Who's That Girl (20 page)

'No wine for Charlene - she's in AA.' Throwing her hand protectively over my glass, Cindy hollers loudly at the wine waiter, who's circumventing the table with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. A few people at neighbouring tables turn to stare. I feel my cheeks burn.

'Actually, I'm not—'

'It's OK, honey. You don't need to explain,' she whispers loudly, patting my hand. That's it. I give up. My name's Charlene and I'm an alcoholic.

Two rounds of dirty Martinis later and we've decamped to the restaurant downstairs. Cindy insisted on bringing Foo-Foo, her miniature chihuahua, and after a tussle with the maître d' - 'No dogs are allowed, madam.' 'Foo-Foo is not a dog, she's my baby!' - we were allowed to our table, under strict instructions that her 'baby' stays in her Fendi handbag.

'So as I said, I'm really interested in hearing your views on the new space we're thinking of for the flagship Star Smile clinic,' says Larry Goldstein, producing a folder and clearing a space for it on the table.

'Yes, absolutely.' I nod, relieved to be finally getting down to business.

'I've just received a fax from the designers in LA and London, regarding the interior of the clinic. We're thinking organic, a totally new visual concept, very modern, minimalist, space-agey, sexy, but with all the latest high-spec equipment. A sort of
Barbarella
meets
General Hospital
.'

'Right, OK,' I say, hurriedly trying to get my head around that.

'Obviously with the total refurbishment, we're hoping for a launch date of late autumn, though realistically its probably going to be December.'

'But that's great,' I enthuse. 'That means we can really utilise that time to build up excitement and interest, raise your profile here in the UK. To an even higher degree,' I add quickly, seeing his face twitch. 'Launch the Star Smile brand, get a waiting list going, involve some celebrities, really build up the hype…'

'Exactly.' He nods, looking pleased.

'And you said that you might want my input on deciding on the exact location…'

'Well, we have a couple of spaces we're currently negotiating for, both in Harley Street.' He takes out a piece of paper from his folder and slides it towards me.

'Of course.' I nod, as my eyes scan it. It's the floorplans of two offices, together with photographs and architectural drawings. 'Right, I see. Well, they're both large spaces, and they've got all the amenities you'll need.'

'Hmm, yes, yes.' He's nodding and sipping his wine.

'And of course Harley Street is a prestigious address and renowned across the world for the best in medical services.'

Larry Goldstein gives a smile of satisfaction. 'Exactly, that's what the location scout said, which is why we've been working hard on securing premises there.'

I hesitate. 'But if you don't mind me saying, it's a little…' I pause.

'Go on,' says Larry Goldstein.

'Old.'

'
Old
?' Up until this point Cindy has been petting Foo-Foo and drinking wine, but at the word she visibly recoils. Like a vampire that's just caught a whiff of garlic. Larry Goldstein narrows his eyes and fixes me with a stern look. 'But I was told it was the best,'

he says, his voice thick with disapproval.

'Well, it depends what your idea of "best" is,' I say hastily. 'The demographic that you're appealing to wants to know that you're not just the best, you're also cutting edge.'

He seems to perk up a little at the words 'cutting edge'.

'You're
not just
a world-famous cosmetic dentist,' I continue, flattering his ego by dumping compliments left, right and centre. 'Choosing the Star Smile brand is
not just
a medical procedure, it's a lifestyle choice.'

He's nodding now, the corners of his mouth turned upwards.

'And most people don't want to spend thousands at the dentist. The British don't like dentists; we have a phobia of them.'

Larry Goldstein gives a slight shudder. 'I've noticed.'

'Going to the dentist is not something that's at the top of our list, but if you can make it into something appealing, something sought-after…'

'Such as?'

'Well, think of having a Star Smile as being like having the latest designer handbag, or a pair of shoes, or a new car.
Then
you're on to a winner.'

'A winner,' repeats Cindy approvingly from across the table. 'We all want to be winners in life, don't we? It's like when you and I were in Vegas, honey—'

'So what are you saying?' asks Larry, ignoring her and fixing me with his steely gaze.

