Page 47 of Who’s That Girl?

‘You say that now,’ I persist, trying not to think of all the UVB and UVA rays that are right now attacking that perfect, peachy, freckle-free skin, sowing the future seeds of pigmentation and discolouration, ‘but you’ll regret it when you’re in your thirties.’

‘Thirties? Oh God, I won’t care by then,’ she dismisses, slurping her cider. ‘I’ll be old.’

I flinch. ‘Thirties isn’t old,’ I say tetchily, and reach for my cranberry juice. I’m not actually a big fan of cranberry juice, but it’s chock-full of vitamin C and antioxidants. I take a virtuous sip. So much better for me than cider, which is just full of empty calories.

‘Yeah, it is,’ she retorts, and gives a little shudder, as if she doesn’t even want to think about it. ‘It’s ancient.’

What? She’s saying I’m ancient?

I feel a slam of indignation. I’ve been trying to be patient, but this is too much. I mean, honestly! I still shop at Zara! And I have not just one but two pairs of skinny jeans! How on earth can she think I’m ancient?

Because you did, reminds a voice in my head. You did, Charlotte.

And all at once I remember a conversation I had when I was twenty-one. I was with a group of friends and we were talking about the millennium and how old we would all be, and when I realised I was going to turn twenty-five that year, I was appalled. I thought that was so old. And as for the few friends who would be in their thirties … well, that was just unthinkable. I didn’t know anyone over thirty – apart from my parents – and it wasn’t just that: I didn’t even notice anyone in their thirties. They were invisible to me.

Just like I’m invisible to her, I think, glancing at my twenty-one-year old-self, sitting just inches across the table from me, oblivious to who I really am.

She catches me looking and throws a hand over her mouth in horror. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean you were …’ She trails off, pulls a face. ‘Me and my big mouth.’

‘It’s OK, no offence taken,’ I reply tetchily. ‘I was just saying …’ Absently I scratch the eczema on my elbow. ‘Besides, the sun will really make your eczema flare up,’ I can’t help adding, moving even further into the shade.

She frowns. ‘I don’t have eczema.’

I look at her in confusion. ‘You don’t?’

‘No, why did you think I did?’

‘Oh, no reason.’ I shrug quickly. ‘It’s just very common.’ Puzzled, I try remembering when I got my first flare-up. It feels like I’ve had it for ever, but actually, thinking back, she’s right – I don’t remember having it when I was her age. In fact the first time I got it was when I was really stressed out over an important deadline.

‘What time is it?’ I zone back to see her gesturing to my watch. ‘I don’t have a watch.’ She smiles in explanation.

‘You don’t have a watch?’ I repeat in astonishment. It’s unthinkable.

‘No, I don’t wear one.’

Trying to absorb this shocking piece of information, I glance at my own for the umpteenth time that day. ‘Um … nearly twenty past six.’

She tuts. ‘Typical. She’s always late.’

‘Who is?’ I ask, but I already know. Vanessa. It has to be.

‘My friend Nessy. She’s supposed to be meeting me here for a drink, but she’s never on time.’

Well, at least some things don’t change, I think, suppressing a rueful smile.

‘I’ll give her another ten minutes, then I’m going home. I only live round the corner, so I can walk there. Which is lucky, as my car’s in the garage being fixed.’ She pulls a face. ‘I had a bit of an accident.’

Of course. The lamp-post. That’s why my old Beetle wasn’t parked outside the house.

‘Which garage did you take it to?’

‘Oh, just some place on the Harlow Road.’

‘Barry’s Motors?’

‘Yes, that’s it.’ She nods. ‘How did you know?’

Because they totally ripped me off, I remember grimly, but instead reply vaguely, ‘Oh, I took my car there once.’