Who's That Girl (39 page)

'Oh, yeah, that sounds cool.' She nods, diving delightedly on the crisp packet and ripping it open.

'But I'm going straight from work, so I was hoping you could meet me there,' I continue, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, hoping she'll take the bait. Because of course at the last minute I'm suddenly not going to be able to make it due to some 'unforeseen problem at work', but by then she'll already be there.

'Sure, what's the address?'

Bingo.

'Here, I wrote it on a piece of paper,' I say, digging it out of my bag and passing it to her. She sticks it in her pocket without even looking at it. Unlike me, who'd be immediately looking it up in my A-Z.

Or at least I would have done in the past, I reflect, taking a sip of my cider. Mmm, that is good.

'So what do you think, Charlotte?'

'About what?' I snap back to see Lottie peering at the menu. 'The fish and chips or the pasta?

You've eaten here before. What do you recommend?'

I look at her, in her too-short denim hot pants, drinking cider and playing with a tendril of hair. She hasn't changed, she's still exactly the same as when I first bumped into her, and you know what I'm glad. I don't want her to change. I want her to stay exactly how she is. How I was. How I'm learning to be again.

Well, maybe not the denim hot pants.

Eating a handful of crisps, I take a large slug of cider. 'Oh, I don't think you need any advice from me.'

'OK, well, then in that case I'll have the cheese nachos with refried beans and sour cream.'

I consider the ingredients: dairy, wheat, fat, carbs, deep-fried and not in the slightest bit organic, low fat or remotely healthy.

I throw her a big grin. 'Sounds delicious. I'll have the same.'

Chapter Thirty-six

After what has to be one of the best meals I've had in ages, I drop Lottie at her house and drive home to my flat. Walking back into the living room feels like returning to the scene of a crime. The ice has now melted, leaving a soggy wet tea towel. Two cups of tea, stone cold with a glassy film, sit untouched on the table outside. Welly's muddy pawprints have dried on the carpet. Everything has moved from the present into the past. Wedging time in between Oliver and me. Pushing us ever further apart.

My chest tightens, but I don't let myself go there. Swallowing hard, I look away, my eyes falling instead on the pile of files sitting on my dining table. I've still got to put the finishing touches to tomorrow's press launch. After all, life must go on, I tell myself firmly, pulling myself together and beginning to clear up. I can't sit around wallowing about what's happened, feeling sorry for myself. I just want to put today behind me and forget about it, pretend it never happened. I spend the next half an hour tidying up my flat, until every trace has been erased and it's like Oliver was never here. Only then do I sit down to do some work.

Turning my attention to the files, I open my laptop and click on the Word document I've been working on. Everything's been arranged. The press list has been drawn up. The invites have been designed and sent out. The venue's organised. The problem with the caterers is sorted. The speciality cocktails have been decided upon (no champagne - bubbles play havoc with tooth enamel). The goody bags have been put together. All that remains now is to polish the speech I've been working on for the spokesperson.

This was my big idea: getting a celebrity to be the spokesperson for Star Smile. Combined with a goody bag and free teeth-bleaching, it's guaranteed to draw journalists and generate press. It's also an idea that Larry Goldstein fell in love with at our first meeting and which probably swung the account for me. Yet even before I won the contract, I had already spent weeks drawing up a list of appropriate candidates, putting out feelers, approaching celebrities' agents. Celebrities are renowned for having their teeth fixed. You'd be hard pushed to find a Hollywood A-lister who hasn't had a little help to achieve that perfect smile. Unfortunately you are
really
hard pushed to find one who will admit to it, hence a batch of perfect-toothed, wrinkle-free, beestung-lipped celebrities who insist it's all down to Manuka honey and Pilates, not, as everyone in the industry knows, their regular visits to the men in white coats. Thus, after dozens of rejections, and just when I was about to abandon the idea, Beatrice suggested Melody. Well, we already do the PR on her range of diet books and health foods, she's always on the lookout for more exposure (translated: she's a total media whore), plus she's the nation's sweetheart, with just the right mix of glamour and girl-next-door. And let's not forget, she needs something to counter last week's scandal when she was caught eating a Big Mac. Sure enough, she's jumped at the opportunity, I muse, reading an email from her that's just popped into my inbox regarding the outfit she's wearing tomorrow. She's also jumped at the new set of promised veneers.