'That I think you should be based in a more fashionable location,' I say truthfully. I'm in danger of offending him by disagreeing with his earlier choices, but hell, this is what he's paying me for.

'That you need a young, hip address. Somewhere celebrities are happy to be seen photographed, rather than to be seen trying to disguise themselves as they scuttle out of doctors' offices in Harley Street.'

'Hmm, yes, I think you might be right,' nods Larry thoughtfully. Suddenly galvanised, he whips out his iPhone and punches something in. 'I'll get on to my locations people right away.'

Brilliant, I think, with a beat of pleasure. I feel like giving myself a pat on the back. This meeting couldn't have gone any better.

'So are you thinking of visiting anywhere else while you're in London?' I ask, turning to Cindy. I feel a bit sorry for her as she's been left out of the conversation. But then again, she seems perfectly happy, I note, watching as she beckons the waiter over to refill her glass. Whoever thinks Americans don't drink has never met Cindy.

'Well, we did talk about Paris…' she says brightly.

'Oh, yes, you can go on the Eurostar. Now we've got the highspeed link at St Pancras Station it only takes less than two and a half hours.'

'But then I said to Larry, "Why bother? We saw the Eiffel Tower in Vegas."'

I look at her blankly. 'Sorry, did you just say Vegas?'

'Yes, on the Strip!' She frowns, as if I'm a bit stupid. 'They have heaps of cities there: Paris, New York, Venice… We went on a gondola. It was awesome.' She takes a slurp of her champagne.

'You should go.'

'Erm… yes, maybe I will,' I reply.

'OK, shall we order?' suggests Larry Goldstein.

'Yes, let's,' I say hastily, and picking up my menu, I dive behind it.
Chapter Nineteen

By the time I get home it's almost gone ten. I dump my bags in the hallway and kick off my stilettos. My feet are killing me. Padding barefoot into the living room, I flop on to the sofa and flick on the TV. I'll just watch a few minutes before making a start on the paperwork I brought home from the office, I tell myself, stretching out across the cushions and letting out a huge yawn.

God, I'm exhausted. I hardly slept at all last night. Or the night before that, for that matter. I was up half the night looking at photos. Speaking of which… I glance across at the albums still strewn across the rug and the piles of loose photos lying scattered all around. I didn't have time to tidy them up this morning, as I was in a rush as usual, but I'd better do it now, before the cleaner comes tomorrow.

I love having a cleaner. That's one of the great things about being older, being able to afford the luxury of having a cleaner. Only the irony is, I usually end up cleaning up for my cleaner as I don't want her to think I'm really untidy.

Easing myself up from the sofa, I set about tidying the photographs when my BlackBerry rings. I glance at the screen. It's Beatrice.

'So did you get the profiteroles?' she demands as soon as I pick up.

'Excuse me?'

'For pudding?'

'Um… no… we just had green tea.'

'Just tea?' she exclaims. 'Oh, what a shame! They're so yummy.'

I check my watch. 'Beatrice, did you just call me to talk about dessert? Because it is rather late…'

'Oops, no, sorry,' she says breathlessly. Beatrice is always breathless, even when she's sitting still. 'I wanted to find out how the meeting went with Larry Goldstein and if you need any facts and figures, or anything really, ready for first thing tomorrow morning.'

My impatience turns to gratitude. There are assistants and then there is Beatrice.

'It went really well,' I tell her, wedging my BlackBerry underneath my chin so I can continue stacking photos. 'He seemed really impressed with all my suggestions and my ideas for the location for his new flagship clinic, and so we agreed to touch-base on Monday for a final runthrough before the press announcement.'

'Oh, bravo!' she cheers. 'So do you want me to check the diary and see when you're free? I have it right here…'

Like I said, Beatrice takes her job of looking after the diary very seriously.

'OK, great.'

