Who's That Girl (29 page)

Brilliant, Charlotte. Great move. One of your finest.

Feeling a bit stunned, I plop down on the sofa and try to take in this sudden turn of events. I hadn't planned this to happen at all. When I woke up this morning, the first thing on my list of things to do wasn't 'Must break up with Miles.'

It's just that once I faced up to the doubts that have been simmering in the background for so long, it all unravelled at the speed of knots. Like picking at some stitching, the whole thing suddenly fell apart. Right there, in the middle of my kitchen. And now I'm not sure quite what to do next.

Miles leaves, telling me he'll come back for his stuff. I offer to drop it round in my car, as it will be much easier than him lugging it on the bus, but he curtly tells me he doesn't need my help, thank you very much, as the number 47 goes right past his flat. He then pointedly returns my spare keys and slams the door behind him.

He's angry and upset, and I don't blame him. I feel dreadful, responsible, guilty. I also feel a huge sense of release.

I glance across at the coffee table, where the estate agent's brochure of my dream house lies in all its glossiness. As I pick it up, I realise that the nervous twist in the pit of my stomach that I've been trying to persuade myself was just pre-moving-in-together jitters has disappeared, gone. Along with the dream life I always wanted, I reflect, looking at the full-colour photographs. At least, I
thought
I wanted it, only when I finally got it, it suddenly didn't seem that dreamy. I flop back on the sofa, my head spinning. To tell the truth, I'm beginning to feel a bit disorientated. Like I've been running a marathon this last ten years and now the finishing line has just disappeared. I mean, if I don't want that, what do I want?

God, this is all a bit heavy for a Saturday morning, isn't it?

Scratching my inflamed ears, I give a huge hippo-sized yawn. I haven't even had my coffee yet, I realise, closing my eyes. Saying that, I'm actually really tired. It was getting light when I finally rolled into bed, so I can't have had more than a few hours' sleep last night. I mean this morning, I think sleepily, snuffling into a cushion.

Then stiffen.

Eugh, what's that horrible smell? My nostrils wrinkle up in disgust. Yuck, it smells like stale sweat and cigarettes.

That's because it is stale sweat and cigarettes.

Abruptly I realise I'm smelling my hair. My normally swingy, shiny, glossy hair that smells of elderberry and jojoba and something suitably fragrant now smells like an old ashtray and someone's armpit. I take another cautious sniff. Eugh, that's just gross. I spring up from the sofa. I might not know what I want, but I definitely know what I need: a shower. After giving my hair a thorough shampooing, followed by an intensive conditioning, I stay underneath the powerful twin shower heads for the longest time. Eyes closed, face upturned, I relish the hot water blasting my skin. My mind flicks back to Lottie last night, rolling into bed, still wearing her make-up. God, imagine what her skin will look like today, I shudder, squeezing out a blob of special microdermabrasion crystals and vigorously scrubbing my cheeks. There's nothing worse than sleeping in your make-up. She'll look terrible. And feel terrible, I muse, a vision popping into my mind of her drunkenly stumbling up to bed, a Pot Noodle in one hand, a cup of black coffee in the other. Gosh, poor thing. I might not be having the greatest morning on record, but she's got to be suffering from the hangover from hell. Wrapped in towels, I make a fresh pot of coffee and then wander aimlessly around my flat for a bit. I check a couple of emails. Pluck my eyebrows. Throw out all the rotting organic vegetables from the bottom of the fridge. Plump cushions.

The whole day stretches ahead of me. Weekends are always spent with Miles, and this weekend was meant to be no different. In fact I purposely kept this weekend free from work stuff and appointments so we could do lots of coupley things as I've been so busy with work recently.
Re-
bond
, as it says in my book about how to have a successful relationship. Only that didn't
quite
work out, did it?

