Page 137 of Who’s That Girl?

Time: 6.28 p.m.

My stomach suddenly goes into freefall.

Date: 21 August 1997

For a split second I just stare at it, my thoughts frozen in shock. Then I jerk back up to speed. So it did happen! It wasn’t a dream. This is the parking ticket that I got the first time I followed myself. I dropped it on the ground, but the council always keeps a record. They never let you get away without paying, not even if it was ten years ago. As the realisation hits, I feel a huge smile playing across my face.

‘What is it?’

I snap back to see Oliver staring at me, looking puzzled.

‘Oh, nothing,’ I say quickly, trying to quell the delight that’s rushing up inside of me. ‘Just a parking ticket.’

‘Crikey, I’ve never seen anyone so happy to get a parking ticket before.’ He smiles with amusement.

I laugh, my mind racing, my thoughts tumbling over each other, everything clicking back into place. And that includes me and Oliver, I realise, glancing across at him and noticing he’s still standing by the door.

‘Do you want to come in and sit down? Stay a while?’ I ask shyly. ‘But you don’t have to, obviously,’ I add hastily, realising he’s doubtless just come out of politeness. ‘You’ve probably got to get back to work at the pub.’

Oh God, if he says he has to go, I don’t know what I’m going to do.

‘Actually, I think I’ll take the evening off,’ he replies. ‘Can’t leave the patient on her own, now can we?’ Smiling, he folds his tall frame on to the plastic chair next to me.

‘You can do that?’ I say with surprise, feeling a secret beat of pleasure. ‘I don’t want you to get in trouble with your boss or anything.’

‘Well, considering I am the boss, I don’t think that will be a problem.’ He smiles ruefully.

‘The boss?’ I repeat, puzzled.

‘Yeah, I own the pub, and I’ve got another couple in London. Didn’t I ever mention it?’

I realise I’m staring at him in astonishment.

‘But I’d really like to expand abroad one day … open someplace in France, or Italy maybe.’

I suddenly blush bright red. And to think I called him ‘just a barman’. ‘No, I didn’t know,’ I say, with embarrassment.

‘I guess there’s a lot we don’t know about each other,’ he says, his eyes meeting mine. ‘Maybe when you get out of here, we can do some catching up …’ His voice trails off and we gaze at each other as if we’re both thinking the same thing. ‘Oh, by the way, before I forget …’ He digs in his pocket. ‘I found this.’

‘My watch!’ I exclaim. As he passes it to me, his fingers brush mine. A spark runs all the way down my spine.

‘It had been kicked into a corner. I think someone must have stood on it.’

As I look at it, I realise it’s broken. The hands have stopped. Time is literally standing still.

‘I can get it fixed for you, if you’d like,’ he says quietly, and I realise he hasn’t let go of my fingers. I glance at them, and curling my fingers round his, I look up at him, wanting this moment to last for ever.

‘Oh, there’s no rush.’ I smile. ‘No rush at all.’

Epilogue

Nine Months Later

The market trader, an old man with a flat cap and Gauloise cigarette welded to his bottom lip, smiles at me as if I’m a native speaker, and just as I’m thinking that perhaps my rusty French and dodgy accent aren’t so bad, he rattles off something in French and leaves me totally lost.

‘Um …’ Digging in my purse, I wave a euro note hopefully. ‘It’s OK?’

Yes, I’m cheating, and trying to make it sound like French by making my sentences go up at the end isn’t fooling anyone, but I’ve got my eye on that fabulous pair of dangly earrings.