Who's That Girl (4 page)

'Didn't you get my messages?' she demands, refusing to be sidetracked by pleasantries.

'Um… yes, but I—'

She doesn't let me finish. 'Well, let's just hope your father and I never have an emergency,' she continues tetchily. 'We'll be dead and buried before they can get hold of you.'

I roll my eyes. My mother loves melodrama. It's all the soaps she watches.

'I mean, what's the point of having a phone if you never answer it?'

'I was probably in meetings,' I proffer weakly.

'I called you at home this morning. You still didn't answer.'

Honestly, you'd think my mother was a prosecution lawyer, not a school secretary.

'I must have been out. I had my trainer at six.'

'Six
in the morning?'
she says, sounding shocked.

'Yeah, I ran five miles.'

'
You ran five miles?''
Her voice has gone all high-pitched. 'Oh, Charlotte,' she gasps anxiously,

'are you sure you're not overdoing it? You should give yourself a lie-in sometimes.'

A lie-in
? God, I can't remember the last time I had a lie-in. Oh, actually, I do - it was the morning after my big twenty-fifth birthday party. Which wasn't that long ago.

It was nearly seven years ago.

'And are you eating properly? You can't exercise on an empty stomach.'

Suddenly Mum's switched from prosecution lawyer into concerned-mother mode.

'Yes. I know,' I lie.

My empty stomach gives an angry growl and I silence it by gulping down the Starbucks that I grabbed before I jumped in the cab.

'Because there was an article in the
Daily Mail
yesterday and it said vegetarians lack… Hang on a minute…' There's the sound of rustling papers. 'Here it is. "Vegetarians lack essential minerals and vitamins."'

'Rubbish!' I exclaim, rootling around in my handbag and unearthing various vitamins and packets of health supplements. I'm forever buying different types. Only last week I read an article about ground apricot kernels. Apparently, you can live to be a hundred if you eat them in the right quantities. Unscrewing the lids, I swallow a handful. Unfortunately the quantities are so large you'd have to live to be a hundred just to have enough time to eat all the bloody things.

'A cooked breakfast, that's what you need.'

'I don't have time to be eating a cooked breakfast,' I reply a little impatiently.

'Well, you know what they say, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."' She clucks disapprovingly.

I roll my eyes again. 'I bet Jack was successful, though,' I can't resist muttering. My mum is always telling me I work too hard. Which is true. I
do
work too hard, but that's just part of running a successful business. Mum doesn't understand. She never wanted a career. All she wanted was to get married and have a family. For her, a job was just a job. A way to earn a bit of 'pocket money' as she puts it. But then she's always had Dad to look after her financially. It's different for my generation.
Better
.

At least I like to think so.

'Did I tell you, Marion just had a third grandchild?' replies Mum, ignoring me pointedly. Yes, three times, I think, as I drain the last of my Starbucks.

'That's great. Send her my congratulations.'

'Her daughter's your age, you know,' she persists. 'Remember Caroline Godfrey? You were both angels in the school nativity.'

And that's another thing my mum does. Tells me all about her friends' daughters and how they're giving birth at a rate of knots. Populating the village with lots of bouncy, rosy-cheeked grandchildren, while her mean, selfish daughter lives over two hundred miles away in London, has personal-training sessions and is a vegetarian. Worse still, she
isn't even married
. Talking of which.

'How's Miles?'

Oh-oh.

Let me translate. In mother-tongue 'How's Miles?' means 'Has he proposed yet?'

To be fair, it's not just Mum who does this. Miles and I have been together for eighteen months and everyone assumes he's going to propose. Everyone also assumes I'm going to say yes. After all, why wouldn't I? He ticks all those boxes that they go on about in women's magazines: he's handsome, successful, loyal, reliable
and
we never argue. In fact in the whole time we've been together we've never once had a row. Which is great, isn't it?

Only sometimes there's a part of me that wouldn't
mind
the odd argument. Like I say to Miles, we're allowed to have different opinions. It might even help add a teensy-weensy bit more excitement to the relationship, a bit more
va-va-voom
.

Anyway, like I was saying, I can't think of a single reason to say no. Not that I'm trying to, of course.

'He's great. Is Dad there?' I say brightly, swiftly sidestepping the subject. 'I want to wish him happy birthday.'