I turn back to the photographs. Gosh, there's so many of them, and I still didn't look at all the albums, I think, glancing at the ones left in the box. Idly I pick up a couple. Hang on a minute, what's this? One of them is smaller and leather-bound. Flicking it open, I realise it's not filled with photographs, but with pages of my handwriting. Oh, wow, it's an old diary, I realise. And here's a couple more.

Digging them out of the bottom of the box, I spot one embossed with the date: 1997. My heart does a little leap. I wrote this when I was twenty-one.

'So let's see, you have a nine a.m. conference call with the Cloud Nine people to discuss their new range of flavoured water. Then you've got coffee at ten a.m. with Katie Proctor the journalist, followed by an eleven a.m. appointment…'

As Beatrice continues running through my diary, I read my own from ten years ago. Here's the entry I wrote on the first day I moved to London, 23 February 1997. My eyes flick over my description of the office, my boss, meeting Nessy:

Tall and blonde and smoking cigarettes on the wall outside the office, she seems really cool but a bit intimidating. She told me her name was Vanessa, 'which was created by Jonathan Swift for "Gulliver's Travels"'. I hope we'l be friends. Smiling to myself, I thumb curiously to today's date. I wonder what I did ten years ago today? I glance down the page of swirly handwriting:

So exciting! All day I could barely concentrate.

Huh? I wonder what I was so excited about.

I've been looking forward to seeing the band all week and it was great! Shattered genius were amazing.

Whoah, just one minute.

Frowning, I look again at the entry. I went to see Shattered Genius? But that can't be right - that's not till Saturday. I glance again at the date. Did I read it wrong? No, sure enough it's today's date: 23 August.

'Huh, that can't be right.' I stare it, puzzled.

'What isn't?'

I zone back in.

On the end of the phone Beatrice sounds alarmed. 'But it must be. I've already confirmed your three o'clock,' she's saying anxiously.

'Oh, no, nothing. I was just looking at an old diary and the dates are different. I must have got mixed up.'

'But they will be different,' she replies, sounding relieved. 'Calendars are different from year to year.'

Oh my God, of course. I'm such a dummy. I never even thought of that.

'The Gregorian solar calendar is an arithmetical calendar,' she continues matter-of-factly. 'It counts days as the basic unit of time, grouping them into years of 365 or 366 days. The solar calendar repeats completely every 146,097 days, which fill 400 years, and which also happens to be 20,871 seven-day weeks.'

'Um, really?' I say distractedly, staring at the diary in my lap. So that totally explains it. Today is a Thursday, but when I was twenty-one, today was a Saturday. Which means… All at once it registers: Billy Romani's band is playing tonight. Shit.

'Of these 400 years, 303 - the "common years" - have 365 days, and 97 - the leap years - have 366 days. This gives an average year length of exactly 365.2425 days, or 365 days, 5 hours, 49

minutes and 12 seconds.'

Beatrice is chuntering on, but I'm no longer listening. Instead my eyes are frantically glossing to the bottom of the page. Because there, in bold capitals, underlined twice and with four, no
five
exclamation marks are the words I'm dreading:

I take a deep breath. 'Fuck.'

Actually, we did, the whole night, if I remember rightly.

'Charlotte?' says Beatrice uncertainly. 'Is everything all right?'

No, I'm not all right. I'm not bloody all right! I'm about to make a huge mistake!

'Sure, yeah, I'm fine…' My mind is whirring and I glance at my watch. Maybe I'm not too late. Maybe I can still stop this. Dropping the diary on the floor, I jump up from the rug. 'But I have to go.'

'Go?'

'Um… yes…' I fluster. Music blares from the TV and I glance at the screen. '
Project Runway's
coming on,' I blurt. 'It's my… um… favourite show.'

'It is? Oh, well, enjoy. See you tomorrow.'

'You too.' I hang up and look wildly around for my car keys.

There they are! And scooping them up from the coffee table, I grab the remote and flick off the TV.

Forget
Project Runway
.

This is Project Cock-Block.

