Page 44 of Who’s That Girl?

Which is a pretty crap fib, as if there’s one word to describe my situation right now it certainly isn’t fine. Panicked? Maybe. Freaked out? Definitely. This close to losing it any second? Yup, that as well.

Frantically I try gathering myself together, but it’s not that easy. Bewildered, I glance down at my shirt with dismay. It’s my favourite shirt and it’s now splattered with cranberry juice. God, just look at it! I only bought it a couple of weeks ago and it’s totally ruined. Maybe if I take it to a dry-cleaner’s, they can—

Oh, who am I kidding? I don’t give a bloody stuff about my goddamn shirt. I’m just trying really hard not to think about the small fact that I’m having a conversation with a girl in a skimpy top and silver eyeshadow who just so happens to be me a decade ago.

As I look back at her, I wobble and nearly lose it. God, this brings a whole new meaning to talking to yourself.

‘It was just a bit of a shock,’ I say, trying to appear casual, but it’s as if the world has tipped on its axis and I’m teetering on the edge, clinging on for dear life, while having to pretend everything is perfectly normal. ‘But no big deal.’ I shrug and laugh lightly. But there’s no reaction. My younger self is still staring at me, her smooth, wrinkle-free brow furrowed in concentration. As if she’s thinking about something very, very hard. As if something’s troubling her. As if—

Suddenly it registers.

Of course! Why didn’t I think of this before?

She recognises me.

As it hits me, I know I have to pull myself together. No doubt she’s going to be as freaked out as I am, if not more. In fact I’ll probably have to calm her down, being the older self. Act like a big sister. Tell her not to worry. That it will be OK, to stay calm and not panic, that we’ll figure this out.

She opens her mouth to speak, and despite my own feelings, it’s all I can do to stop myself from flinging my arm protectively round her shoulder and saying, ‘There, there, dear.’

‘Salt.’

Or perhaps she’s going to burst into tears, or faint, or have some kind of panic attack, or—

Hang on, rewind. Did she just say …?

‘Salt?’ I repeat, taken aback.

‘Yes, that’s right. And white wine.’ She nods, gesturing at my shirt. ‘I’m sure that will get the stain out, though you’ll probably need to soak it in hot water.’ She smiles apologetically.

What? She doesn’t recognise me? She doesn’t know who I am? I stare at her in shocked disbelief. But surely she has to. I’m her. I mean, she’s me. I mean, we’re the same person. Fuck, this is confusing.

‘I think we’ve met before,’ I try prompting. Maybe she’s in denial. Just like I was.

‘We have?’ Tilting her head on one side, she peers at me and I can see she’s racking her brain. ‘Nope, I don’t think so.’ She grins.

I swallow hard and take a deep breath. ‘It’s me, Charlotte,’ I whisper, leaning closer.

Her jaw drops open with surprise and she clutches her chest.

I knew it. At last.

I brace myself, ready to do all the explaining. She’s going to want lots of answers, lots of why, how, when, whats. Which will be quite tricky, as I don’t have answers. But never mind, I’m sure I’ll think of something. Just as Vanessa did when Ruby asked her why Daddy had a ‘thing’ between his legs and she said it was a tail, like George’s, their cocker spaniel. Which was pretty inspired, I have to say. ‘Oh, wow, what a coincidence,’ she gasps, her face creasing into a smile. ‘That’s my name too. But my friends call me Lottie.’

There’s not a flicker of recognition. Nothing. It’s like I’m a total stranger.

I stare at her in confusion. But how can that be? Unless of course this is all some crazy dream and I’m going to pinch myself and wake up.

I pinch myself. Nope, I’m still here. Or should I say both of me are still here?

‘Sorry, I’m dreadful with faces, especially once I’ve had a drink.’ She gestures to her empty glass and laughs widely, showing off a mouthful of silver fillings.

God, I’d forgotten about those too. I had them all replaced about five years ago, after reading an article about mercury poisoning and freaking out. I also had my two wonky front teeth straightened with braces. And I had them bleached. In fact my smile’s completely different now. Like so many things about me …

And then, all at once, it dawns on me. No wonder she doesn’t recognise me – not only do we look completely different now, but we are completely different. Of course I’m like a stranger to her: I am a stranger to her. She doesn’t know me yet. Me, the person she’s going to become in the future, in ten years’ time. The person who no longer goes by her nickname of Lottie, but prefers Charlotte as it’s more grown-up and mature. The person without silver fillings, long, brown scrunch-dried hair, bushy eyebrows and an accent that’s pure Pennines. We’re not the same person at all: I’m not her any more and she’s not me yet. We’re two completely different people.

I mean, for God’s sake, does that look like my cleavage! I stare at it now in astonishment. My younger self is wearing a flimsy top that her boobs appear to be almost spilling out of. Automatically I fasten a button on my shirt. I’d forgotten how much curvier I was when I was younger, but then that’s not surprising as I didn’t do any exercise and used to eat rubbish. Now I work out and watch what I eat and I look and feel so much better. Sort of.

‘Um … nice top,’ I comment, as she catches me staring.