'Oh, yes, hang on, he's just getting the post.'

I wince.

'David luv, it's our Lottie,' she calls loudly, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. 'You did send him a card, didn't you?' she hisses.

'Um… actually, I've sent flowers instead,' I say brightly.

'Flowers?' she repeats blankly, taken aback. 'For your
father?'

'Why not? Dad loves flowers,' I say defensively. 'He's always gardening.'

'Well, I suppose so…' She trails off and I can tell she's wishing I'd just sent a Hallmark card and a pair of socks from M&S like a normal daughter. Huge bouquets being delivered to Mr Merryweather will no doubt cause a stir in their tiny village. I can practically hear Mum now, explaining to the locals: 'They're from his daughter. She lives in
Lundon
, you know.' Which, in tiny villages in the Yorkshire Dales, is explanation enough.

'Y'all right, poppet?' Dad's hearty voice sounds down the line and I feel a warm glow. Ours has never been an easy relationship as we're both very stubborn. My teenage years were spent engaged in a perpetual battle over how loud I could play The Smiths. (Me: very loud. Dad:

'Bloody turn it off - it's music to slit your wrists to!') Yet despite our differences (or should that be similarities?) we're still incredibly close - in fact our birthdays are just four days apart.

'Hi, Dad, happy birthday,' I say, smiling and wedging the phone under my chin. We're coming up to the Wolseley and I want to touch up my make-up quickly before my meeting.

'Thanks, luv. I haven't opened my cards yet,' he replies cheerfully. Guilt stabs. Dad will love his flowers, I just know it, but still.

'So what are you going to do today?' I ask, changing the subject. I open my compact and tilt it to the light. The dark shadows under my eyes loom into view.

'Oh, you know, a bit of this and that. What about you? When are you going to come visit?'

'Soon,' I reply, dabbing furiously with my Touche Eclat concealer. I don't like to look as if I'm wearing too much make-up, so this morning I just went for primer, light-diffusing foundation, concealer, powder, bronzer, a slight blush on the apples of my cheeks, mascara, a slick of lip balm… You know, the irony is, you have to wear an awful lot of make-up to look natural.

'You say "soon" every time,' he grumbles. 'We haven't seen you since Christmas.' Mid-dab I pause. Gosh, is it really that long? I think back to my mad dash up the Ml on Christmas Eve. I hadn't been able to get away before. Melody was launching a new range of diet shakes in the new year and Beatrice had been off with the flu, so I'd been working round the clock, doing everything myself. Most of Christmas Day was spent at my laptop trying to finish a press release, and then I was back in the office on Boxing Day.

'I know. I'm sorry, Dad. Things are just a bit hectic, that's all. I had to work over the weekend on a big deadline, and this week I'm pitching for a new account.' I give up on my dark circles, click my compact shut and stick on my sunglasses instead. 'I promise the first free weekend I have I'll drive up with Miles. You can see my new car. You'll love it, Dad. You can take it for a spin.'

'Hmm, yes, I read an article about one of those new VW Beetles in that magazine you got me…'

I can feel Dad softening. He adores tinkering around with cars, lifting up the bonnet, admiring the engineering.

'Whereabouts, luv?' the cabbie interrupts over the speaker.

'Hang on a minute, Dad.' I look up to see the restaurant looming before me. 'Anywhere here's fine,' I reply, leaning forward so the driver can hear me, before being suddenly thrown back as the cab swerves into the kerbside and comes to a shuddering halt. I quickly gather together my things, which have been flung across the back seat.

'Sorry about that,' I gasp into my phone as I clamber out on to the pavement. 'Thanks. If I could just get a receipt…' Passing the driver a tenner, I catch sight of myself in the cab window and immediately set about smoothing my hair. 'You were saying,' I continue, switching back to Dad. I've become quite an expert at having two conversations at once. At first it used to freak me out and I'd get all muddled, but now I've grown used to it.

'Well, as long as you're all right,' he says, placated. 'We just miss our little girl, that's all.'

I feel a wave of affection.
Little girl
? In four days I'll be turning thirty-two. In eight years I'll be forty!

OK, I really shouldn't have had that thought.

