Page 42 of Who’s That Girl?

‘There you go.’ He passes me my drink. ‘That’ll be a pound, please.’

I’m pleasantly surprised. Well, I’m glad to see the prices are still reasonable, I think, digging out my purse. There’s nothing worse than those overpriced bars that charge you £3.50 for a soft drink. But then this pub always was good value for money.

‘Thanks, great.’ As I hand over the money and take my drink, I look around for a spare seat. It’s really busy. I finally spot an empty table and dive on it gratefully. Fab! Pulling up a chair, I am just getting comfy when—

I wrinkle up my nose. Hang on a minute, can I smell cigarettes?

As a blast of smoke wafts in my direction, I glance sideways. Sure enough, there, right next to me, is a couple smoking. Inside! Haven’t they heard of the smoking ban?

‘Erm … excuse me …’ They both look over. ‘Would you mind?’ I say politely, and gesture to their cigarettes. Well, I hate to be one of those people who complain about smoking, but it’s really bad for my sinuses. Saying that, I shouldn’t feel that bad as it is illegal to smoke in pubs.

‘Sure. Go ahead, take one.’ He smiles, proffering his packet of Marlboro Lights. ‘Do you need a light?’

Oh, no, he’s totally misunderstood. ‘Um … no … thank you,’ I fluster, shaking my head. ‘I didn’t mean … I meant …’ Watching him puffing away unfazed, I trail off at a loss. ‘My sinuses …’ I gesture, sniffing a bit for emphasis.

‘Right, yeah, summer colds. A bummer.’ He nods agreeably and drags hard on his cigarette.

I feel a sting of indignation. I can’t believe it. The arrogance of some people! He’s just going to sit there and carry on smoking. That’s so bloody rude. And when I asked nicely and everything. Right, that’s it. Picking up my cranberry juice, I stand up huffily.

‘You should go sit outside, get some sun,’ he advises, slurping his pint.

‘Yes, I think I’ll do that,’ I reply tightly, and throwing my tote bag over my shoulder, I turn and stalk across the scuffed wooden floorboards.

Outside, the beer garden is already jostling with people crowding the few tables and chairs. This is just how I remember it: jam-packed and buzzing with chatter, I think, weaving my way through. It’s also still just as pretty. Vibrantly coloured hanging baskets dangle from the walls scenting the air, and there’s a lovely sycamore tree just round that corner. Gosh, I can remember when they planted that tree, I reflect, casting my mind back. It was nothing more than a skinny little sapling, but just look at it now!

Oh.

As it comes into view, I feel a pang of disappointment. Gosh, it hasn’t grown very much in ten years, has it? I thought it was going to be this great big spreading tree and I was going to sit underneath its shady boughs. I peer at the weedy little branches. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was still a sapling.

But then, that shows you how much I know about gardening, I muse, spotting a free spot and plonking myself down with my back to the sun. Well, better not get any more sun-damage … I look around me. The crowd looks pretty much the same – lots of cool, trendy people in low-slung jeans and floaty dresses, showing off summer tans and those Celtic armband tattoos that were so fashionable in the nineties.

Resting my drink on the table, I start rooting around in my bag for my mobile. I need to call Miles back. He left a message earlier today when I was at the doctor’s saying, ‘Nothing important, just checking in,’ which is what he always says whenever he calls. When we first started going out, I thought that was really sweet – and I still do. Only, it might be nice if it was something important sometimes. Not scary important. Just interesting important.

Dialling his number, I press the mobile to my ear and wait to hear his phone ringing.

Except it doesn’t.

Frowning, I look closely at the screen and notice all the bars have disappeared and I don’t have a signal. Again. Irritation stabs. I called my phone company yesterday, but they said there wasn’t a problem with reception in the area. I don’t understand it. I dig out my other phone, but it’s the same. No signal. I stare at in confusion. What was Beatrice talking about the other day? Oh, right, yes. Something about too many people using their mobile phones, I remember, glancing around me. Maybe she’s right.

Except …

Wait a minute. That’s odd. My eyes flick from person to person. I can’t actually see anyone using their phone.

Maybe they don’t allow mobiles here, I decide, feeling a little bewildered, though I can’t see any signs. Oh, no, look, there’s a couple of people on their phones. A few tables away, I spot a guy chatting into his phone. As he finishes his call, I jump up and walk over to him.

‘Excuse me.’ He looks up. ‘Are you with T-Mobile?’

He looks at me blankly. ‘Sorry?’

‘I saw you on your phone,’ I explain, ‘but I don’t have any reception.’

‘Um … no, I’m with Vodafone and it seems fine.’ He shrugs, putting his mobile down on the table in front of him. I glance at it. God, he must have had that phone for years – it looks really old-fashioned. Still, it has five big black bars showing. Unlike either of my phones.

‘Gosh, that’s weird.’ Confused, I peer at the bars on my phone again. Nope. They’ve all disappeared.

‘What’s that?’ He looks at me quizzically.

I pause from performing my usual scientific approach of pressing every button and jabbing the screen. ‘Excuse me?’