Page 101 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Well, thanks again for the tea.’ I turn to his granddad, who immediately colours and pretends to be engrossed in his horse-brasses.

‘Oh, you’re welcome, my dear,’ he says, feigning surprise, as if he’s just heard me and not just spent the last five minutes eavesdropping.

‘Good luck with Ginger,’ I add cheerfully to Oliver, trying to sound all casual. Then, giving Welly a quick pat on the head, I stride purposefully out of the shop.

Correction: bang into an eighteenth-century cabinet, bruise my knee, wrestle with the door, which appears to have stuck, finally manage to push it open, forget to mind the step and sort of trip outside on to the street. I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like I’ve suddenly regressed to my clumsy twenty-one-year-old self, I think, as I quickly make my way down the street, my cheeks stinging with embarrassment. No, twenty-two-year-old self, I reflect, thinking of last night’s birthday party.

After the dusty darkness inside the antique shop, it’s blindingly bright outside. In the rush this morning I didn’t bring my sunglasses. Squinting in the sunshine, I spot a nearby stall selling cheap sunnies. I know, I’ll buy a pair to walk home with, I decide, hurrying over.

There’s quite a crowd. Clustered around the racks of glasses, people are jostling to try on all the different styles. For a moment I nearly abandon the mission. This is why I buy my sunglasses at Harvey Nichols. That and the fact that they’re genuine designer glasses and have proper UV lenses, I think disparagingly, managing to grasp a pair that are copies of the latest style from Chanel.

Then again, these have UV lenses too, I notice with surprise as I pop them on. The stallholder thrusts a mirror at me and I glance at my reflection. Of course when you put them on, they’re going to look cheap and plasticky and—

Wow, these look fabulous.

I turn my head from side to side, feeling an old stirring of excitement. It’s a feeling I haven’t had for years, but I recognise it immediately: the thrill of finding a bargain.

‘Do you have any more of those she’s wearing?’ A woman gestures at me.

‘No, that’s the last pair.’ The stallholder shakes his head.

It’s like a shot of adrenalin. I have the last pair! Which of course makes them even more of a bargain.

Digging out a tenner, I quickly pay for the sunglasses and start walking back towards the park. Gosh, what an absolute steal, I muse, checking out my reflection in every shop window I pass and feeling the bargain-hunter’s buzz. I wonder if there’s anything else I can buy? Maybe I should have a quick look.

Automatically I go to check the time, but of course my wrist is bare and so I reach for my phone. I can see what time it is on there, I realise, feeling for it in my pocket. Then I remember. It’s in the car. I left it in the little centre well.

As it registers, I feel a knee jerk of annoyance, but it’s quickly replaced by something else: a flicker of freedom, release, liberation. As if a window of opportunity is opening before me and, like a schoolgirl, I feel as if I’ve escaped the confines of time, which are as real to me as any classroom walls, and I have a chance to play truant from my life.

Normally right now I’d be taking the short cut and hurrying home, but all at once I don’t feel like hurrying, which is unusual for me, as I hurry everywhere. Even to the loo. But without my watch it’s like time becomes this free-flowing thing, not divided into seconds and minutes and hours, to be ticked off, watched, kept to.

And so, taking the long way home through the market, I slow my pace down. It doesn’t come naturally. My legs are programmed to trot briskly and my arms to pump up and down like pistons, but I force myself to stroll past the stalls and pavement cafes. To enjoy just being, rather than rushing from somewhere to somewhere. Inhaling deep lungfuls of air, instead of my usual shallow breaths, I take a moment to just stop and look around me. I smile to myself.

For the first time in a long time I can, quite literally, smell the coffee.

I have no idea how long I spend meandering down Portobello, but I do know I keep stopping to lust over gold-hammered rings filled with a kaleidoscope of semi-precious stones and to marvel at ingenious photograph frames made from the keys of old typewriters.

Gosh, I’d forgotten how much fun flea markets can be, I muse, as I’m distracted by a yellow blouse hanging from a nearby rail. Fluttering in the warm breeze, the tiny sequins sewn round the neck catch the sunlight and twinkle, like a dozen tiny stars, and before I know it I’m haggling with the stallholder and getting it for six pounds. Six pounds! It’s incredible. No wonder I always used to buy my clothes from markets when I was younger.

Delighted with my shopping, I’m ready for the next amazing find and I don’t have to look far. Next door is a lady with dozens of racks filled with vintage clothes, and still on a high from my recent purchases, I rise to the challenge and try nearly everything on in the tiny makeshift changing room. A lot of it is questionable, some of it’s worse than questionable, and then just as the buzz is fading and my arms begin aching, I find it: an incredible blue silk dress with a plunging neckline that looks like something you’d see in Vogue for a month’s salary. It’s totally unique. I’ll never see anyone wearing another one. I buy it without a second thought.

Now I’m on a roll. Further along is a stall selling second-hand shoes. Almost breathless with excitement, I grab a pair of gold stilettos. Ooh, these look fab, and such a bargain, I tell myself, sticking my feet in. Ouch. The front pinches my toes. I try to wiggle them, only now my foot’s slipping forwards. In fact these are actually really uncomfortable. They’d definitely give me blisters. Plus the plastic heel is ugly, I realise, looking at them in the mirror.

I freeze. What am I doing? Snatching my feet out of the shoes, I hastily put them back on the rack. My younger self might have reminded me of the joys of shopping for clothes in flea markets, but there’s one thing I have learned now I’m older.

I make a mental note to add it to my list:

19. Cheap shoes suck. Save up and buy quality.

Because there are some things in life that are worth spending money on, and well-made shoes are one of them.

And happily slipping my feet back into my gorgeous sandals, with their full arch support and hand-stitched leather soles, I set off towards the park.

Chapter Thirty

Only when I reach my car do I finally glance at the clock on the dashboard and realise how much time has passed.

And get the shock of my life.