Who's That Girl (36 page)

'Hi, Charlotte, it's me.'

Oh fuck, they just did.

It's Vanessa.

A hand grips my stomach. With everything that's been happening today I'd forgotten all about Julian, and my conversation this morning with Beatrice, but now it comes hurtling back.

'Hey, Vanessa, how are you?' I say evenly, forcing myself to sound as normal as possible. That old
Scruples
question is whizzing round in my head: 'If you found out your friend's boyfriend was cheating, would you tell her?' I always used to be the first to reply, 'Yes, absolutely,' with the easy defiance of a twentysomething. Of course you'd tell your friend. It was a no-brainer. But now the stakes are higher. Now you're sharing more than just a cheese plant, Domino's pizzas and a futon. Now it's children, a home, a life together.

'Not great,' she says.

Oh God, she knows. I can tell from her voice. For a split second I feel a flush of relief that I don't have to lie, but it's drowned out by dread.

'Why? What's up?' I try to keep my voice steady.

There's a pause, and then, 'I found a receipt.'

You wouldn't think those four words could have such an effect on me, could make my stomach hurtle into my sling-backs and my hands grip the steering wheel, but they do.

'What kind of receipt?' I'm filled with trepidation. Whatever it is, it's not good. I mean, your best friend doesn't ring you up to tell you she's found a receipt from Tesco, now does she?

'It's from Agent Provocateur.'

First the condoms, then the suite at the hotel and now
this
? My heart sinks, but I quickly rally. OK, let's think damage limitation. I have to put a positive spin on this, and if anyone can do it, I can. A career in PR has to be useful for something.

'Ooh, lucky you,' I gush, with about as much faux enthusiasm as I can muster. 'Julian must have bought you some sexy underwear as a surprise.'

'Yeah, right,' tuts Vanessa. Something tells me she isn't exactly convinced. 'In two sizes smaller than I really am? I called the shop and gave them the barcodes. Trust me, if I can get into a sizeten thong and a B-cup peek-a-boo bra, it'll be more than a surprise, it'll be a bloody miracle.'

Fair point. I love Vanessa dearly and I think she looks great, but there's no way she's a size ten. And as for those boobs of hers - that make anyone like me, who has to make the most of their cleavage with an M&S padded bra, insanely jealous - they have never, and will never, see the inside of anything less than a double-D cup.

'Maybe he got it wrong?' I argue. 'Men are useless about stuff like that. Miles always thought I was a size ten.'

'You are a size ten, Charlotte.'

'Oh, right, yes… well, you know what I mean,' I say vaguely. Only I don't think she does, as there's silence.

'Sorry, I know you must be really busy. I'll go.'

'No, it's fine, don't be silly,' I say quickly.

'Really? Are you sure?' She sounds so grateful I feel a twinge of guilt. God, am I always that busy with work that she thinks I won't be able to talk at a time like this?

'Of course. What's more important than my best friend, hey?'

No sooner have those words come out of my mouth than my BlackBerry starts ringing. It's Beatrice, but I ignore it.

'I just don't know what to do,' she sighs. She sounds upset and I'm suddenly reminded of her at the club, queueing at the ladies', gushing happily about how much she was in love with Julian. It makes me wonder how she got to this place, all these years later, where she's on the phone to me, worried he's having an affair.

'Why don't you ask him about it?' I suggest. 'Be honest?'

'I can't. Then he'll know.'

'Know what?'

Now the line on my mobile is beeping to indicate that another call is waiting. It's Beatrice again. I grit my teeth and continue to ignore it. It won't be anything important. It can wait.

'I wasn't snooping,' she protests unprompted. 'I was just doing the laundry and I found the receipt in his trouser pocket and… OK, I was snooping,' she confesses. I can hear her puffing furiously on a cigarette on the other end of the line. 'So no, I can't tell him.'

'Look, it's not what you're thinking.'
Or what I'm thinking
. 'Just you watch, there'll be a simple explanation.'

The line stops beeping. I feel relieved. Now I can focus properly.

'Like what?' demands Vanessa. I find a receipt for lingerie that's not my size, but no lingerie. Believe me, I've looked high and low and it's not in the house. So he must have bought it for someone else.'

'Um… maybe he was with a colleague who suddenly remembered it was his wedding anniversary… and so they popped into Agent Provocateur to buy his wife a gift, but then the colleague realised he'd left his wallet in the office and so Julian stepped in and paid, like the true gent he is.'

