Page 128 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Well, let me get out the violin,’ he says coldly, and I feel a jolt. Any doubt I may have had that I was doing the wrong thing vanishes in that very moment.

‘I didn’t expect you to understand,’ I reply calmly, then add, ‘And as neither of us have signed the final contract, it should be a simple parting of ways.’

‘Whoah, just one minute, little lady.’

There’s such vitriol in his voice that a shiver of fear runs down my spine.

‘We might not have signed anything yet, but I know the law. There’s legal binding here. I’ve got emails outlining your intentions to manage this account, the ideas we’ve discussed, the plans for the future.’ He looks at me and it’s like the gloves are finally off. ‘I’ll haul you through the courts and sue your ass off. I’ll take everything you own: your company, your home, your livelihood, every fucking thing.’

My heart thuds. This is what I was afraid of.

‘Fine, go ahead,’ I reply evenly, trying to stop my voice from trembling.

I turn to leave, but he yells after me, ‘You can’t just walk away from me like that. You don’t know what you’re dealing with here, Charlene. I’m the one who calls the shots.’ He’s shouting now and his perfect tan has been replaced by a livid red flush.

‘Honey?’ There’s a high-pitched twang and his wife pops her head round the door.

With everything that’s been happening, I’d totally forgotten her.

Holding a cocktail and her beloved chihuahua, she smiles tipsily at him. ‘Honey, are you going to come back inside? The shrimp’s sensational.’

‘Get the hell outta here, Cindy, will ya?’ he yells angrily. ‘Can’t you see I’m talking business?’ Her face blanches, and as she scuttles away he wheels round to face me. ‘I’ll ruin you. I’ll tell everyone in the business that you were unprofessional, incompetent, that you weren’t up to the job. I’ve got friends in high places. I’ll go to the press.’ He’s ranting now, spitting with fury, but I stand firm. I knew this would probably happen, but I was determined to go ahead anyway. I was determined to listen to my instinct.

‘Excuse me? Fed-Ex for Charlotte Merryweather.’

I whirl round to see the Fed-Ex courier appear in the corridor. Just in time. I feel a rush of relief. My younger self might have helped me rediscover my dream, get my priorities right and speak my mind, but my older self knows it doesn’t hurt to take out insurance.

‘The person at the front desk said I might find you down here, said it was urgent.’

‘Actually, it’s for him.’ Signing for it, I gesture to Larry Thompson.

‘Huh?’ Having stopped yelling, he looks at me, breathless and confused.

The courier shrugs and passes him the envelope. Turning it over in his hands, Larry Thompson stares at it, a look of bewilderment on his face.

‘I think you might want to open that,’ I instruct.

‘What is this bullshit?’ he snaps, finally finding his voice. ‘Because I can—’

‘Sue me? Go to the press?’ I interrupt, trying to keep calm, even though inside my heart is beating very, very fast. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

Impatiently he strips open the envelope, a scornful expression on his face, which immediately disappears when he sees what’s inside.

‘Jesus,’ he whispers, turning pale with shock.

Lottie accused me of ignoring my gut instinct, and when it comes to Larry Thompson, I’ve been ignoring mine from that first meeting in the restaurant. I was sure I felt his hand grope me under the table, yet I dismissed it, just as I dismissed the intense looks, the creepy, flirty innuendo, the uncomfortable feeling I got in the pit of my stomach. It was only later, outside the shop, when he turned to me and said, ‘If you throw money at a problem it goes away,’ that I knew for certain. Right then that little voice inside of me knew.

But it wasn’t until last night that I finally listened to that voice and, acting on my instinct, decided to do a bit of research.

Because it seems I’m not the first. An entry in a local California newspaper in 1992 mentions the case of a sixteen-year-old who accused her then dentist, a Dr Thompson, of groping her while she was in the dentist’s chair. No further details were mentioned.

Which is why I called Katie Proctor. Being a journalist, she’s got access to all the international press databases and court transcriptions. I asked her to investigate. My gut told me it was the same person, but I couldn’t be sure. There must be hundreds of Dr Thompsons. And if it was him, what had happened? Had he been found guilty? Struck off? Imprisoned?

Her enquiries confirmed my fears, and more. Because there hasn’t been just one accusation against Dr Thompson. Over the years there have been numerous complaints of sexual harassment – from former employees to patients and ex-mistresses – but in every case all the charges were dropped after huge out-of-court settlements.

‘And you were right – his first name is Larry,’ Katie had said when she’d called me this morning to tell me she was Fed-Exing over all the press cuttings, court transcriptions and documents she’d uncovered.

Otherwise known as Mr Celebrity Smile, I muse, looking at him. Although he suddenly looks nothing like his TV-personality self. His perfectly coiffed hair is now all mussed up, revealing a sizeable bald patch, and he cuts a rather pathetic figure.