Who's That Girl (5 page)

Which means it's nearly eight by the time I finally put my computer to sleep, gather up my bags and leave the office. And then that's only because Miles has called twice from that new gastropub wondering where I am. I lie and say I'm just five minutes away. It's really ten.

Oh, all right, then, twenty.

'Sorry I'm late.'

As I walk into the pub, I spot Miles sitting up at the bar. He's already ordered a bottle of wine for us and is reading the
Evening Standard
property supplement. He looks up and smiles, and I feel a warm glow.

'They've run out of the
moules
,' he says pleasantly as I bend across to give him a kiss. He smells of aftershave, and his face is tickly with the soft blond fuzz that's sprouted since he last shaved, which in Miles's case was probably a few days ago. Miles has such baby-fine hair. He's in his thirties and is still trying to grow his sideburns.

'Aw, damn,' I sympathise, sliding on to the bar stool next to him. You see, this is what I love about Miles. No getting pissed off that I'm late. No big row. Just his usual, calm, composed self.

'So what else looks good on the menu?' Shrugging off my coat, I reach for the bowl of olives and nibble off the salty flesh. 'Men, these are delicious.'

Finally I can try to relax a bit. Have a drink. Some food. I rub my stomach. The knot that's been there all day feels as if it might be starting to subside.

'Well, the fish special sounds interesting…' He squints myopically at the blackboard, his brow creased in concentration, trying to decipher the chalk handwriting. He looks so cute when he does that. Like a little schoolboy, not a successful thirtysomething property developer.

'Good choice.'

A male voice next to me makes me turn round. Further along from me, sitting up at the bar, is a man eating alone. He's got short, dark, curly hair and has little round glasses balanced on the end of his nose, which I can't help noticing are all bent out of shape.

'I'd recommend the fish.' He gestures to his plate and smiles, revealing a faint Joaquin Phoenixtype scar running from nostril to lip, half hidden beneath his five-o'clock shadow.

'Hmm, no, I'm afraid I can't eat fish.' I shake my head.

'Oh, right. I didn't realise you were a vegetarian.' He nods and looks a bit embarrassed that he's said anything.

And now I feel bad. After all, he was only trying to be friendly.

'Well, I am, but I eat fish,' I confess. 'Only the thing is, I had fish the other day, so I can't have it twice,' I explain, and smile. 'All that mercury.'

We both look down at his plate again. The half-eaten salmon looks back at us. There's an awkward pause.

'Well, I guess in that case there's always the macaroni cheese,' he suggests, reading off the blackboard.

I shrug and wrinkle up my nose. 'Dairy.'

'Is that bad?' He looks puzzled.

'I have to avoid it.'

He eyes me suspiciously. 'Right…' he says slowly, and suddenly I discern the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.

I feel my guilt at being dismissive dispersing. Hang on a minute, is he finding my food allergies amusing or something? Is he - I feel a prickle of indignation -
laughing at me
?

'I was told to by a nutrionist,' I protest defensively, remembering the conversation I had with Dr Bruce, Melody's nutritionist, when I was doing a press release for one of her books. I'd complained of being tired and she'd drawn up a long list of things for me to avoid. Saying that, I've been avoiding them for six months and I still feel exhausted.

'I'm not supposed to eat wheat or refined sugars either,' I add defensively. 'I'm intolerant.'

'You don't say?' he replies, clicking his tongue sympathetically, but his eyes give him away. Yup, he's definitely laughing at me.

Riled, I return my attention to Miles. 'What are you getting, darling?' I say pointedly, turning my back to the man at the bar. Honestly, it's not like I
asked
him to talk to me. He talked to me first!

'Well, actually, I think I'm going to go for the Thai green vegetable curry,' he muses.

'Ooh, yes, that sounds delicious,' I agree, a little louder than necessary. 'I'll have that too.'

Huh, that'll show him. Feeling a beat of satisfaction that I'm choosing something entirely different to his suggestions, I try attracting the attention of one of the bar staff so we can order.

'Gosh, it's really busy, isn't it?' I tut, waving futilely at someone pulling a pint while Miles sits next to me, waiting patiently. 'It's going to take for ever to get served.'

