Who's That Girl (23 page)

Well, they
were
nude suede. A ten-minute walk to the bus-stop and one packed bus-ride later and they were more of a sludgy grey and completely ruined.

'I'm fine.' I nod, turning the ignition. 'It's a five-minute drive. Plus I only had a glass of wine.'

'And champagne,' he reminds pointedly, clicking on his seat belt. He begins adjusting his seat with the electronic levers.

'Oh, yeah,' I remember uncomfortably. Indicating, I pull out into the main road.

'Though you left most of yours,' he adds, still fiddling with the levers. His seat starts whirring forwards, then backwards and forwards again.

'Well, I couldn't drink and drive, could I?' I say lightly, as I start negotiating the traffic.

'We could have caught the bus,' he replies stubbornly. His seat reclines too far and he begins trying to hitch it more upright. 'It goes straight from here.'

'Yes, I know,' I reply. I'm starting to feel slightly rankled. 'You said.'

Suddenly there's a loud crunch and his seat jack-knifes backwards.

'Miles, will you stop it?' I gasp impatiently.

'Stop what?' he replies innocently. 'I'm just trying to get comfy.'

'I know, it's just—' I break off and take a deep breath. I don't know what it is, but I feel all nervy and on edge. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to snap,' I apologise quickly.

'I know.' He smiles and touches my hand affectionately.

I feel horribly guiltily. God, what's wrong with me? Miles is being so sweet. Why am I behaving like such a grumpy old cow about everything?

'Don't worry, we won't be doing this for much longer,' he says cheerfully.

'Doing what?' I ask distractedly, indicating right.

'Having to alternate between our flats every weekend,' he says, as if it's obvious. 'Soon we'll be in the new house.'

'Oh, right, yes.' I clear my throat, as my voice has gone a little bit grainy. 'Of course.'

'There'll be none of this back and forth - you in your place during the week, me in mine. Just think! We'll be able to spend every single night together.'

He smiles at me excitedly, and I smile back while thinking of spending every night with Miles. Waking up next to him every morning. Brushing our teeth side by side in the bathroom. Day in, day out.

For ever.

I catch myself. For God's sake, Charlotte, I don't know what you're worrying about, I tell myself firmly. It's going to be fine. You love Miles; he loves you. And it won't be any different to the weekends you spend together, will it? It just means that you won't have to keep some of your clothes at his flat, or have to double up on toiletries, or keep your underwear shoved in one measly little drawer. Plus just remember how annoying it was a few weekends ago when you left your mouthguard at your flat and you woke up the next morning at Miles's with a headache from grinding. This way, you'll have everything in one place.

Feeling more positive, I pull up outside my flat. And just think, poor Miles won't ever have to play squash again in my shorts, I reflect, stifling a giggle at the memory of his rather large thighs squeezed into my tight black Lycra running shorts when he'd forgotten his.

'I know, it will be great,' I agree, cutting the engine.

Then again, on second thoughts, that might be rather a shame…

Inside my flat, I pick up the post in the hallway. As usual I left early this morning, before the postman arrived, and amongst the usual credit-card bills and mortgage-related bumf, there's a card from Mum and Dad. Bang on time, as usual. Mum is amazing. She has this knack of knowing exactly when to post a card to ensure that it never arrives a day early, or late, regardless of what the postal service is up to.

From the living room I hear the TV playing, and tearing open the envelope, I walk through to find Miles already ensconced on the sofa with the remote control in his hand.

'Did you record this week's episode of
Location, Location, Location
?' he asks, without looking up.

'Um, no…'I say vaguely, looking inside to discover Marks & Spencer's vouchers and a note to

'Buy some proper food.' I smile to myself. It's been the same every year since I was at uni. I glance at my watch - they rang earlier, but I was in a meeting - I wonder if it's too late to call them. Actually, it probably is, I realise, with a pang of disappointment. My parents do everything early: 'dinner' at twelve, 'tea' at five thirty, then it's a double-bill of
Emmerdale
and
Coronation
Street
, and bed at nine thirty. I'll have to call them tomorrow.

'You didn't?' Miles frowns with dismay.

I zone back in. 'Oh, sorry, I totally forgot.'

