Who's That Girl (25 page)

Reaching the edge of the dance floor, I pause for a moment, my eyes flicking over the sea of bodies. There's a group of girls slap, bang in the middle, dancing round a small pile of handbags, a couple in matching leather trousers bumping and grinding over by the speakers, and then there's Lottie.

I feel a snap of surprise.

Me?
Dancing
?

I never dance.

Well, not any more, I think, watching myself in fascination as I bop around near the DJ, shaking my hips to the music without any inhibition. Nowadays I have to be completely drunk to dance. I'm way too self-conscious otherwise. But look, there I am, shaking my thang for all the world to see and I'm not even drinking, I realise, seeing myself swigging from a bottle of water. Speaking of which… Driven by my own thirst, I make my way over to the bar to get a drink. Away from the dance floor, it's a bit quieter, and spotting a spare bar stool, I plonk myself on it gratefully.

'Yes, what can I get you?'

I glance up to see a pair of pale grey eyes looking at me expectantly from behind the bar. For a split second my brain does that thing where you think you know someone and are about to smile and say hi, before realising that you have no idea where you know them from and have to stop yourself before you look like a moron.

'Um… yes, I'll have a bottle of water, please.'

'Coming right up,' nods the barman.

He is about to turn away when my curiosity gets the better of me. 'Excuse me?'

He stops what he's doing.

'Have we met?'

He surveys me for a moment, then shakes his head. 'Nope, don't think so.'

I feel a flash of embarrassment. 'My mistake. I just could have sworn I've seen you before.'

'You probably have. I work behind the bar at the Wellington Arms.'

'Oh, that must be it.' My mind flicks back to last night. 'Sorry about last night.'

He raises his eyebrows.

'I spilled a drink; you cleared it up.'

'Oh, yeah.' He nods, registering. 'You were with the guy from the band. Billy Romani.'

'Don't remind me.' I pull a face and he smiles.

'Not a fan, then?'

'You could say that.' I return a rueful smile. 'What about you?'

He sucks in air between his teeth. 'Not really my kind of music,' he says diplomatically, but the way the muscle in his jaw clenches tightly makes me think it might not be a bad idea to change the subject.

'So… um… you work here too?' I ask, then immediately wish I hadn't, considering it's rather obvious as he's standing behind the bar.

But if he thinks it's a stupid question, he doesn't show it.

'Well, someone has to,' he quips.

'You don't like it here?' I feel a sudden bond. So I'm not the only one suffering.

'Well, I wouldn't call it my dream job,' he continues, 'but I need the money and the experience. Plus the tips come in useful,' he adds, and winks cheekily.

All at once I feel myself blush like a schoolgirl, and as he turns away to get my drink, I sneak a proper look at him. Despite seeing him in the Wellington, I haven't taken much notice of him before. He's got a straggly ponytail and tie-dye T-shirt, but even so he's really quite attractive, I realise, trying not to look at his tanned, muscular arms and looking right at his tanned, muscular arms.

But only on a purely aesthetic level, of course. I mean, it's not as if I
fancy
him or anything like that. I've got a boyfriend. A really lovely boyfriend. And we're buying a house and moving in together.

Plus he's still just a boy. Practically a baby in fact.

As he leans over to pull a bottle of water out of the fridge, his T-shirt rides up and I watch his back muscles ripple. Hastily I look away. Gosh, it really
is
hot in here, isn't it? Feeling a trickle of sweat run down between the cups of my underwired bra, I grab a beer mat and start fanning myself hard.

'There you go.' Smiling, he passes me the bottle of water, his tanned forearm flexing as he reaches towards me.

'Um… thanks.' I go to grab the bottle, but our hands collide and somehow my fingers get all tangled up with his. The bottle slips free.

'Nearly.' He laughs as he catches it deftly and hands it to me.

'God, I'm not normally so clumsy.'

As I look up, I catch his gaze and something very peculiar happens in my groin. What the…? I feel a flash of horror. Oh, no, I can't believe it.

I've turned into a cougar.

You know, one of those older women who frequent clubs in order to score with much younger men.