'Well, lucky you for I've finished my break,' says a now-familiar voice. I turn sideways to see the man next to me getting up from his stool, empty plate in hand, and lifting up the hatch to access the bar. At the same time I notice he's wearing an apron. 'Go ahead,' he says, picking up a pad and pen.

Oh, no. I feel a mixture of dismay and relief. He works here.

'Well, I'd like the Thai curry,' Miles is saying pleasantly.

'Righty-ho.' He smiles, scribbling it down. 'And for you?' He looks up at me and I could swear he's still got that amused expression in his eye.

'I'll have the same. Please,' I say decisively.

'You sure?' He cocks his head, eyes twinkling, pen poised.

'Absolutely,' I say firmly.

'OK.' He sucks air in through his teeth and writes it down.

I watch him, feeling a tweak of irritation, but as he turns to ring it up at the cash register, I suddenly have a thought. 'Hang on a minute, does that have nuts in it?'

He pauses from punching in the total and looks up. 'You're allergic to nuts too?'

My earlier twinge of irritation now goes up a notch to fullblown annoyance.

'Yes, very,' I snap, looking at him tight-faced. 'I could go into anaphylactic shock.'

'She has to carry an EpiPen,' adds Miles, sliding his arm round my waist protectively. 'A single nut could be lethal.' He looks at me, his face suffused with concern. 'Couldn't it, darling?'

I meet his unwavering gaze and for a moment I forget my annoyance and feel a rush of love towards him. Gosh, I am so lucky to have Miles as a boyfriend. He is so supportive and understanding.

'Wow.'

Unlike some men, I think, flicking my eyes back to the barman, who's just standing there, barely keeping a straight face.

'Yeah, I know. Pretty scary, huh? It's life-threatening on a daily basis,' nods Miles, thinking he's being genuine and not hearing the sarcasm in the barman's voice.

Blatantly ignoring the barman, I pick up the
Evening Standard
and pretend to be engrossed in an article about house prices. Hopefully he'll get the message.

He doesn't.

'That's terrible. Every meal must be terrifying.'

'I manage,' I snap from behind the paper.

'Yes, but we have to be extra vigilant,' confides Miles. 'Remember that time when we were having drinks at the Oxo Tower, darling? And you ate the pretzel that had been contaminated by salted peanuts…'

I feel a clench of irritation. And now it's directed at Miles. Honestly! Does he have to tell this guy everything? Can't he just ignore him like I'm doing?

'… and it was pretty scary there for a moment, I can tell you. Poor Charlotte's throat swelled up, her lips went all puffy, and she got this horrible rash.'

Oh, God. Please. Shut up, Miles. I shoot him a sideways look to silence him, but he's so absorbed in telling his story and defending my honour that he doesn't notice.

'Really? A horrible rash?' repeats the barman, pulling a face. 'Ouch.'

And you can shut up too, I think, looking daggers at him.

'I mean, can you imagine? Using the same bowl for pretzels that you earlier used for salted peanuts? Without washing it first?' Miles looks aghast. 'I wrote a pretty stern letter to the management afterwards, didn't I, Charlotte? Obviously they refunded our bar bill, but that wasn't the point.'

'Oh, look, there's a table free over there,' I pipe up, suddenly seeing a couple standing up to leave in the far corner of the pub. 'Let's grab it before it's taken!'

Jumping up from my bar stool, I scoop up my bags and coat and hurry over to it. Anything to get away from that annoying barman. Honestly. Interfering like that.

I look over at Miles and wave. Abandoned at the bar, he seems a bit confused as to where I've suddenly disappeared to. As he spots me, he starts politely saying goodbye to the barman. That's the thing about Miles - he's so well mannered. It's like when we have sex. He always asks permission and afterwards he says thank you, which I think is taking your pleases and thankyous to the extreme, but that's a public-school education for you. Tucking the newspaper under his arm, he picks up our bottle of wine and glasses, and makes his way over.

'Don't worry, I've sorted it all out,' he says, sitting down. 'It
doesn't contain nuts and the barman
says he'll be sure to warn
the kitchen of your allergies.'

'Great, thanks.' I smile, taking the glasses from him and pouring the wine. 'So how's work?' I ask, swiftly changing the subject. Despite our false start, I'm determined to have a nice evening with Miles. We barely saw each other last week because we were both so busy.
And
the weekend before that, come to think of it.

