Page 14 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Of course.’ I smile brightly, ignoring the barman. ‘It looks delicious!’

Honestly, what am I moaning about? This is great. Miles is great. Everything is great.

Miles passes me a napkin and impulsively I lean over to give him a kiss.

See, we can be fun and spontaneous.

Except my aim is off and I knock over his wine glass instead.

‘Oh, shit. Sorry.’

‘Whoops, nearly,’ gasps Miles, catching it before red wine goes everywhere. ‘Phew, that was lucky.’ Placing it back upright on the table, he gives a little laugh. ‘That could have been a bit embarrassing, couldn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’ I nod, catching the barman’s eye and quickly looking away.

And now I feel like a total clumsy idiot.

There’s a tiny pause, and I think about attempting that kiss again, but somehow the moment has passed.

‘Mmm, this looks delicious, doesn’t it?’ says Miles, picking up his fork.

‘Um … yes … delicious,’ I reply, doing the same.

And turning our attention to the food, we both fall silent and start eating.

Chapter Five

Laptop? Check.

Briefcase? Check.

Phone? Check.

It’s the next morning and as usual I’m rushing around my flat, going through my itinerary to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.

OK, I think that’s everything.

Grabbing my keys, I let the front door slam shut behind me as I race down the front steps. Scrambling into my car, I reverse out of my space and right into rush-hour. Ahead, I can see the signs for the diversion and as traffic starts merging into one lane, I resign myself to another long journey into work.

My stomach gurgles. Yet again I haven’t had time for any breakfast. Flicking open my glove compartment, I rummage around. I keep a stash of energy bars in here, just for emergencies.

OK, so they’re not just for emergencies – they’re usually my breakfast these days, when I get to eat breakfast, that is. I buy them in bulk from the health-food store. Finishing a call, I tear open the wrapper and take a bite. These are full of oaty goodness and are super-delicious.

Well, actually, they’re not that delicious. In fact, they remind me a bit of the food I used to feed my pet gerbil, but they’re a lot healthier than a Twix, which is what I used to eat for my breakfast in my twenties.

I chew quickly as we crawl along the high street, taking advantage of the few moments of silence before my phone starts ringing.

It’s that Beetle again.

As I pull up at the lights, I feel a jolt of surprise. Gosh, what a coincidence. My eyes flick automatically towards the driver and I catch the briefest of glimpses. A split second. Barely long enough to see more than a flash of that same long, dark, curly hair before I’m blinded by the morning sunlight bouncing off the windscreen. Then she’s gone. Disappeared behind a sunvisor. And I’m left staring at the car, feeling vaguely unsettled.

And slightly bewildered.

I peer closer. I didn’t imagine it. That really does look like my old car, I determine, my chest resting against the steering wheel, my brow furrowed as I squint in the sunlight. In fact, it’s exactly the same, complete with animal-rights sticker and rusting headlights. And bashed on the left-hand side from when I forgot to put on the handbrake and it rolled down the hill into the village and the farmer’s tractor …

As the lights change and the Beetle drives past me, I gaze at it in stunned disbelief.

There’s nothing else for it, it has to be my old car. It failed its MOT years ago on about a hundred different points … A vague memory stirs: the mechanic calling it a death trap and telling me that the next time I put my foot on the brake pedal, my foot would go through the bottom as it was so rusty. Dad very sweetly bought it off me as he loves fixing up old cars. He gave it to Mum as a runaround, something to use for taking the dogs on long muddy walks in the Dales, until eventually they ended up selling it to someone.