With my cheeks burning like a furnace, I quickly pay him. Honestly, what am I like, lusting after a barman who must be ten years younger than me, at least? I mean, I'm practically old enough to be his mother. Well, OK, not his mother, but his older sister. His
much
older sister. Still, I shouldn't make a big deal of it, I remind myself quickly. I mean, there's nothing wrong with thinking another man is attractive, is there? And so what if he's ten years younger than me?

Men are always looking at younger women. Plus it's only
natural
to look. It doesn't
mean
anything. I'm sure Miles looks at girls all day long.

Well, perhaps not
all
day long, I think, quickly backtracking. But sometimes. Like, for example, at his book-keeper, Helen, who's small and busty and always wears tight Lycra tops. I'm a woman and
I
can't help looking down her cleavage.

Gulping down the ice-cold water, I turn my back on the barman and instead focus on the dance floor, where Lottie is still dancing. But that's easier said than done.

'Amazing, isn't she?'

I turn sideways to find the barman right next to me, leaning against the bar, his chin resting on his elbows. I look around for a moment, just to make sure he's talking to me, before asking,

'Um… say again?'

He gestures towards the dance floor, a faraway look in his eyes. 'The girl in the dress.'

I feel a slight twinge of jealousy. Which girl? I think, following his gaze.

'With the little blue flowers.'

I look back at him in astonishment.

'She comes in the pub a lot.'

Me
? He's talking about
me
? I look back at myself on the dance floor, through the mass of gyrating bodies, and there I am, doing my impression of the funky chicken. Surely that can't be right. He thinks
I'm
amazing?

'You think she's amazing?' I repeat incredulously. Maybe I didn't hear him right. After all, it is really loud in here.

'Totally,' he sighs.

Nope. I heard him right and that was a genuine sigh.

I turn back to my younger self, boogieing away completely obliviously, while my older self tries absorbing this information. I don't think anyone's ever called me 'amazing' before. I've had compliments like pretty, or sexy, or attractive but never
amazing
. Amazing is for superstars and celebrities like Angelina Jolie. Not Charlotte Merryweather and certainly not Charlotte Merryweather when she was twenty-one. Sorry, just turned twenty-two.

'Her name's Lottie,' I say, still feeling a bit stunned.

'Oh, right.' He nods. 'Do you know her, then?'

'You could say we're kind of related.' I smile.

He looks at me in disbelief. 'No way!' he snorts. 'You look nothing like her.'

I feel my smile slide off my face. OK, so I know I look a lot different to how I did ten years ago, but there was no need for that snort. Now I'm a lot more groomed and a hundred times more stylish.

And let's not forget about those eyebrows.

'We've got the same noses,' I point out stiffly.

He peers at me for what feels like just a little bit longer than is necessary. 'Hmm, I suppose so,'

he concedes, somewhat reluctantly. 'Kinda.'

I feel oddly miffed, and just a little bit jealous. Which is plain ridiculous. How can you be jealous
of yourself
?

'So… erm… tell me, why do you think she's so amazing?' I ask curiously.

'Oh, I don't know.' He shakes his head. 'She just is.'

'But can't you be more specific?' I persist.

'I can't explain it.' He shrugs. 'It's just the way she is. I wouldn't change a thing about her.'

'You wouldn't?' I look at him in disbelief.

'No,' he says simply. 'She's just…' he pauses, as if searching around for the right word, then finally finds it '… perfect.'

'Perfect?'

'The first time I saw her, it was
boom
.'

'
Boom
?' I'm aware that I'm beginning to sound like my great-aunt Mary's parrot, but I can't help it.

'Yeah, boom. That was it. I'd fallen in love.'

I look at him, bewildered. How did I never know this? How could it be that there was someone going 'boom' all over me and I was totally unaware?

'Jeez, I sound a total soppy moron, don't I?' he says, misinterpreting my silence. He smiles selfconsciously. 'You must think I'm some kind of idiot.'

'No, not at all,' I protest, shaking my head. Quite the opposite. In fact if it wasn't for Miles, I'd be in danger of falling for him. Ten years younger or not.

'So why don't you speak to her, tell her how you feel?' I suggest. He pulls a face at the very notion. 'I've spoken to her a couple of times, but I doubt she even remembers me.'

No, I don't, I think, looking at him.

'She probably doesn't even know I exist,' he continues. 'After all, I'm only a barman, and look at her - she could have anyone.'