I turn my focus back to the speech. 'Welcome, everyone, to the press launch for Star Smile UK, the brainchild of Larry Goldstein, or, as he's been known in Hollywood, Mr Celebrity Smile. Star Smile promises to offer the latest in teeth-bleaching, the finest veneers, laser-gum contouring—'

'I really want to be a writer.'

What? Where did that come from? I ignore it and keep working.

'—state-of-the-art cosmetic dentistry, to cater for all our twenty-first-century smiles—'

'Ever since I was a little girl it's been my dream.'

Lottie's voice flashes into my mind again, louder this time. For a split second I pause to listen, to reflect, then hurriedly brush it aside.

'I couldn't imagine doing anything else.'

It catches the breath in the back of my throat. It's true. I really couldn't imagine doing anything else, not even slightly. But that was then.

Rubbing my temples, I force myself to sit upright in my chair and focus on the screen. OK, I'll think about that later. Right now I've got to get this finished. Dragging my eyes back to the screen, I begin reading over the rest of the speech.

'You too can have a celebrity smile. You too can dazzle with the stars. A Star Smile is the latest must-have accessory. Forget this season's Fendi, trade in your last-season smile, be it crooked, stained or misaligned.'

Ugh, that's not very sexy, is it? I need to vamp that up. Though God knows how I vamp up

'crooked, stained or misaligned'. I mean, please, I can't believe I'm even writing this kind of crap.

'Do something you love, something you're passionate about.'

Oh, be quiet! I think in frustration. That's all well and good, and I'm in total agreement with my younger self on that one, but I can't pull out of this now. It would be insanity. It would be career suicide.

And yet, as I look back at the screen, the words swim in front of my eyes and I realise I'm doing what I did before. It's like Lottie said; I'm not listening to my gut instinct. This isn't writing. This isn't what I wanted to. This wasn't my dream.

'I'm writing a novel. I haven't finished it yet, but I'm going to.'

On impulse I jump up and go into my bedroom, where I get down on all fours and peer under the bed. Underneath is the box of photos I found in the cupboard. Tugging them out, I pull off the lid and rummage through the albums. I didn't even get to look at them all, I reflect, stacking them up on the floor, along with another couple of old diaries and some ancient-looking birthday cards. And then there it is: a thin pile of faded pages beginning to yellow around the edges. My novel.

I stare for a moment at the title page, absorbing the feelings whooshing around. I feel suddenly emotional. It's like seeing a part of me that's been buried inside for so long I'd almost forgotten it was there. I swallow hard, tracing my fingers over the typewritten letters. Then slowly I turn the page and begin to read.

When I've finished, I stand up and walk back into the living room. I feel strangely euphoric. It's good. Better than good. Better than I ever remembered. OK, so it's a bit long-winded in parts, and there's some clunky description, but it's got something. Something that excites me. Inspires me. Makes me feel passionate again.

If there were any doubts before, now I'm left with none.

But first there's something I need to do.

I turn back to my laptop, close the Word document and open up the Internet. It's just a hunch, but I'm listening to my gut instinct at last. I hesitate, then type something into Google. Though who knows - I scroll down the page - maybe this time my instincts are wrong. Then I see it.

I click on the link and suddenly exactly what I suspected pops up on to the screen. My eyes skim through the text as I absorb the information. Then I pick up the phone and dial. Far away across town, I can hear it ringing.

'Um, hello?' mumbles a sleepy voice. It's Katie Proctor, my journalist friend.

'Hi Katie. It's Charlotte Merryweather. Look, I'm sorry to call you so late, but I really need to ask you a huge favour…'

Chapter Thirty-seven

Merryweather PR invites you to the

launch of Star Smile UK!

Join our guest host, TV-personality Melody, and discover all about the exciting new London branch of the famous Beverly

Hills clinic. Meet Dr Larry Goldstein, known to all in Hollywood as Mr Celebrity Smile, and learn how the latest state-of-the-art techniques can give you that A-list smile.
We look forward
to seeing
you there
.