'Oh, well, never mind.' He shrugs, flicking through the channels. 'There's probably a film on.' An old Clint Eastwood movie pops up on the screen.

'Actually, I think I might go to bed,' I say, propping my card up on the mantelpiece.

'I'll be there in a minute,' he murmurs, already totally engrossed. Leaving him glued to the TV, I go into the bathroom, get undressed and begin my usual nighttime routine of cleansing, toning and moisturising. I have about a dozen different types of moisturiser. There's this gel I use for under my eyes, which I have to dab on with my ring finger, a cream for my face that I'm supposed to massage in clockwise (or is it anti-clockwise?) sweeping motions and a lotion for my neck.

Opening my bathroom cabinet, I survey the overflowing shelves. To tell the truth, I feel exhausted just looking at them. I have about a zillion products in here that promise to firm, smooth, brighten and erase wrinkles, and despite the fact that none of them seem to make much difference, I'm always buying more. I can't help it. In fact I just bought this new serum that's being hailed as a 'miracle in a jar'. Apparently, it's made of bits of gold leaf and makes your pores disappear.

Saying that, I've never quite worked out
why
exactly I'm supposed to want my pores to disappear, but the results are meant to be amazing. Quite frankly, for that price, they'd better be. Slathering a few different things all over my face (well, in for a penny, in for a pound - actually, make that several hundred pounds), I clean my teeth using my electric toothbrush and whitening toothpaste, floss and finally rinse.

Done.

With the drone of the TV still coming from the living room, I look back at my reflection, my thirty-two-year-old reflection. Bare-faced, hair tied up in a scrunchie and wearing my oversized Cath Kidston flowery pyjamas, I look about as sexy as, well, anyone wearing oversized pyjamas with their hair tied up in a scrunchie
can
look.

Suddenly Vanessa's words about having sex with Julian here, there and everywhere before they had children flash up like a neon sign in my mind. It's been over a week since Miles and I spent the night together, and even longer since we had sex. Admittedly, we have both been stressed with work, and I know passion can fade when you're in a committed, long-term relationship, but that's why it's important to make even more of an effort.

Padding into the bedroom, I quickly slip on a satin camisole and shake out my hair. Hopefully this will spice things up a bit, I tell myself, spritzing my pulse points with perfume and dabbing a bit on my décolletage like they always tell you to do in women's magazines. Turning on my bedside lamp, I climb into bed, then climb out again and flick off the main light. Ambient lighting. It's very important. I plump a pillow and arrange myself just so. Then wait expectantly. I can still hear the TV, but I'm sure he'll be in any minute. I wait a bit longer.

Maybe I should light a candle.

I light a candle. It's vanilla, musk and jasmine and smells gorgeous. I inhale its aroma and fiddle with the straps of my camisole. I let one slip off my shoulder. Then both. Urgh, God, no, that looks too corny, I decide, shoving them back up again.

I listen out for any sound of movement, but all I can hear is the TV. Restlessly I glance at my watch. It's been twenty minutes. I hesitate, then call in my most husky voice, 'Miles? Are you coming to bed?'

Nothing.

I wait a few more moments, then raise it a notch. 'Miles?' I call out. Again nothing. Just the sound of a gunshot on the TV and the wail of a police siren. Oh, sod it. 'Miles!' I yell loudly. 'Can you hear me?'

Obviously he can't, as there's no answer. Giving up in frustration, I clamber out of bed and stomp into the living room, to find him lying flat out on the sofa, head lolled back, mouth open, emitting a faint, rattling snore.

I watch him for a moment, half inclined to wake him up and demand he have sex with me on my birthday, and then immediately think better of it. Miles is useless when he's had a few drinks. As if on cue, he splutters slightly, rolls over and nuzzles, snuffling into a cushion. Plus, quite frankly, what flames of passion I was trying to fan have now abruptly been extinguished. So instead I turn off the TV, cover him in a spare duvet and go back to bed. And lie there.

I glance at the digits on the alarm clock. It's only 10.30 p.m. and I'm in bed. On my birthday. God, if someone had told me ten years ago that I'd be in bed before 11 p.m. on my birthday I would never have believed them. Back then birthdays were all about partying and getting drunk and staying up till the crack of dawn. Like I said, though, I really do need to catch up on my sleep.