I feel a tug of regret. Oh God, why didn't I ever notice him all those years ago? He's so sweet and lovely and such a nice guy.

Because you weren't interested in sweet and lovely, Charlotte. You weren't into nice guys. You were into musicians and skateboarders and all the wrong guys, remember? I remind myself. He's right. You wouldn't have noticed a barman with a straggly ponytail who wore tie-dye T-shirts. He wouldn't have been cool enough.

'Well, I think she'd be lucky to have you.' I smile.

He smiles back crookedly and raises one eyebrow. 'You think so?'

'Absolutely.' I nod. 'You're not
that
bad for a barman,' I add jokingly. He laughs. 'You're not so bad either,' he responds. 'In fact if you were ten years younger, I might go for you myself.'

'Oy!' Affronted, I swat him.

'I'm joking, I'm joking,' he protests, ducking away, chortling. Grinning, he holds out his hand.

'I'm Oily, by the way.'

'I'm Charlotte.'

We shake hands and I notice something on the underside of his wrist. It's dark in the club, and I only see it briefly, illuminated by the light from the fridge, but there's no mistaking what it is: a tattoo of a frog.

Gosh, what a coincidence. It's just like the one the barman in the gastropub has. As the thought fires through my brain, it doesn't even have time to register before another one is firing.

My chest tightens. No, it can't be. It just can't.

Can it?

Abruptly my mind divides into a split screen. On one side is Olly with his ponytail, tie-dye Tshirt and hippy bracelets, and on the other is the barman from the gastropub with short curly hair, broken nose and a scar that runs down his upper lip. No, that's impossible. They look completely different.

But so did you ten years ago
, whispers a voice inside my head. And all at once both sides merge and it's like two people suddenly become one. Oh my God,
that's
why he seemed familiar, that's where I've met him before. Sweet, lovely toyboy Oily who I have a bit of a crush on is the barman who thinks my food allergies are funny. Who poured champagne tonight at my birthday and asked me if I was allergic to bubbles. And who bugs the complete hell out of me.

It's him. They're one and the same person. Shit.

Chapter Twenty-four

There you are!'

Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I twirl round on my bar stool to see Lottie bright-eyed and breathless from dancing. 'I wondered where you'd got to.'

'Oh… hi,' I manage dazedly. I feel as if someone just knocked me on the head with a cartoon hammer and I'm seeing stars.

'Propping up the bar, where'd you think?' quips Oily in an attempt to talk to her, but she's busy tying up her hair and isn't paying attention.

'Um… Lottie, have you met—' I make a stab at an introduction, but she interrupts me by gushing excitedly,

'Come and dance!'

'No, no… I don't think so,' I say, automatically shrinking back.

'Come on,' she encourages, grabbing me by my wrist.

Then again, I don't really want to sit here talking to Oily now I've discovered who he is. It just feels too awkward. I mean, what am I going to say? Why did you turn into someone so obnoxious?

Yeah, right. Exactly.

'Well, OK,' I acquiesce, 'just for one song,'

But she's not listening - she's too busy pulling me off my bar stool. And before I know it I'm being dragged alive and against my will on to the dance floor.

Fuck.

It's like that dream where you're naked and walking through the town centre. Only this isn't a dream. It's a frickin' nightmare,

I curse silently, looking frantically for an escape route and realising I don't have one. I'm stuck frozen like a rabbit in headlights. Or should that be strobe lights? Surrounded by lots of gyrating bodies and with nowhere to hide.

Argh, this is hideous. Feeling as if every single pair of eyes in the club are on me, I take a deep breath and try to move my feet, but it's as if they're encased in heavy lumps of concrete. My arms, on the other hand, are like two ornaments that I don't know what to do with. I wave them about uncertainly and waggle my elbows as if I'm doing the funky chicken. Only I'm not sure what I'm doing. Apart from looking like a total idiot, I think, feeling mortified. You see, the thing is, I'm a crap dancer. Some people are blessed with natural rhythm, but I'm not one of them. Remember that song by Gloria Estefan 'The Rhythm's Gonna Get You'? Well, it's never got me. I'm still waiting. I'm the only person in the whole of Wembley Stadium who clapped out of time to 'We Will Rock You' at a concert. Try it, it's almost impossible. And yet I managed to.