Who's That Girl (2 page)

My mind is racing at its usual hundred miles an hour, and I roll over and hug my pillow to my chest.

Twenty-five seconds.

On second thoughts I don't have time to go food shopping. We'll have to eat out instead. But that's OK. It's a good excuse to try that new gastropub in my neighbourhood. It opened a few weeks ago and I've been dying to go.

Twenty seconds.

Oh God, and now I've just remembered: it's Dad's birthday today.

My heart sinks. Mum left three messages on my machine last week to remind me and I
still
forgot. I haven't even sent him a card. Dad will be so upset if he doesn't get a card through the post. Last year I sent him an e-card as work was manic as usual, but when I called him, his voice was all small and Mum had to get on the phone and make cheery conversation about next-door's new extension.

Fifteen seconds.

My stomach clenches. OK, Charlotte, don't stress. You'll end up with that funny bumpy rash on your chest and you'll have to wear polo necks all week and look like Diane Keaton in
Something's Gotta Give
. I'll call Interflora and get an express delivery. So what if he's a man?

Everyone likes flowers, right? I'll just ask for manly colours or something.
Ten seconds.

Do they
do
flowers in navy blue?

Five seconds.

Right, that's it. Time's up.

I pull myself up on to my elbows and take out my mouth-guards. According to my dentist, I grind. He says if I don't wear them, I'm going to end up with teeth ground down to little stumps and I'll look like Shane MacGowan from the Pogues!

Well, he didn't
exactly
say I'd look like Shane MacGowan, but that's only because he doesn't know who Shane MacGowan or the Pogues are. Anyway, that's beside the point. I still had to have them made and they cost over a thousand pounds. Vanessa, my best friend, thought I was crazy. She says I should have spent, the money on a holiday as I just need to relax. Honestly, I love Vanessa, but she's the one who's crazy.
A holiday
? Like I have
time
for a holiday. Besides, I do lots of things to relax. For example, I do Pilates. Actually, perhaps
do
is a little bit of an exaggeration - I did it once and fell asleep during the mat exercises - but I've every
intention
of doing it regularly. And I take baths with scented candles and lavender oil and a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc. Admittedly, I haven't taken one recently - in fact these days it's more a case of dashing in and out of the shower with a Bic razor - but still.
Plus
I even have Paul McKenna's relaxation CD, which my mum sent me. Somewhere. Tucked away in a drawer probably.

But I'm definitely going to listen to it when I have a minute…

OK, so I wouldn't go as far as to say I'm
relaxed
as such, but who is these days? I run a company. I have a mortgage, and responsibilities, and lines round my eyes to take care of. I mean, it's not like I'm twenty-one any more.

And thank goodness.

Back then I was renting a room, working in a dead-end job and always broke. Now I have my own successful PR company, a lovely flat in a leafy part of West London and one of those new convertible Beetles. I eat out at restaurants and can afford to shop for designer clothes and take luxury holidays.

Not that I do of course, as I never have the time, but I'm just saying. I even have my own personal trainer.

Speaking of whom… Dragging my self out of bed, I swap my warm, fleecy pyjamas for my gym kit and hurry across to the window. I open the blind and pull back the curtains. It's still pitch black outside and for a moment I pause to stare into the silent, sleeping street. I'm thirty-one years old and I've got the life I always dreamed of. The doorbell rings, interrupting my thoughts, and I turn away from the window.

'Coming,' I yell loudly, and rubbing the sleep from my puffy eyes, I dash for the door.

Chapter Two

An hour later, after running around the park and doing about a million star jumps, Richard, my personal trainer, is jogging me back to my flat. Richard used to be in the Territorial Army and likes to push me really hard.

Unfortunately I don't mean 'push me' as in I'm on a swing wearing a floaty dress and going,

'Weeeee,' but as in me face down on the tarmac gasping for breath while he barks at me to do another fifty press-ups.

'OK, Charlotte, why don't we sprint the last hundred metres, huh?'

Trust me, I have
dozens
of reasons why we shouldn't, but Richard has already zoomed ahead of me, all six foot three of solid muscle in racer-back vest and tiny black shorts. I grip on to my hand-weights and lurch after his receding figure, which is springing buoyantly along the pavement on powerful calves.