Brilliant, Charlotte, though I say it myself. I just managed to turn that round and now Julian looks like a hero instead of a cheating, lying bastard.

Which of course he isn't, I tell myself sharply. Because the more I think about it, the more I refuse to believe that Julian would do such a thing. OK, so I know what it looks like when faced with the evidence, and I know we've all read about footballers who do that kind of thing, and politicians and rock stars and the man next door who's a pillar of the community. But this is Julian, and although I know things between them haven't been that great for a while, he loves Vanessa and he'd never do that.

'Hmm.' Vanessa sounds vaguely convinced. 'I suppose it could happen…'

'Of course it could happen. I mean, there's tons of rational explanations.' I stop myself. OK, quit while you're ahead, Charlotte.

'You think so?'

'Absolutely.'

The other line starts beeping again. It's Beatrice. Again. She's nothing if not persistent. Only this time I can't ignore it.

'Look, Vanessa, I'm really sorry, but I'm going to have to go,' I say reluctantly. 'My assistant's calling and I have to get it - it might be something to do with the press launch tomorrow for Larry Goldstein's Star Smile UK.'

'Oh, how is he?' she asks, suddenly perking up. 'Made any more advances?'

'He's married!' I retort.

'Exactly,' she quips dryly.

I ignore her. Though I'm glad to see some of her black sense of humour has returned. 'Look, I'll call you back.'

'I'll probably be divorced by then.'

'Vanessa!'

'It was a joke,' she protests. 'It's fine.'

I know it's not fine. It's far from fine, but I don't know what to do. I've got the office trying to get through with something that could be urgent, my friend's marriage could be in serious trouble, I'm responsible for robbing an old man of his beloved shop, ignoring his grandson when I was a twentysomething, and according to an email received from Miles this morning, a seven-hundredquid homebuyers' survey from Abbey National. And I
still
haven't called Mum back since we got cut off, I suddenly remember.

It's one thing after another. I feel as if I'm frantically rushing around, like those people you see who try and keep all those plates spinning, dashing from one to another to make sure none of them stops spinning and falls crashing to the ground, smashing into a million little pieces. Quickly saying goodbye to Vanessa, I switch lines. 'Hi, Beatrice, what's up?'

And I can't let that happen. Because if I do, who's going to pick up the pieces?

Chapter Thirty-four

By the time I pull up outside my flat I'm emotionally spent. After spending twenty minutes calming down Beatrice, who was hysterical because of a mix-up over the caterers for tomorrow's launch, and sorting out the problem, I rang Julian's secretary and left a message telling him to call me at home. I haven't yet worked out what exactly I'm going to say when he does, but I can't just sit back and do nothing. Though, boy, right now that's all I feel like doing. Nothing.
Nada
. Zero.

Switching off both my phones, I turn off the engine and, closing my eyes, rest my forehead on the steering wheel. For a moment I just relish the quiet, the sound of my own breath, the rise and fall of my shoulders. I just need to take a moment to calm down. To relax, like the doctor said. What was it they used to tell us to do in yoga? Focus on the breath. I focus.
Deep breath in… and now exhale… Deep breath in… and now exhale… Deep breath in…

I concentrate on inhaling through my nostrils, then exhaling through my mouth - I even put my thumb and finger on my
nostrils, just like you 're supposed to. I feel my chest cavity expand
and then slowly collapse. 'As long as the breath can take you,' is what my teacher always says, although usually at this point it's at the end of the class and I've nodded off in
Shavasana
. Still, it seems to be having the desired effect. I am feeling a lot more calm. In fact, I think I might throw in some
oms
for good measure.

'Ommmm… ommmmmm… ommmmmmmmmm—'

'Are you OK?'

A loud rapping on the window nearly causes me to jump out of my skin and I snap upright in shock. 'Argh,' I yelp, cricking my neck in the process. Clutching at it in pain I turn stiffly sideways. 'You stupid idiot! What the bloody hell do you think you're—'

'Charlotte?'

And come face to face with Oliver. Stooped down on the pavement, his hands on his knees, he's peering at me through the side window, a worried expression on his face. Oh fuck, how long has he been standing there?

'Hey, are you OK?'

No, I'm not OK, I'm mortified. No, scratch that. I'm
beyond
mortified.

'Um, yeah… absolutely… thanks.' I nod and then wince sharply as a pain shoots up my neck.

'Are you sure?'