'I miss you too, Dad,' I reply, hurrying up the front steps. 'But you don't have to worry about me, honestly.' Pushing through the glass doors, my heels clatter into the marbled lobby.

'And you're happy, aren't you?'

I spot a couple of large mirrors on the wall next to me and immediately begin checking out my reflection. 'Of course I am,' I say distractedly.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a couple of the journalists I'm meeting pulling up outside in a cab. My nerves jangle. I always feel like this before one of these lunches. I have to do a little presentation of a new product we represent and it's my opportunity to get press and promotion. As much as it's dressed up as lunch and wine and chit-chat, there's a lot of pressure on me.

'Look, Dad, I'm going to have to go…'

'Oh, right, well, off you go, then. It was nice speaking to you.'

I feel a stab of regret. We've barely spoken. But it's like that nowadays. When I was younger, I would sit on the phone for hours, talking about anything and everything, but now I'm lucky if I can snatch five minutes.

'I'll call you tonight,' I say hastily.

'Well, ta-ra, luv. Have a good day.'

'I will. You too, Dad.'

I snap my mobile closed, but for a moment I can't bring myself to move. My mind returns to my conversation with Dad, and for a moment I think about what he just said. Am I happy? I mean,
am
7?

'Charlotte!' I come to and turn round to see a woman in her early fifties. It's Katie Proctor, a journalist I've known since my days as a freelance writer. Grinning widely, she gives me a big perfumed hug. 'Ooh, are those new shoes?' she gasps, pointing at my feet. 'They're adorable'

I feel a beat of pleasure. 'I didn't think you were coming.' I smile, kissing her on both blushered cheeks. 'You never RSVPed!' I throw her a mock look of disapproval.

'I know, I'm terrible.' She rolls her eyes guiltily. 'Do you forgive me?'

If it was anyone else, I'd be thrown into a panic, but Katie is more a friend than a work contact.

'Of course. How are you?'

'Parched! C'mon, let's go have a drink and catch up.'

We link arms, and as we enter the bar, I compose myself. Honestly, I don't know what's got into me today. The other journalists start arriving, and plunged into a cacophony of air-kissing, introductions and ice-cold Sauvignon Blanc, I pin on a bright smile and set to work. Of course I'm happy. Why on earth wouldn't I be?

Chapter Four

Lunch is a success.

The journalists leave tipsy, clutching goody bags and promising lots of press. I put the huge bill on my expenses, wave them off in their cabs and collapse on to the back seat of mine. At least, I hope it was a success. I feel the familiar pangs of worry as my cab starts weaving through the traffic on the way back to the office.

My face aches from smiling. That's the thing about my job. It might look easy, sipping wine and nibbling on a marinated vegetable and watercress salad, but schmoozing is hard work. You're on full alert the whole time. Trying to mix business with pleasure, trying to find the right balance between discussing your clients and discussing so-and-so's recent break-up: 'He did what? No!

That's terrible! You poor thing. You should get away for a few days. Treat yourself to a spa weekend. Talking of which, I know an amazing one in Scotland that we just happen to do the PR

for…'

I make it back to my desk by around three and spend the rest of the afternoon chained to my keyboard. Beatrice leaves at six on the dot. She has salsa on Mondays and is in love with Pablo, the Brazilian instructor. Whenever she talks about him, she puts on this really over-the-top South American accent, all very dramatic with lots of lisping and rolling of Rs, and starts tossing her hair around, which is quite hard as it's a short bob. The transformation is incredible. It's like she goes from this no-nonsense English rose with sturdy calves to this tempestuous Latino seductress. In fact I could have
sworn
I saw a pair of fishnets in her handbag when she left. Bea in fishnets! The mind boggles.

Anyhow, as usual Beatrice (or should I say
Be-a-treeth?)
tries to 'encourage' me, as she puts it, to leave the office with her by starting to turn off the lights while I'm still sitting here typing. Bea is not one to give subtle hints. Trust me, she would have pulled out the plug on my computer if I hadn't managed to fob her off by saying I was just finishing up some paperwork for tomorrow's meeting and I'd be following her in five.

Of course I'm fibbing, and of course she knows I'm fibbing, but whereas normally she would have called me up on it and waited next to me like a sentry, tonight the lure of Pablo and salsa is too strong and she's out of the door faster than you can say, 'Salida Cubana.'