Though I say I was a huge fan of Shattered Genius, I can't remember any of their songs. Not a single one. Which is odd, considering I can still remember the words to Bucks Fizz's, 'Making Your Mind Up' and I can't have been more than about five years old when they won the Eurovision Song Contest.

But I'm sure it's all going to come flooding back when I hear them tonight on stage, I tell myself, as I drive back through the diversion. Unexpectedly I feel a slight thrill. I can't remember the last time I went to see a live band. Actually, yes, I can. It was to see Licence to Thrill, a tribute band that did all the James Bond theme tunes.

Reluctantly my mind slides back to that night a few months ago. Miles got the tickets. He's a huge James Bond fan. He's read all the Ian Fleming books about a hundred times and can quote the films off by heart. Which might drive me nuts if it wasn't for Daniel Craig and
those
swimming trunks. I could watch him for ever. Though according to Miles, you have to prefer Sean Connery to be a true 007 purist.

Anyway, I like Shirley Bassey singing 'Goldfinger' as much as the next person, but an ageing trio from Manchester on keyboards, with a sequenced light show was a bit much. Their big finale was 'Nobody Does It Better', though quite frankly, I beg to differ:
I
could have done better. In fact Great-Aunt Mary's talking parrot could have done better. But of course I didn't tell Miles that. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, so I raved on about how amazing they were. Unfortunately that slightly backfired as he went and bought me the CD 'because you love them so much'. So now I always have to pretend to be listening to it whenever he's in my car with me. Taking the same route as yesterday, I cut down the side street. Luckily it's late and there's hardly any traffic on the roads, so it doesn't take long before I'm pulling up outside the Wellington. As I turn off the ignition, I hear a tuneless din wafting out from inside. Oh dear. Suddenly that vague excitement I felt earlier is replaced with a resounding thud of trepidation and I have a flashback to me in a dingy club, full of cigarette smoke, while a band thrash the hell out of the speakers. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe I've forgotten all of Shattered Genius's songs for a reason.

Feeling my resolve wobble, I force myself to rally. I can't turn back now. I'm here for me, remember. For Lottie, the twenty-one-year-old girl I used to be. And who right now is in that pub on course to get her heart broken by Billy Romani.

Unless I rescue her.

Resolute, I grab the handle and swing open the car door. As I step out on to the pavement, I hear the muffled clash of drums, accompanied by a sort of strange wailing that doesn't sound human. OK, so that doesn't sound great, but at least they can't be worse than Licence to Thrill, I console myself, slamming the door and hurrying towards the pub. Plus I used to be a fan of this band, remember? My musical tastes can't have changed that much. Seriously, how bad can they be?

Bad.

Very bad.

Like bloody awful.

Pushing open the door of the Wellington, I'm greeted by what sounds like an entire drumkit being thrown down the stairs, along with the drummer.

'Thank God - you made it!'

And Lottie, who has spotted me waiting unsurely in the doorway, rushes over. She's carrying a pint of cider and wearing those dreaded PVC trousers. Those need to be at the top of my list of

'what not to wear'. Though, saying that, her figure does look pretty fantastic in them, I think with surprise.

'Hi. Sorry I'm late. I was—'

'You nearly missed the whole gig,' she gasps impatiently, thrusting a ticket into my hand. 'Come on, hurry up, they're about to do their unplugged version.'

As the band falls silent, she grabs my arm and charges back towards the small room at the rear of the pub. Packed with people, it's standing room only. She pushes her way through the crowd towards the makeshift stage. Shattered Genius have disappeared off stage and a roadie is setting up a chair and microphone.

'So you really love this band, huh?' Reaching the front, I turn to Lottie, whose eyes are glued eagerly to the stage.

'Well, I love the lead singer, Billy Romani,' she confesses, sipping her pint. Suddenly there's movement behind the stage. 'Oh my God, he's coming back on. He's coming back on,' she gasps.