Finishing plumping all the cushions on the sofa and putting them all neatly on their corners, I look distractedly around me. I know, I'll call Vanessa, I decide, reaching for the telephone. No, on second thoughts, she'll be busy with the kids and won't be able to talk and we'll have one of those conversations where every third sentence is 'No, Ruby, no. Mummy's on the phone.' Plus, to be honest, she's got enough of her own problems right now without listening to mine, I reflect, thinking about our conversation last night in the ladies' at the gastropub and feeling a beat of worry. I know, maybe I'll go for a run instead, do some exercise. Then again, my muscles are sore from dancing last night. I had no idea dancing was such a workout. In which case, maybe I'll…

I draw a blank. To be honest, what
are
you supposed to do when you've just broken up with someone? I glance over at my bookshelves, bursting with self-help books, guides and manuals. My eyes scan the titles. There's everything there from
Stress Management
to
The Power of
Positive Thinking
, but there's nothing on break-ups. Not even in my favourite,
Good Listener
,
Good Lover
. But then again, if you're both good listeners and good lovers, you probably won't be breaking up, will you?

Grabbing my laptop, I log on to Amazon and punch in 'breakup'. A whole ream of books appears before my eyes:
Surviving as a Single, When Two Become One, You're Not Alone, Gay Goodbyes
(I skirt over that one),
Getting Over It and Moving On
…

Clicking on one of them, I start reading a glossary of what's inside: It's important to mourn the end of a relationship, as this will allow you to move on. Be kind to yourself. This will take time. You cannot rush this important healing process as you move through the various stages: 1) shock and disbelief, 2) depression and grief, 3) anger and unfairness, 4) acceptance. At this final stage you are ready to move on with your life, feel positive and hopefully begin a new relationship.

Hmm, I suppose I must be at the shock and disbelief stage. I click on the book to order it. Well, I'll need to read it, otherwise I'll forget all the different stages I'm supposed to go through, though I'm not much looking forward to the next stage. I wonder if there's a way you can gloss over that bit.

Out of stock. This product will take 4-6 weeks to ship.

What? I look at the screen in annoyance. I can't wait four to six weeks to start mourning the end of my relationship. Those stages are going to take months and I need to get started right now. Shutting my laptop, I get up from the sofa. I'll have to drive to Borders and buy the book instead. Quickly I throw on some clothes and towel-dry my hair. I don't need to blow-dry it today: I'm not planning on seeing anyone. I'll just nip to the shops and hole myself up with the book until I finish it. I reach over to my bedside cabinet to put on my watch.

And freeze.

It's not there.

Flummoxed, I stare at the bedside cabinet: alarm clock, eye mask, aromatherapy candle… but no watch. How can that be? I take my watch off every night before I go to bed. I'm as regular as clockwork, pardon the pun. It's always there.

But not today.

Fuck, where is it?

I know, maybe I forgot to take it off and it fell off my wrist when I was asleep. Clutching the ray of hope, I fling back the duvet and chuck a few pillows around. But it's nowhere to be found. Panic flickers. It was a present from Mum and Dad on my eighteenth birthday. It's engraved on the back and everything. It's got sentimental value. Plus it's my watch for Christ's sake! I can't survive without my watch. How am I going to know what time it is? There's not always a clock to hand, which means I'll have to look at my BlackBerry every five minutes, and what if I have to turn it off in a meeting? Or it's at the bottom of my bag and I have to keep rummaging for it?

Or, God forbid, I forget to charge it?

With spiralling panic I dash around the flat on a desperate hunt. No copy of
Elk Decor
, inflatable exercise ball or packet of organic coffee beans is left unturned, but it's nowhere to be found. I must have lost it somewhere, but where?

OK, Charlotte, just calm down, I tell myself firmly, as I finally exhaust all possible hiding places, and myself. Retrace your steps, isn't that what they always say? Last night I was at my old house, then before that the club and before that the gastropub for dinner…

Right, I need to start there. Grabbing my car keys, I dash for the door. I'll drive back to the pub and ask someone.

Like the barman.

My stomach goes up and down like I'm on a swing.

Not that I want to see him or anything. I pause by the mirror. Well, all right, maybe a little, but only out of curiosity. Running my fingers through my hair, I dab on a bit of lip gloss. To be honest, I wouldn't care if he was there or not.

He's not here.

Walking into the pub, my eyes go straight for the bar. I feel a clunk of disappointment.

'Hi, can I help you?' A shaggy, red-headed barman pauses from wiping the bar and looks up.

'I wanted to speak to someone about my watch. I lost it last night and I just wondered if it was handed in.'

'I wasn't working last night — hang on.' He smiles, putting down his dishcloth. 'I'll get someone.'

