Page 2 of Who’s That Girl?

BEEEEEPPPPP!!!!

Like now.

I hit the ‘off’ button and throw back my sheets. I just bought these sheets. They’re made from pure organic, unbleached cotton, which the saleswoman in John Lewis assured me would help my allergies. I have tons of allergies, which is a bit embarrassing, as that makes me sound like one of those annoying types who think it’s cool to have a wheat intolerance, but I genuinely do have allergies. Really, I do. Anyway, I thought I’d give the sheets a try. I’m not sure if they’re helping, though, as I only have to think about how much I paid for them and my eyes start watering.

The alarm is now silent, but for a moment I can’t rouse the energy to move. Arms and legs outstretched, I lie starfish-wide on my mattress, my eye mask still on my head, the humidifier puffing out little clouds of steam. My sound machine continues playing in the corner. It’s set to ‘Relaxing Ocean Lullaby’ to help aid restful sleep. That’s because not only do I have a ton of allergies, but I’m also a bad sleeper. Just terrible. I find it so hard to switch off. As soon as I close my eyes, all these niggling worries begin running around in my head like millions of ants.

I tried counting them once, like they tell you to do with sheep, but it had the opposite effect. Instead of making me fall asleep, it made me wide awake with fear and I ended up staying up that whole night watching cosmetic-surgery-gone-wrong programmes on TV. Not only was I exhausted the next day, but I now have nightmares about vaginal rejuvenation. (Trust me, there is such a thing as too much information.) So that’s the last time I’m ever going to try that.

Saying that, it might help if I gave myself more than five hours’ sleep a night. It was nearly 1 a.m. when I finished reading the chapter in my new book, Finding Yourself Made Easy, and turned out the light. But then all successful women survive on hardly any sleep, don’t they? Margaret Thatcher used to run the country on four hours, apparently.

A yawn rips through me. Maybe just this once I’ll treat myself to another five minutes in bed. I mean, another five minutes aren’t going to hurt, are they?

I am just curling back into the fetal position when I feel a twinge of doubt. Actually, on second thoughts, better make it two minutes. I’ve got a busy week ahead of me. Tomorrow I’m meeting with a potential new client. Larry Thompson, a high-profile cosmetic dentist from LA who does all the big Hollywood stars, is opening a flagship store here in London. He’s looking for a public-relations firm to help launch it. Mine, I hope.

I feel a flutter of pride. I still can’t quite believe I have my own company – Merryweather PR – which, according to a recent mention in the business section of a major broadsheet, is ‘a London-based boutique public-relations company. Specialising in health and beauty, it was formed three years ago by Charlotte Merryweather [that’s me!], PR expert and experienced journalist, who prides herself on giving each client the individual and personal touch.’

Which reminds me – I must check to see if Mr Thompson has any personal dietary requirements. Only last week I made a reservation for some clients at this trendy new sushi restaurant that has a month-long waiting list (in order to get a table, I had to beg, plead and bribe the restaurant with the promise of a dazzling mention in all forthcoming press releases) only to discover when we arrived that the MD of the company was pregnant and couldn’t eat raw fish.

My flutter of pride is quickly swamped by a familiar pang of worry.

OK, sod the extra two minutes in bed. Make it one.

Oh, and I mustn’t forget to reply to those emails from my personal financial adviser. Now I’m in my thirties, I have to think about savings and retirement funds. Apparently, my shares in South-East Asia are looking healthy, but my pension isn’t performing well. All fascinating stuff … if I had the faintest clue what he was talking about.

Fifty-five seconds.

Which is why I need to order a couple of those books off Amazon called things like Investing for People Who Thought Dow Jones Was a Welsh Tenor Until Very Recently or whatever.

Fifty seconds.

Miles, my boyfriend, says it’s really important to plan for the future. He’s a property developer and he’s always talking security and investments. In fact last week when we were in bed, I zoned out in the middle of a conversation about buy-to-let mortgages and imagined myself snogging Jake Gyllenhaal.

Actually, I’ve been doing that a lot lately …

Forty-five seconds.

But that’s normal. Everyone fantasizes in relationships. I know, because I read that in one of my self-help books too. We’ve been together for eighteen months and we have a great relationship. OK, so the sex isn’t always mind-blowing, but that isn’t everything, is it? When I was younger, it was really important, but nowadays there’s so much more to think about.

Forty seconds.

Like my dry-cleaning. I must remember to pick up my dry-cleaning.

Thirty-five seconds.

And go food shopping. I shop at this really cool organic supermarket where I once spotted a Hollywood actor by the King Edward potatoes. Unfortunately it’s very expensive – a banana’s like £2.50 or something – but I really try to eat a healthy, well-balanced, organic diet. This week, though, I was too busy and so there’s nothing in the fridge.

Actually, that’s a fib. There’s lots of manky rotting vegetables. That’s the only problem with buying organic. It goes off really quickly as it’s not stuffed full of preservatives and E-numbers. In fact, to tell the truth, I usually end up throwing it away and going out to eat.

Thirty seconds.

Which reminds me. I promised to cook dinner tonight for Miles. Well, ‘cook’ is a slight euphemism. It’s generally more a case of me emptying pre-washed organic salad out of a bag and pricking the sleeve of some porcini risotto from the supermarket’s ‘restaurant range’. I’m a huge fan of those ranges. All right, they’re a bit pricey, but they’re so worth it. I mean, have you ever made risotto? It takes ages. Literally hours. All that faffing about stirring in vegetable stock every five minutes, until your carpel tunnel is killing you and you’re drunk from polishing off the white wine that was meant for the risotto. (Well, you have to do something while you’re stirring – it’s so goddamn boring.) Then, to add insult to injury, it still turns out lumpy and tasteless, and you have to spend weeks eating it because it’s like magic porridge and what started out as just two cups full of Arborio is now enough to feed an army.

My mind is racing at its usual hundred miles an hour, and I roll over and hug my pillow to my chest.

Twenty-five seconds.

On second thoughts I don’t have time to go food shopping. We’ll have to eat out instead. But that’s OK. It’s a good excuse to try that new gastropub in my neighbourhood. It opened a few weeks ago and I’ve been dying to go.