Page 10 of Who’s That Girl?

‘I’ll call you tonight,’ I say hastily.

‘Well, ta-ra, luv. Have a good day.’

‘I will. You too, Dad.’

I end the call, 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 I?

‘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 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 instructor. Whenever she talks about him, she 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 no-nonsense to 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 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 races out of the door.

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 paper’s 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. ‘Mmm, 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.’