'C'mon, no slacking. Fill those lungs. Lift those knees.
Hup, hup, hup, hup
.'

I swear Richard has the biggest calf muscles I've ever seen. Apparently, when he was in the TA, he would run hundreds of miles with a backpack that weighed more than me. Which I always find a comforting thought - just in case I should collapse and need to be carried home one day, or something.

I finally catch him up outside my flat.

'See you same time Wednesday.' Still running on the spot, Richard slaps me heartily on the back and I nearly keel over.

'Same time Wednesday,' I reply cheerfully, smiling brightly and opening my front door.

'Now, don't forget to stretch out those muscles,' he yells, grabbing his elbows and effortlessly throwing in a little bit of over-arm stretching.

'I won't.' I beam, giving a jaunty wave before disappearing inside. Where I collapse on the hall carpet.

I do this three times a week. When I was younger, I used to be such a slob, but now I'm older and wiser and know it's really important to keep fit. Although right now 'fit' isn't
exactly
the word I'd choose to describe how I'm feeling. I'd go for something slightly different. Like
exhausted
or
in
agony
.

With sweat pouring down my face I lie spread-eagled on the floor like a chalk drawing at a murder scene and concentrate on catching my breath.

Of course, there are some mornings when I'd love a lie-in, but I also love being able to fit into my jeans. Plus, like Richard says, cardio is essential to maintain a healthy heart. I rest my hand on my heart protectively. It's hammering so hard in my chest it feels as if it's going to explode. Not that it's going to. I mean, hearts don't
just
explode, do they?

I take off my heart monitor and look at the digital display. Gosh, that's quite a lot of heartbeats per minute, isn't it? I feel a prickle of anxiety. And I am really breathless. Scenes from
ER
come rushing back - you know, the ones with a patient on a trolley and a handsome doctor yelling, 'Clear!' as he grabs the defibrillator and slams two massive electric shocks into their chest.

My anxiety cranks up a notch. Oh my God, I'm not
really
having a heart attack, am I? And on my dad's birthday! I clutch my chest in horror. If I die, he'll never be able to celebrate it again. Instead of spending it at the pub with his friends, he'll have to spend it kneeling at my graveside, grieving the loss of his only daughter.

Charlotte, stop it! I grab hold of myself. Don't be so ridiculous. You're
supposed
to get your heartrate up, that's the
whole

idea. You've just been exercising. And exercise is good for you. Hoisting myself up from the hall carpet, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My face is covered in bright purple blotches, I have bloodshot eyes, and my hair is plastered to my head in a sort of sweat helmet. Oh.

Well, anyway, I can't stand around here all day - I need to get ready for work. Automatically I check the time on the clock on the hall table. I have lots of clocks. Vanessa's always teasing me by calling my flat Switzerland, but however hard I try, I always seem to be running late. That's because I'm on a really tight schedule. I don't have time to just 'chill out' as she puts it. Tugging off my sweaty gym gear en route to the bathroom, I dash into the shower. That's not to say I don't ever chill out. Of course I do. For example, if there's ever a free window in my diary, I
always
schedule in something relaxing. The problem is, I never seem to have any free windows…

OK. Make-up? Perfect yet 'natural'.
Check
.

Hair? Dead straight yet flippy at the ends.
Check
.

Outfit? Standing in front of the full-length mirrors in my walk-in wardrobe, I check out my black pencil skirt and pussybow blouse. It has to be professional yet funky. Street yet chic. Cool yet - what's the word? - polished. I frown at my feet and slip on a different pair of designer heels. Much better.
Check
.

Running through my usual checklist before I go to work, I dash out of the bedroom and start racing around the flat collecting my things.

Laptop? I don't go anywhere without my iBook. Not even to the loo. Well, you never know when you might need to Google something. I snap it shut, sweep it up from the table and tuck it under my arm.
Check
.

Briefcase? My eyes fall upon it. Perched on the sofa, bursting with tons of documents that I need to read and sign. Asap.
Check
.

Yoga mat in case I get a free window later? (Yeah, right.)
Check
. BlackBerry? Shit, where is it? Oh, right, yes, in my hand. Of course.
Check
. My heart has recovered, by the way. I knew it would of course. I was just having a little panic. I do that sometimes, especially if it's anything health-related, but I'm just being careful. Better to be safe than sorry, that's what I always say.

