Who's That Girl (26 page)

Saying that, it doesn't seem to be stopping Lottie, I note, glancing across at her. Waving her arms around, she's bopping away, seemingly unconcerned by the fact that she looks like a duck. In fact she's so unconcerned by it, everybody else around her seems unconcerned by it. I'm not sure anyone's even noticed, I realise, glancing around at all the other people on the dance floor. Reluctantly, I tie my jacket round my waist and attempt to copy her as she gets on down. Only I'm older now and it's a lot harder to get back up again.
Ouch
. Feeling a twinge in my lower back, I grimace. This is torture. Thank God I don't have to endure birthdays like this any more. OK, so dinner tonight ended a touch early, and Miles falling asleep on the sofa was a bit annoying, but a nice low-key evening at a restaurant is a much better way to celebrate than being imprisoned in some hot, sweaty club and forced to dance. Relief rushes over me. Thank God I'm not twenty-two any more. Thank God my clubbing days are over. Thank God—

I stiffen, my shoulders back, my head up, like a meerkat. Until now, the music's just been a sort of blurred din that's washed over me, but now I hear a couple of familiar chords. Hang on. Is that… ?

It's like an injection of delight.

Oh my God, it is!
Ironic
by Alanis Morissette. I haven't heard it for
years
. Ooh, I love this song. Feeling a rush of energy, my hips begin wiggling involuntarily. Then it's my waist. And now my shoulders. Gosh, this is so great. I start bopping away to the jangling guitar. I can't help it. My body won't stay still. It's impossible.
Oh wow
, I can even remember all the words! Twirling round, my makeshift ponytail comes undone, but I ignore it, and begin singing along. Quiet at first, then louder and louder.

And now it's the chorus and I've got my eyes closed and I'm throwing my arms in the air and belting out the lyrics at the top of my lungs. And in this moment I'm thinking about nothing. Nothing but dancing to this song. Losing myself in the chorus. Leaving behind all my worries and doubts, and totally letting myself go.

This is amazing! I feel great! I feel euphoric! I feel…

Someone grinding themselves against my bottom.

Snapping open my eyes, I whirl round and come crotch to crotch with a man wearing a T-shirt that's four sizes too small for him, a goatee and a white man's underbite. He smiles at me lecherously.

Oh, no.

Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.

Still dancing, I try edging away, but Mr Bump V Grind is having none of it. Putting on all the moves, he follows me around the dance floor like my shadow, until it's all too much. Yelling in Lottie's ear, 'I'm just nipping to the loo,' I leave him and his thrusting crotch behind and make a break for the ladies.

Phew.

Heaving a sigh of relief, I reach the safety of the ladies' and squeeze inside. As usual, there's a long queue, but I really do need to pee after drinking all that water, and so, resigning myself to a long wait, I lean against the wall. My feet are throbbing in their stilettos. They hurt before, but now after so much dancing they're ready to murder me. I wince, tugging off one of the heels and releasing my foot, like a cork from a bottle.

Rubbing my sore toes, my mind slides back to the dance floor. Talk about a lucky escape. Another second longer and I'd have been pinned to the DJ stand by that guy's crotch. I give a little shudder at the thought, which unexpectedly turns into a giggle. Well, I suppose he was rather comical, I muse, replaying a clip of him in my head doing that weird pumping thing with his hips. And at least it was a good excuse to leave the dance floor. Saying that, I didn't actually
want
to leave the dance floor, I realise. It wasn't
that
bad. In fact I was sort of beginning to enjoy myself.

Oh, who am I kidding? I was having a total blast.

As I have a flashback to myself boogieing on down, I catch myself smiling. It must have released all those endorphins or whatever they are, I decide, feeling in a good mood. I mean, I never would have thought it possible, but I had
fun
. And while sober! What a total shock that was. And talking about total shocks, what about Oily! I'm still reeling from the discovery that this really lovely barman and that really annoying guy from the gastropub are one and the same person. I just can't wrap my head around it. Or the implications.

I mean, it's perfectly harmless having a crush on someone who's ten years younger than me. It's a bit of a fantasy, like fancying Prince Harry (yes, OK, I admit it, but please don't tell anyone), but what happens when he's not a decade younger? When he's the same age as me. When it's
real
. Does that mean it's no longer harmless? I feel a jolt of panic.

