Page 46 of Who’s That Girl?

OK, so now what?

Five minutes later Lottie and I have decamped once more to the beer garden. We share a table and for a few moments we both sit there in silence, sipping our drinks, while I grope around for something to talk about. I feel absurdly nervous. As if I’m on a first date.

‘So,’ I finally say, ‘nice … um … weather we’re having.’

No sooner have the words left my mouth than I feel myself cringe. God, Charlotte, is that it? You bump into yourself aged twenty-one and of all the millions of things you could say you’re chatting about the goddamn weather?

‘Mmm, yeah, isn’t it?’ She nods, closing her eyes and tipping her face to the sun.

Triggering a flashback to Suki’s lecture about sun-damage.

‘Arggh, no, don’t—’ I blurt out, then stop myself.

Jerking her head back down, Lottie looks at me, startled. ‘What’s wrong?’

I hesitate. Oh, shit. I really haven’t thought this through, have I? I mean, what do I say now? You’re going to ruin my skin? I have severe pigmentation and discolouration and it’s all your fault?

‘Um … there was a wasp,’ I mumble weakly.

‘Oh, crap, really?’ Waving her hands around, her eyes dart from side to side, looking for the invisible wasp.

‘Actually, I think it’s gone now,’ I add quickly.

‘It has? Phew.’ Settling back in her chair, she hitches her skirt even shorter and sticks her legs out into the sun. ‘God, it’s amazing that it’s still really hot, isn’t it?’ she enthuses, basking like a cat in the early evening rays.

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ I nod, watching her helplessly while trying to block out Suki’s voice, which is now ringing in my ears. ‘Um … are you sure you don’t want to sit in the shade?’

‘The shade?’ My twenty-one-year-old self turns and looks at me with such horror you’d think I suggested she stick red-hot pokers in her eyeballs. ‘Why on earth would I do that? I’m trying to get a suntan.’

Trust me, this girl has a suntan. She’s practically mahogany.

‘You know, I use this great fake tan—’ I confide, but she cuts me off.

‘Fake tan? Urgh.’ She pulls a face. ‘No, thanks. I want a real tan.’

I smile. Tightly.

There’s a beat as I watch her turn her face to the sun again and close her eyes. God, this is ridiculous. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.

‘I have some sunscreen if you want to borrow it,’ I suggest, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘No, it’s OK.’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t wear sunscreen.’

Now it’s my turn to look at her with horror as visions of all the skincare products in my bathroom cabinet swim before my eyes, followed by visions of all my credit-card bills. I’ve spent a fortune on miracle creams that promise to reverse the signs of ageing.

And no wonder, I realise, watching myself as I sizzle in the sun. In fact, to be quite honest, I’m lucky I don’t look like beef jerky.

‘Well, it’s never too late to start,’ I reply, pulling out my sunscreen from my bag while simultaneously fighting the urge to grab hold of her and smother her in it. ‘Sure you don’t want some?’ I ask, squirting a bit on my hand and rubbing it on my face.

‘SPF forty-five?’ she says, looking aghast. ‘Blimey, no wonder you’re so pale.’

‘I’m not that pale.’ I frown, looking at the remnants of my spray-on tan. ‘And anyhow, sunbathing is really bad for your skin, you know. In fact a tan is just melanin,’ I quote from one of the many skincare articles I’ve read on this subject, ‘which your skin produces to protect itself. So in fact you could say that a suntan is actually a sign that your skin is already damaged,’ I finish, feeling rather impressed by how knowledgeable I sound. I hadn’t really realised how much you learn as you get older, but by the time a woman hits thirty, she’s been exposed to enough articles, beauty products and mirrors to have become an expert in skincare.

‘So what?’ She laughs carelessly.

Only she hasn’t hit thirty yet, has she? This version of me is still twenty-one, I realise, watching my younger self. I know nothing. I have no idea how much money I’m going to haemorrhage on this stuff in years to come, how many hours I’m going to spend daubing on creams and massaging in scrubs to achieve what I have right now, and what I’m taking for granted.

Frustration stabs. God, was I really so clueless?