Unfortunately my GP doesn't share my attitude. He seems to think I'm a hypochondriac or something. Only last week I had this funny-looking rash on my chest and when I Googled my symptoms, they were exactly the same as this flesh-eating bug from the Amazon. OK, so I haven't 'recently travelled to the Amazon' as my GP put it, but there was no need for him to get so grumpy. He didn't send me to the hospital for tropical diseases or anything! Just told me it was probably my eczema flaring up and to rub on some E45 cream.

Which I did, and it went away, but still, it
could
have been a flesh-eating bug. With a gaggle of bags hanging off each shoulder, I leave money for the cleaner and dash out of the door. Then dash right back in as I'm blinded by the bright sunshine. Sunglasses? My eyes sweep across the hall table on which stands a lamp, a white orchid and several framed photographs, and fall on one taken at my graduation. Mum and Dad are standing next to me, very much the proud parents. They looked pretty much the same then as they do now, although Dad had more hair and Mum was going through her pearly lipstick stage, but I'm barely recognisable. I'm wearing the traditional black gown and my mortar board is balanced precariously on top of my hair, which is long, dark and scrunch-dried to within an inch of its life. Unlike being blow-dried straight into a bob and coloured honey-blonde every six weeks like it is now.

The photo was also taken before I discovered tweezers and I have two thick black caterpillars where I now have perfectly arched eyebrows. And that smile! I peer at my crooked front teeth, which are now straightened, thanks to braces in my late twenties. God, I looked so different back then.

I'm distracted by my sunglasses, which I spot behind the photo and sunnies in place, I hurry out the door, down the front steps and beep the lock on my new Beetle. The lights flash and I tug open the door. Dammit, I've got another parking ticket. I curse, snatching it from under my windscreen wiper and throwing myself into the plush, cream leather interior. I stuff it in a side pocket along with all the other tickets, turn the ignition and shift the gearstick. The engine roars into life.

Gosh, I love my car. It's really powerful and has all these little extras, like heated seats, and satellite navigation, and a dashboard that lights up at night like a cockpit. The day I got it I was so excited. I remember just looking at it, parked outside my flat, all shiny and gleaming and brand new. I couldn't believe it was mine.

Though to tell you the truth, it's not as much fun as I thought it would be, since you can't drive faster than twenty miles an hour in London, I reflect as I pull out of my parking space and immediately hit rush-hour traffic.

In fact you're probably quicker on the Tube.

My BlackBerry suddenly springs to life and starts ringing shrilly. I glance at the clock on the dashboard: it's not even 8 a.m.

'Hello, Merryweather PR… Ah, yes, wonderful to hear from you. Now, about that contract…'

Clipping on my earpiece, I quickly switch into work mode and start fielding calls. Twenty minutes later and I'm running late. The traffic is terrible, worse than usual. It's all to do with the Olympics. There's a huge urban development programme going on in London at the moment and they've started demolishing all these old buildings in preparation for 2012. I read in the paper something about how it's one of the biggest and most complex visions ever in sheer size and scope: 'Dig, Demolition, Design'

they've named it. But it's not just limited to the East End. Apparently, the whole city's being regenerated. There's even plans to build this amazing, state-of-the-art design centre not that far from my office and they're digging up all these thousands of tons of earth for the foundations. 'A feat of engineering' the
Evening Standard
called it.

A great stonking big hole in the ground that's making me late is what I call it, I fume, still edging along at a snail's pace. Frustrated, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, feeling the everpresent knot in my stomach tighten as I glance at the time. Shit. I start running through my diary in my head. I've got a big week ahead of me and masses to do this morning. I don't want to be late.

Then I see a sign that makes my heart sink: ROADWORKS AHEAD: FOLLOW DIVERSION. This is all I need. Now I really
am
going to be late.

Exasperated, I follow the cars as they merge into one lane and begin crawling through the bright orange traffic cones. I mean, seriously, can we go any slower? I glance at the speedometer. I'm going less than
five
miles an hour! At this rate I'll get to the office by… I try doing the calculations in my head. Oh, God, I don't know, but it's going to take for ever. And I still won't have got there.