My chest tightens and I brace myself. I feel a mixture of anticipation and apprehension at the thought of seeing him again. After all these years I vaguely remember what he looks like, but to be honest it's all a bit of a lustful blur. Plus of course I tried my hardest to forget him. In the commotion I get pushed behind Lottie, but she's wearing flats like I always used to so now I'm much taller in my heels and can easily see over her head. My stomach releases a cage of butterflies. Any minute now I'm going to see him again and I have no idea how I'm going to feel. Then, all at once, there he is, dressed in black and striding on stage with his guitar. Folding his six-foot-something frame into the chair, he pauses for a moment to take a swig from his beer. And I feel absolutely nothing.

I stare at him in astonishment.

That's him
? That's the man I used to be so crazy about? I was expecting to feel some kind of powerful emotion - desire, sadness, anger,
anything
- but instead it's just a huge anticlimax. He used to seem so hip and cool, but now—

'He's wearing leather trousers,' I hiss, feeling an unexpected beat of amusement. The last thing I expected was to find him funny, but he looks like such a complete idiot I actually feel sorry for him! 'And they're skintight!' I snort. Ha! This will definitely put her off.

'I know.' She nods, her eyes like saucers. 'Sexy, huh?'

I look at her in confusion. This was not the reaction I was expecting at all. Why am I not sniggering? Taking the piss? Making some joke about Michael Flatley? Can it be… ? I hesitate, trying to get my head round this impossible thought. Can it be true that once upon a time I fancied a man
who wore leather trousers?

And with a lace-up crisscross fly, I notice with horror. I nudge Lottie quickly. 'Look at his crotch!'

'Oy, hands off, he's mine,' she giggles.

'No, I mean—' but I'm interrupted.

'This is a song I wrote about this crazy rollercoaster called life,' Billy Romani is drawling huskily into the microphone, his eyes downcast as if he's uncomfortable being under the spotlight. Oh, please. If he's shy, so is Paris Hilton, I think, as he closes his eyes and starts wailing soulfully at the top of his lungs. On and on. Until finally, two encores later, it's all over and gratefully I steer Lottie back into the main pub and to safety.

'Over there.' Spotting a couple of free seats, we sit down.

Phew. I feel a wave of relief. Well, that was easy. All she has to do is finish her drink; then we can leave and put all this behind us.

'Hello, ladies, is this seat taken?'

Dammit. I spoke too soon.

We both look up sharply to see Billy standing next to us, smiling lazily. But, whereas before that smile would have melted me at a hundred paces, now it's like I'm made of super Teflon or something.

'Yes!'

'No.'

We both speak at the same time. Lottie and I. Then we both look at each other. She pulls a face as if to say, 'What are you doing?' and throws me a desperate look. All at once my heart goes out to her. Now he has zero effect on me, but back then I'd had a crush on him for ever.

'No… no one's sitting there,' she says hastily.

I watch her smiling tentatively and the longing is palpable. God, I really, really liked him, didn't I? I can see it in my eyes, that hopeful desire to be liked back.

And for a brief moment it all comes rushing back to me. The dizzy high I felt that night we spent together. It was amazing. I seriously thought he was 'the one'. Followed by the crushing low when I discovered he wasn't. But then, I thought a lot of foolish things when I was younger, I reflect, glancing at him and wondering what on earth I ever saw in him. God, if only I knew then what I know now…

'Cool.' Turning the chair round, he straddles it and hugs the back. My eyes sweep across his shirt, open to the navel, and the crucifix round his neck that's resting on his smooth, hairless chest. I look back at Lottie, hoping to see her rolling her eyes sardonically or wanting to share a conspiratorial giggle, but no, her eyes have glazed over dreamily in the way men's do when they see
FHM
magazine.

'I'm Billy, by the way.' He holds out his hand and I see a flash of silver in the dimness of the pub. Oh my God, is that… ? I peer closer. Just when I thought the lace-up leather trousers and crucifix were bad, it gets worse.
He's wearing a skull-and-cross-bones ring
.

'I'm Lottie.'