Which of course is completely ridiculous, as I don't even
like
him now, let alone have a crush on him.

' 'S'cuse me, do you have a light?'

My thoughts are interrupted by a voice and I stop rubbing my feet and look up. Hang on, that sounds just like —

Vanessa.

Standing next to me with her peroxide hair and bright red lipstick, she waves her unlit cigarette hopefully and smiles her big toothy smile. God, it's good to see her. I feel a rush of affection and have to resist the urge to throw my arms round her and give her a big hug.

'Jesus.'

I suddenly realise she's peering at me, her brow creased up in consternation, as if she's just noticed me for the first time.

'Excuse me?' I try to make my voice sound as normal as possible, but my heart is thumping. She knows it's me.

'Oh, nothing.' She shakes her head dismissively. 'For a moment you reminded me of someone.'

'I do?' I wait in anticipation, caught between fear and excitement.

'No, you did. For, like, a second. But actually you're nothing like her.'

For a fleeting moment I'm struck by a curious flash of disappointment. I know I've changed a lot, and
thank goodness
I've changed a lot, but surely I'm not a
completely
different person now from the best friend she used to have then.

Am I?

'Oh, just ignore me,' she continues. 'I'm all over the place at the moment. That's the problem with being in love.' She tuts loudly, but it's fairly obvious it isn't a problem. Far from it. 'Do you know, someone once told me being in love is a form of madness, and it's true!' Letting out a snort of laughter, she starts digging around in her pink satin-quilted clutch, which is shaped like a strawberry.

I watch her. God, it seems so strange to see Vanessa with such a tiny bag. Now she's had Ruby and Sam, you never see her without one of those giant tote bags, filled to the brim with masses and masses of stuff.

'Damn, I could have sworn I had a lighter in here.'

'Hang on, I think I've got some matches.' Sliding my hand into my jacket pocket, I locate some that I took from the bowl on the bar. Now everywhere's no-smoking, you don't see free matches any more and I always need them for my aromatherapy candles. I pass a packet to her.

'Thanks.' She smiles gratefully and, lighting her cigarette, takes a long drag as we slowly shuffle forward. 'Huh, this is taking for ever,' she complains, blowing smoke down her nostrils. 'My boyfriend's going to think I've run off with another man.' Leaning closer, she confides, 'Well, he's not really my boyfriend
yet
. We've only been out three times, but I've already fallen madly in love with him.' She smiles excitedly. 'His name's Julian and he's training to be a lawyer.'

I listen in fascination as she gushes away to
me
, a total stranger, like girls do when they're all loved up and just want to tell anyone and everyone who will listen about how lucky they are, and how amazing it feels, and how wonderful he is. And yet of course I know all this. I've heard it all before.

And yet…

As she keeps chattering away, it suddenly strikes me just how different this Vanessa is to the Vanessa I saw only a few hours ago at my birthday dinner, to the Vanessa who stood next to me in another set of ladies' loos talking about Julian.

She smiles dreamily, then giggles. 'Or maybe
I'm
just crazy.'

Now she's all wide-eyed and excited, bursting with hope and happiness and this shiny new thing called love, but earlier tonight she seemed so resigned and unhappy, almost defeated. I watch as she pulls out a compact and sets about reapplying what used to be her trademark scarlet lipstick, drawing two perfect arches of colour on her top lip and sweeping across the bottom with one deft flick of her wrist. She hasn't worn red lipstick in a while. In fact tonight she wasn't wearing any makeup at all, until I gave her the lip gloss, I reflect, and her hair was pulled back in a knot as usual. Apparently she didn't have time to take-a shower as the babysitter was late.

But it's more than that. It's more than unwashed hair and the lack of lipstick; it's like seeing a photograph that used to be in colour, only now it's in black and white.

'Ooh, look, there's a free one.' She gestures ahead to an empty cubicle I hadn't noticed.

'Oh, yes… thanks.'

Leaving her applying a fresh coat of mascara, I disappear inside. I suddenly feel incredibly sad. An awful lot has changed in ten years, and for the first time it hits me that perhaps not all of it is for the better.

Chapter Twenty-five

Fast-forward to 3 a.m.

If only.