'Oh, you know, the usual.' He shrugs, settling back into his seat and taking a glug of wine. Miles develops and invests in property - both here and abroad - and has what he calls 'quite a portfolio'. He's a real expert when it comes to house prices, and up-and-coming areas, and mortgage rates. That's one of the reasons we don't live together. He says - we should be sensible and wait till the market levels off before we… How did he put it? Ah, yes, that was it:
consolidate
.

I remember because he got this meaningful look in his eye and reached for my hand, which is really unlike Miles as he never wants to hold hands. He gets all self-conscious at what he calls PDA or 'public displays of affection'.

'I signed the Aquarius deal. They start building next month.'

'Brilliant!'

'And it looks like I might be able to get investors for my other idea, so I think I'm going to fly up there tomorrow for a couple of days.'

'Which idea is that?'

'The project in Leeds?' He raises his eyebrows as if to remind me.

'Oh, to convert that old warehouse into luxury flats?' 'No, that was Manchester,' he corrects, frowning slightly. 'Anyway, I don't want to bore you with all this, darling.' Smiling, he rubs my hand lightly with his finger. 'Let's talk about something else.'

'No, please continue,' I say encouragingly. 'It's fascinating.' Well, all right, perhaps 'fascinating' is a
bit
of an exaggeration, but it's important to show an interest in your partner's career. That's what a loving, caring, mature relationship is all about, according to a book I read recently called Good
Listener, Great Lover
. I read a lot of those kind of books. They used to call them self-help, but that's so nineties. Now they're called self-awareness. In which case I should be super-aware as I've got stacks of them. A whole bookcase in fact. And I'm always buying more. 'Maybe later,'

he says, taking a sip of his wine and idly reaching for a section of the newspaper. But I can tell he's glad I said that. I feel pleased with myself and pick up another section. Honestly, it's such a relief finally to be in a proper, grown-up, mature relationship. Two professionals, sharing a bottle of good red wine, eating a bowl of mixed olives, reading different sections of the same newspaper.

Flicking absently through the pages, I feel a glow of contentment. When I was younger, I used to be so clueless about men. I was attracted to all the wrong guys and spent most of my twenties lurching from one disappointment to the next. So when I turned thirty, I decided that was it. No more players. No more bad boys. No more disastrous flings and stormy relationships. Six months later I met Miles. We were introduced at a dinner party, and when he loosened his tie and stumbled over a polite hello, I knew I'd never have to spend another evening listening to Nirvana's 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' being picked out on a Fender guitar, talking about commitment issues or worrying about a roving eye. Here was a man whom I could trust. Who was a grown-up. Who had a successful career, his own flat on Hampstead Heath and not a single T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on the front. I glance across at him now. Instead he's wearing a lovely cashmere jumper that I bought him for his birthday last year. Gosh, he looks so adorable in it.

Taking a mouthful of wine, Miles catches me looking at him.

A man with whom I have shared interests and can have a proper civilised conversation.

'So?' he says, putting down his section of the paper.

'So?' I repeat, putting down mine.

Only, the thing is, for a tiny moment I can't think what to say. It's like my mind's gone blank. How weird. Obviously my lack of sleep is really catching up with me. I must be totally overtired.

'I'm thinking of investing in another buy-to-let property abroad,' he says casually. Property! Of course. That's what we were talking about. How could I forget?

'Oh, where?' I ask interestedly.

'Well, I'm not sure yet,' he confesses, 'but I was thinking about Dubai.'

'Wow. Fab!'

If I'm honest, I find all this talk about security and investments a bit boring, and have a tendency to zone out, but now I'm getting older, I have to think about this stuff. As Miles always says, your property is your pension.

'Apparently, there's a couple of off-plan developments that could bring in a very good yield.'

'Really? That sounds… um… interesting.'

It's just sometimes I don't always want to be thinking about pensions and retirement. I mean, OK, so I'm turning thirty-two in four days, but it's not like I'm a hundred. Occasionally it would be nice to stop thinking about the future and just think about now for a change. Something spontaneous. Something fun.

'Two Thai green curries and a mixed-leaf salad?'

I look up to see the barman hovering with three large plates.

'Organic, in case you should ask,' he adds pointedly, shooting me a look.