The shooting pain has now turned into more of a red-hot-poker stabbing agony.

'It's my neck,' I manage to gasp.

'You probably pulled something.'

'What if I've broken it?' I say, feeling a creeping panic.

'I doubt it.'

'But how do you know?'

'Can you wiggle your toes?'

I wiggle them. 'Yes.'

'Can you wiggle your fingers?'

I wiggle them. 'Yes.'

'Now for the big test…'

I brace myself.

'… Can you wiggle your ears?'

I try to wiggle them, but nothing. 'Oh my God, no, I can't! What does that mean?' I cry in hysterics, twisting round to look at him.

And see him laughing. Killing himself on the pavement.

I feel my cheeks burn up. I fell right for that, didn't I?

'It means your neck's fine.' He grins mischievously and I can't help but smile back. Before it hits me again like an icy blow.
The shop
. I've got to tell him.

'So…'

'So?' I manage, feeling my body stiffen as I brace myself.

'Well, now you're going to walk again, how do you fancy continuing our conversation without a car window between us?'

'Oh, right, yeah.' I blush again. Nerves are whooshing around in the pit of my stomach. I'm trying to think of the right way to break the news about his granddad's shop, but somehow I can't seem to find one.

Most likely because there isn't one, Charlotte
, pipes up that little voice inside, but I disregard it. I'm just going to be honest and tell it like it really is.

'Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.' Releasing the door catch, I step out of the car and am immediately accosted by Welly.

'Hey, sit down, boy,' instructs Oliver, and Welly immediately sits down. 'Someone's pleased to see you,' he says, and then smiles shyly. 'He's not the only one.'

The nerves that are swimming around in my stomach suddenly turn into butterflies. Maybe I don't have to tell him how it really is
right
this minute.

'So what are you doing around here?' I ask, feeling all jittery, but this time it's in a good way.

'Oh, I was just in the area,' he says vaguely. 'I thought I'd take Welly for a walk…' He trails off and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

Those butterflies are going crazy in there.

'Well, now you're here, I suppose I
should
invite you in for a cup of tea,' I say, doing my best to look unenthusiastic.

'Hey, no, I didn't mean—' He begins to protest, then breaks off as he realises I'm teasing. 'I suppose I asked for that.'

'I suppose you did.' I nod. 'Hang on a minute.' Turning back to the car, I reach inside for my bag, folders, briefcase…

'Hey, do you want me to give you a hand with all that?'

'Oh, yeah, that would be great,' I reply, leaning over the back seat where I have a big box of files. The top one is Larry Goldstein's and I suddenly notice on the front of it I've scribbled the address of his new clinic. My stomach flips. Shit. I don't want Oliver seeing that. 'If I
needed
you to help,' I finish, re-emerging with all the bags and the files pressed closely to my chest in a Beatrice move. 'But I like to do things for myself… um, as a woman… You know,
The Female
Eunuch
and all that.'

Oh Jesus, what am I talking about? I've never even read
The Female Eunuch
. He's going to think I don't shave my legs and go around burning my bras. But if he does, he doesn't show it.

'Fair enough.' He smiles evenly.

I feel a beat of relief. Phew, that was close. Still, like I said, I've got to tell him.

'OK, well, this way,' I say, puffing under the weight of all my stuff as I walk towards my flat. I've just got to find the right moment.

I unlock the front door and step into the hallway. Oliver follows and lets Welly off his lead. Immediately he bounds off inside, racing through to the living room, leaving a trail of dirty pawprints all over the pristine cream carpet.

'Oh shit.' Oliver throws me a strangled look. 'Welly! Come here, boy!' he yells, whistling desperately. 'God, I'm so sorry. I'll tie him up outside,' he apologises, looking mortified.

'No, don't be silly, it's fine,' I say quickly.

'But your carpet…'

'Is totally impractical,' I finish. 'Don't worry, it's only dirt, it'll come off.'

Er, hello? Have I suddenly been taken over by an alien who is making me act completely out of character? Usually I freak out about the slightest mark on the carpet. I insist everyone takes their shoes off and if anyone drops so much as a
crumb
, I'm there with the Dustbuster. But for some reason the thought that Welly is scampering all over my cream wool carpet, leaving behind great big dirty pawprints has no effect on me whatsoever. In fact I feel almost
happy
that Welly is scampering all over my cream carpet, leaving behind great big dirty pawprints. OK, I have been taken over by an alien.