Page 18 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Absolutely,’ he agrees just as emphatically, and I feel a slight thrill. I don’t like to get my hopes up, but things are looking very good. Very good indeed.

‘But after a couple of years I just wasn’t feeling stimulated or challenged enough, so when I was presented with an opportunity to move into the exciting world of PR, I jumped at the chance.’

‘And you don’t regret giving up your writing career?’

‘I’ve never looked back,’ I say with conviction.

‘That’s awesome.’ Larry Thompson nods.

I smile modestly. Though I say it myself, it does all sound pretty awesome, doesn’t it?

Except the thing is, it didn’t happen exactly like that. Not word for word. The real truth is this: I left university with big dreams of being a writer and applied for every job I could find. Nearly a hundred rejection letters later, I finally got an interview to be an editor of a magazine.

The bit I leave out is that it was for an embroidery and cross-stitch magazine. So, all right, it wasn’t exactly well-known, but it was a start. And everyone has to start somewhere, right?

Thankfully, I got the job and moved to London, and for the next three years I made up cross-stitch patterns by day and partied in the bars and clubs of West London by night.

And in my lunch hours? I updated my CV and sent it out to every magazine and newspaper I could think of. Until one day it landed on the right desk at the right time. A new lifestyle magazine was looking for a features writer. It was a dream come true.

Unfortunately the dream only lasted six months before the magazine folded and I found myself unemployed and looking for another job as a writer. Only I couldn’t find one. Eventually a friend told me about a vacancy at a PR agency. The job involved writing press releases. So you’d still be writing, reasoned the friend. Well, if you can call a thousand words on shampoo writing. But it paid the bills. And it was only temporary. Just until I finished that novel of mine that I’d been working on in my spare time and had sold it to a publisher in a furious bidding war …

I wish.

Because I never did finish it. I got sidetracked. Became too busy. Gave up. I’m not exactly sure why I didn’t go back to it, but the truth is that bit by bit my dream of being a writer receded and the reality set in. I got promoted, became more successful, earned more money and then set up my company. And it’s true, I never have looked back.

Well, maybe sometimes. When I walk into a bookshop and pick up some author’s first novel. Or read a fascinating article in a magazine and think maybe, just maybe, that could have been me. If I’d stuck it out longer. Tried harder. Been a better writer. And for the briefest second the longing is almost palpable.

But then I put it out of my mind. I totally made the right decision. I mean, if I’d followed that route, I wouldn’t be where I am today: having lunch in a chi-chi restaurant in Notting Hill, on the brink of winning an important account that will take the company to a whole new international level, I think, glancing at Larry Thompson, who’s looking at me thoughtfully.

‘You know, I see a lot of myself in you.’

‘You do?’ I reply, not quite sure whether or not to take that as a compliment.

‘Very much so.’ He nods. ‘And after meeting you and hearing all about your company, I feel very strongly that Merryweather PR might be just what I’m looking for.’

Sitting across the table from him, I smile modestly, the picture of professional poise, but on the inside I want to punch the air with delight. I hardly dare think it, but it’s looking very possible that all my hard work and evenings spent suffering through his US TV show, Celebrity Smile Clinic, might just pay off.

‘Well, as I said before, we’d be more than delighted to represent you here in the UK, Dr Thompson.’ Gosh, I don’t know how I’m keeping my voice so calm.

He holds up his hand in modesty.

‘I mean Larry,’ I say, smiling.

‘In fact, the more I think about it, I really don’t think there’s any point in seeing the other PR companies,’ he continues evenly, raising an eyebrow. ‘Do you?’

The contract is mine! flashes through my mind as if in neon.

‘No … I don’t think there is,’ I reply, just as evenly. I feel a burst of giddy excitement and do my utmost to contain it. Like I said, poised and professional.

‘Excellent. So we’re agreed.’ He smiles, reaching underneath the table to smooth down his napkin.

Oh, my God, I can’t wait to call Beatrice and tell her how well the meeting went.

I feel someone’s fingers sweep across my inner thigh.

What the …?

I jump and look sharply across at Larry Thompson, but he’s innocently winding spaghetti on to his fork. I stare at him with a mixture of doubt and disbelief. Did I just imagine that? Did that not just happen? My heart thudding, I fidget self-consciously in my chair, pulling down my skirt and crossing my legs.