'And I'm Charlotte,' I say, grabbing his hand before Lottie can. Shaking it, I squeeze his fingers just that little bit harder than necessary.

'Firm handshake you've got there,' he quips as I finally let go. 'You nearly broke my fingers.'

Like you broke my heart
, I'm tempted to reply, only I make do with an innocent, 'Gosh, really?'

Stretching out his fingers, he turns to Lottie, who's sitting next to him, staring at him adoringly.

'So how did you like the gig?'

'It was great. You were really great,' she enthuses and then, catching herself, blushes. Argh. Could I be any
less
cool?

Billy Romani smiles appreciatively and, pushing back a shock of black hair that is hanging lazily over his forehead, leans closer so that his face catches the light. It's just as I remember: the high, angular cheekbones, his dark doe eyes, the sultry mouth with the perfect Cupid's bow. I have to say, despite the man-jewellery and the leather trousers, he's still the sexiest man I've ever laid eyes on.

Which of course, by rights, makes him a total bastard.

'That's good to hear, as we're working in the studio right now on the new album, trying to lay down some tracks. It's going to be really raw. It's a totally fresh sound. A combination of the spiritual meets the physical meets the metaphysical.'

'"Spiritual meets the physical meets the metaphysical"?' I snort. He might be able to charm Lottie with this absolute rubbish, but he won't be able to charm me.

But he's not paying any attention to me. I've suddenly turned into the ugly old friend and instead he's focusing everything on Lottie.

'You know, has anyone ever told you you've got really long eyelashes?' he's saying now, gazing at her intently.

It's called mascara, dummy, I think, but my younger self just giggles flirtily.

'And you smell really good.'

I look at him in disbelief. He did not say that line. He did not.

''Thanks.'

I glance sharply at Lottie. And I can't believe I'm falling for it. In fact scrap 'falling', I realise, watching myself flicking my hair around like I'm in a shampoo commercial. I've crashed slap, bang, wallop right at his feet.

I feel a stab of alarm. Shit. This is worse than I thought. I mean, just look at me! I'm a total pushover. There's a peal of girlish laughter and I see myself angling my body towards his. I swear, leave it another minute and I'll be nuzzling his chest. That's right.
Nuzzling
. And I'm not even on a first date! Honestly, Charlotte Merryweather, what were you like? I had no idea you used to be so
easy
.

'So do you have a boyfriend?'

Fuck. I've got to do something. And fast. But what? Panicked, I'm desperately racking my brains when out of the corner of my eye I see him slide his hand on to Lottie's knee and before I can stop myself—

'Hey!'

I'm 'accidentally' kicking the table and Lottie's half-finished pint of cider is toppling over and landing all over his lap. Immediately they break apart and he jumps up from his seat.

'Oops, clumsy me,' I gasp apologetically.

Seriously, I should have been an actress. I'd have won an Oscar.

'Hey, no worries,' he says, smiling tightly.

'I've got a tissue.' Lottie pulls one out of her bag and starts dabbing his crotch eagerly as he frowns at the puddle of cider collecting at his feet.

'Hey, can you clear this up?' he hollers to a barman who's collecting glasses from a table nearby.

' 'S'cuse me?'

As he turns, I see it's the same barman from the other night.

'Oh gosh, no, I'll do it - it was my fault,' I begin quickly, but Billy Romani stops me.

'That's his job,' he says cheerfully. 'Right, man?'

I notice the barman's jaw clench. 'That's right.' He smiles pleasantly and, grabbing a cloth, mops up the spillage. 'Accident, huh?' He winks, catching me watching.

'Um… yeah, absolutely.' I nod, colouring up as he walks away.

'Would you like another drink?'

I turn back to Billy, who's speaking to Lottie. But I'm undeterred. Cock-blocking, I'm fast learning, requires a skin thicker than Graham Norton's.

'Yes, please,' I answer loudly. 'I'll have a vodka tonic' Not that I'm drinking, I'm driving, but if there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that men hate nothing more than having to buy