Tuesday 28 August

Presentation and drinks 5-7 p.m.

The Charlotte Street Hotel

15-17 Charlotte Street, London W1

RSVP: Beatrice® MerryweatherPR.com

OK, so this it.

Standing in the centre of the private room we've hired for the launch, I sweep my gaze over the dazzling arrangements of white lilies, rows of sparkling glasses ready to be filled with the Star Smile cocktail (a delicious blend of vodka, lychees and vermouth) and an elaborate centrepiece of sushi on ice, the snow-white rice gleaming under the lighting. The theme, as you might have guessed, is white, to tie in with the idea of bright-white Hollywood smiles. OK, I confess, that was my idea.

Although I say it myself, it does look pretty impressive, I muse, taking a moment to admire the empty room. The journalists have already arrived, and after a welcome cocktail are immediately ushered into the private screening room to hear a presentation by Melody and watch a short film about the Beverly Hills clinic. It's good background info. Plus everyone always likes to watch footage of Hollywood celebrities, don't they? Especially when they have the excuse it's for work. I hear familiar music from the screening room. After having watched the film more than a few times, I know that's the cue that it's nearly over and this room will soon be filled with hungry journalists.

'Mmm, this sushi is delish.'

I turn round to see Beatrice swooning over a piece of sushi she's just stolen from a tray being held by one of the waitresses. I shoot her a look.

'Um… I mean, yes, it passed the test.' She nods officiously, straightening up. She smiles at the waitress before turning back to me. 'Well, someone had to make sure it tasted OK,' she protests innocently. 'We don't want to poison the journalists.'

'Only some of them.' I smile ruefully and she giggles back.

For a brief moment I feel the tension that's been holding me hostage all day loosen its grip slightly, but then the screening-room door swings open and out stalks Larry Goldstein. He's deep in conversation with Melody, who's smiling at his flattery, and behind him spill out the journalists, their eyes blinking in the brightness.

Beatrice immediately launches into her meet-and-greet routine. I swear she really should have been a member of the royal family. 'Why hello. How simply wonderful to see you again.'

I glance anxiously at the clock by the door. It's almost six.

'Excuse me,' I say, hurrying into the lobby and over to the front desk. 'Has a Fed-Ex arrived for me, Charlotte Merry-weather?'

The receptionist shakes his head and smiles brightly. 'No, sorry.'

My insides clench, but pinning on a smile, I thank him and rejoin the launch.

'Charlotte, this is amazing.' I glance sideways to see a journalist from one of the UK's top beauty magazines. 'And what a coup, getting the Star Smile account. I'd heard a whisper, but until I got the invite…' She raises her glass to toast me.

'Oh… thanks, yes,' I manage brightly, but my throat has gone dry. I spot Larry Goldstein over by the door, chatting to some journalists, and screw up my courage. It's now or never. 'I'm sorry, but will you excuse me a moment?'

'Oh, sure.' The journalist beams back. 'I think I'm going to help myself to another cocktail.'

As she disappears, I make my way towards Larry. I feel absurdly nervous. The palms of my hands have started to sweat, and I can hear my heart beating loud and fast in my ears over the chattering din. Then suddenly I hear Lottie's voice inside my head: 'What's the point of worrying all the time? If the worst is going to happen, it'll happen.' Drawing reassurance from it, I take a deep breath.

'Hi, Dr Goldstein, could I have word?'

He pauses from narrating some anecdote and turns to me. 'Hey, Charlene, come and join us. I'm just telling these girls about the time I went in Tom Cruise's private Learjet.'

I smile politely and swallow hard. 'Actually, it's really important.'

'What can be more important than Tom Cruise's Learjet?' He cocks his head at the two pretty journalists, who titter into their cocktails.

I clench my fists, digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands. OK, here goes. 'My resignation,' I say evenly.

He looks at me like I've just told him there are little green Martians in the room. Actually, he'd look
less
shocked if I'd told him there were little green Martians in the room.

'Oh, I get it, this is the famous British sense of humour.' He laughs. I swallow hard. 'No, I'm being serious. I'm afraid Merry-weather PR can no longer represent you.'

The two journalists stop giggling and look at me uncertainly.