Page 13 of Who’s That Girl?

‘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 overlooking 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 civilized 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.

‘Yes, here, please,’ says Miles, gesturing at the middle of the table. ‘We’re splitting the salad. Is that OK, darling?’