Seeking solace on a sofa in a darkened corner, I check my watch for the umpteenth time. I feel as if I've been here for hours. Days. Weeks, almost. And now I'm bored and tired, I have a headache, my feet hurt, and I want to go home.

But I can't. I have to stay and keep a watchful eye on Lottie, who at some point in the evening switched from water and has proceeded to get completely trollied on free birthday drinks. I'd forgotten just how drunk I used to get. At one point I actually started dancing on the table. And in those heels. I don't know how I did it.

Rubbing my temples, my eyes do an automatic sweep around the club - like the searchlight from a lighthouse - to check on Lottie's whereabouts and make sure she's not getting into trouble. Or falling off a table. Just then the music stops abruptly and the lights come on. My heart skips a beat, hardly daring to believe what's happening. Oh my God, does this mean…?

Hope holds my breath tight as clubbers begin leaving the dance floor and heading for the exit. Yes, it does! I almost feel like dropping to my knees and kissing the floor. The word 'relief doesn't even come close.

Halle-bloody-lujah. That's it.

It's over.

'Aw, what a bummer,' slurs Lottie, emerging from the crowd, her face sweaty and wearing an expression of utter dismay. 'I can't believe it's finished.
Already
!'

'I know. What a shame,' I fib, hastily grabbing my bag and throwing on my jacket. 'OK, let's go.'

I start racing out of the club, my sore feet suddenly coming back to life. Outside, everyone is milling around on the pavement saying goodnight.

'Hang on, everyone, before you leave I want to take a photo,' Lottie yells. Producing a camera from her bag, she starts herding people together.

'No, you need to be in it, Lottie,' shouts someone.

I'm still standing by her side and she turns to me. 'Charlotte, will you take the photo?'

'Of course.' I take the camera from her with the intention of getting it over with as quickly as possible and then going home, but as I look through the lens, it suddenly hits me: the familiar line-up, the clothes, the smiles.

Oh my God. This is the photograph I have at home on my fridge. The one taken on my birthday.
By me?

My mind whirls in confusion. But how? That can't be. Unless—

'Come on, hurry up,' yells someone.

Quickly I snap to. 'OK, everyone, smile!'

Everyone beams for the camera, and as I press the button, I look at Lottie, at my younger self, eyes wide, smile bright. There's a flash and the shutter clicks, and I capture the moment for ever. I offer to walk Lottie home. My car is parked outside her house. Plus, more crucially, she's totally legless and needs an escort. I don't think she'll get home without me. Linking arms, we stroll back to her house. It's a really warm evening. Or should I say early morning? Everything is quiet and slightly magical, as if the whole world is asleep but us. Arriving at her house, she struggles with her house keys, and after dropping them on the ground three times, I take over. Deftly unlocking the door, I haul her inside.

'I think I should make you a coffee, help you sober up a bit,' I suggest, taking her through into the kitchen, which is in darkness, and plonking her on a chair.

Actually, I
would
plonk her on a chair if each one wasn't heaped with piles of rubbish. Old tea towels, newspapers and, oh God, is that a pair of knickers? I recoil at the sight of what appears to be a discarded G-string. In the dimness I can't tell if it's clean or not. And quite frankly, I'm not getting close enough to find out, I decide, grabbing a wooden spoon with my free hand and looping the thong over the handle. Hastily I drop it on to another pile. Trust me, there are plenty of piles to choose from - it's like a mole's been in here, only instead of mounds of earth, there's just mounds of
stuff everywhere
. Clearing away a mound, I drape Lottie on a chair. OK, I'll put the kettle on.

Flicking on the light, which is just a bare bulb hanging forlornly from the ceiling, the kitchen is suddenly flooded by a hundred watts of harsh glare.

I freeze.

Sweet Jesus, there's been a robbery! Someone's ransacked the house!

As the thought flashes through my mind, panic ignites. Oh my God, I need to call the police, quick. What if they've stolen lots of stuff? What if - God forbid - the intruder's still in the house?

Panic fires up a notch to terror. Shit, where's the phone?

And then suddenly I notice that my younger self isn't jumping up and down yelling, 'We've been burgled!' On the contrary, she's sitting very calmly on the chair as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

Because nothing is out of the ordinary, Charlotte.