As he walks towards the kitchen, I glance around the pub. Apart from a couple sitting in a discreet table in the corner, it's practically empty.

'Hey, Oliver,' he calls.

My heart jolts. Oily - Oliver. That must be the same person. Oh my God, he
is
here. There's a pause, and then, 'Yeah?'

Suddenly I realise I'm very,
very
nervous. It's like my breath's got caught in my lungs and I can't breathe it out. Which is ridiculous. He's just a barman.

Except he's not just a barman, is he
? pipes up that little voice inside me.
He's
Oily
from last
night
.

As he emerges from the kitchen, I see the red-headed barman saying something to him and pointing at me. He looks over. And for a brief moment I think I've got it wrong. He's not Oily at all: he doesn't look anything like him. He's much older, different, chunkier, I realise, looking at his baggy grey T-shirt. I feel a sense of relief. I'm glad it was a mistake. I'm glad this barman isn't Oily. This way is so much simpler.

And yet…

As he walks towards me, my stomach does that weird swingy thing again. His hair might be cut short, he might have a scar above his lip, and he might now be wearing little round glasses, but behind them the pale grey eyes are the same. I didn't make a mistake. Shit.

'Oh, it's you,' he mutters, not smiling.

I falter. Well, that's a great start.

'Um, hi.' I swallow hard. My throat has suddenly dried up. 'I… er, was in here last night.'

'I know. I served you,' he deadpans.

I'm getting the distinct feeling I haven't made as good an impression on him in my thirties as I did when I was in my twenties.

'Um… yes, well… I lost my watch and so I was wondering—'

'Nope, nothing's been found here,' he says, cutting me off.

I feel a snap of irritation. Has he even looked? 'Are you sure?' I try again. 'I mean, it could be underneath a table or—'

'Nope.' He shakes his head. 'Fraid not.'

I have to bite my tongue. 'Right, then,' I say stiffly, hauling back my shoulders and meeting his eyes with my sternest stare. 'Well, thanks for looking and for being
so
helpful. I'll leave you my card in case you do happen to find it.' I take one from ray purse and lay it on the bar. 'Sorry to trouble you.'

God, he's
such
an arsehole. Talk about people changing. And not for the better, I fume, scratching my ears in agitation.

'What's wrong with your ears?' he says as I'm about to turn and leave.

'Nothing,' I retort defensively.

'They're all inflamed.'

'I had an allergic reaction to some earrings,' I say, attempting a casual voice. He tries not to smile, but I catch the corner of his lips curl up in amusement. Damn, why did I have to say that?

'The ones your boyfriend bought you?' he says evenly.

Triggering two thoughts: 1) that's none of your goddamn business and 2)
he was watching me
.

'He's not my boyfriend,' I snap back, rattled. God, he's such a know-it-all.

'He's not?' He raises an eyebrow.

'I mean, not any more.' I'm beginning to get all flustered. I feel as if I've backed myself into a corner and now I can't get out. 'We just broke up.' I look at the floor, wishing it would open up and swallow me. Usually I think before I speak, but for some reason I seem to have reverted to my younger self and my brain seems to have disconnected from my mouth.

'Hey, I'm sorry.' Dipping his chin, Oliver looks at me from under his heavy brows, his expression one of concern. 'Are you OK?'

I look up and meet his eyes. I don't know why, but somehow I seem to want to pour my heart out to a complete stranger.

Only he's not, is he?

'Sort of.' I shrug.

His mouth twists into a smile. 'You know, I'm a really good listener. Working behind this bar, I get to hear a lot of stories, get to dole out advice, not that it's necessarily any good. I'm a bit of an agony uncle.'

I can't help smiling. 'It's a long story.' I can feel myself softening towards him.

'Well, I've got plenty of time. I was actually just about to knock off, go for a walk in the park, get some fresh air.' He looks at me questioningly. 'Don't know if you're interested…?'

I hesitate, then shake my head. 'Thanks, but I should get going,' I say, feeling awkward.

'Of course. I understand - you've got a better offer.'

'No, it's not that,' I protest, then realise he's fooling around and relax. At that moment there's a loud scuffling as a door opens at the back and in scampers a big, scruffy black dog. With his tail wagging wildly, and a tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth like a long pink ribbon, the dog rushes up to me and starts trying to lick me all over.