopping.'

'Oh, I do love that Bond Street of yours,' she enthuses. 'And that Harrods!'

I'm presuming by her exclamation that's a good thing, but it's hard to tell as her face isn't actually moving because she's had so much Botox.

'It was the best mall I've ever been in! Much better than Macy's.'

'Well, it's not really a mall—' I begin, but she doesn't let me finish.

'And that Egyptian escalator!' She rolls her eyes. 'Who would have thought they'd have had escalators in the Pyramids! I said to Larry, "Isn't that incredible? All those years ago."'

I look at her in astonishment. Surely she doesn't think…
does she?

'Dirty Martini?'

I turn to see Larry gesturing a cocktail-shaker.

'Ooh, my favourite,' cries Cindy, her face lighting up. Which is impressive, underneath all that make-up.

'Charlene?'

'Actually, I better not.'

'Oh, I see. Twelve steps?' Cindy taps her nose conspiratorially.

I look at her blankly.

'AA,' she says, lowering her voice as if people might be listening. 'All our friends are in it. In fact I was saying to Larry just recently that maybe we should join. They have some fabulous benefits.'

'Oh, no.' I shake my head. 'I'm just driving.'

'That's what they all say.' She smiles as Larry passes her a Martini.

'No, I really am—'

But Cindy interrupts again. 'Don't worry. Your secret's safe with us.' Pressing a manicured talon to her collagen-enhanced lips, she says in a low voice, 'Larry and I are the souls of discretion.'