Flicking on the sound machine and humidifier, I blow out the candle and switch off the light. Pulling on my eye mask, I close my eyes, but my mind has other ideas.
I wonder what Lottie is doing
? it whispers in my ear.

I dunno, probably partying, I think, trying to ignore it.

Partying where
? it demands, a little louder.

I roll over restlessly. At my old house, I reflect, casting my mind back to the house party I threw to celebrate my twenty-second birthday. My memories of it are vague. In fact I was only reminded of it when Lottie mentioned it last night. Actually, she invited me. Which was slightly weird, to say the least, but of course I couldn't go.

But you can go now
, the voice says, putting an idea into my head. Which of course I dismiss immediately. Honestly, how ridiculous. As if I'm going to get out of my nice, warm, comfy bed and go to a party. I've just had a lovely dinner with my boyfriend, my best friend and her husband to celebrate my birthday. I don't want to go to some silly party. Then again, I suppose it could be kind of fun.

A lot more fun than lying in bed on your own, unable to sleep, while your boyfriend lies snoring
on the sofa
, pipes up that little voice.

I feel myself wobble.

But what about Miles?

What about him? He's out cold. You'll be back before he wakes up
. I hesitate, my mind ticking over.

No, I can't. It's just too mad… It's insane… It's—
Oh, shut up, Charlotte. It's a bit late for all
that, isn't it
? And flinging back the covers, I jump out of bed and start getting ready.
Chapter Twenty-two

Less than fifteen minutes later I'm in the car heading over to my old house. It's pretty amazing how quickly you can get ready when all your clothes are at the dry-cleaner's and you don't have any choice about what to wear, I reflect, fiddling with the collar of my jacket, which is all tucked under in my haste to get out of the flat.

Sure enough, Miles didn't wake up. I half thought about leaving a note, or maybe even stuffing pillows in the bed to make it look as if I'm still asleep in there, but a) this is real life, not
Shawshank Redemption
and b) unlike me, Miles is a really heavy sleeper even without all the wine and champagne. One time he even slept through the smoke alarm when I nearly set fire to the flat with an aromatherapy candle, but anyway, that's a whole other story. London is alive with Friday night-life and it takes a while to cut across town, dodging black cabs that, with no notice, will suddenly stop dead in the middle of the road to drop off or pick up a fare, and getting stuck in the heavy traffic resulting from the diversion. And so, despite it fast becoming a familiar route, it's not until nearly midnight that I finally turn into Kilmaine Terrace. The street is lined with cars, and squeezing into a parking space without hitting any lamp-posts (see, my parking has got a
lot
better over the years, I think with a sense of satisfaction), I check my hastily applied make-up and climb out of my car. Then realise I don't have a present. Shit. I can't go to a party empty-handed. Even if it's mine. Well, sort of, I think, scrambling through the glove compartment to see if I've got any of those freebie lip glosses left. Then I have an idea. I know! What about all those bags of goodies that I bought yesterday from Boots? I was wondering how I was going to give them to my younger self without appearing odd, and this is the perfect solution.

Grabbing the bags out of the boot, I smooth down my skirt and walk towards the house. A bunch of brightly coloured party balloons tied to the front door are bobbing in the warm summer night's breeze and I can hear the strains of the Verve's 'Bittersweet Symphony' coming from inside. Opening the gate, I climb up the front steps and then — for a moment - I hesitate, looking at my front door, my hand paused to rap the familiar brass knocker shaped like a dolphin. It seems like only yesterday since I had a key, since this was my home, where I lived, loved, dreamed—

'Whoo-hooooo!'

Abruptly the door swings open to shrieking laughter and a couple fall out on to the doorstep. Heads rolled back in laughter, a can of Tennant's Extra and a cigarette in each hand, they're draped all over one another in what looks like an attempt to hold each other up. I jump back, before they knock me over.

'Whoops,' they slur, then burst into drunken giggles and start snogging in front of me. I recoil. Oh dear. I'd forgotten what house parties used to be like in my early twenties. Maybe this wasn't
such
a good idea after all.

I can't get past them as they're blocking my way, so clutching the bulging carrier bags in my hands, I shove myself back against the hedge until they get tired of eating each other and untangle tongues.

'Sorry, we're just leaving,' they apologise, grinning madly.