Page 50 of Who’s That Girl?

Trying not to think about spiders dropping on my head or crawling down the collar of my dressing gown (and thinking only about spiders dropping on my head or crawling down the collar of my dressing gown), I start rummaging around. I’m sure they’re in here somewhere, amongst all this stuff … Christmas-tree decorations, an ancient tea set that was my grandmother’s, old clothes that I’m keeping in case they come back into fashion. I hold up a pair of faded, ripped Levi 501s with a bandanna for a patch on the knee. Well, that’s the idea …

Aha, there it is. Behind a couple of dusty suitcases I spot a large, old-fashioned hat box. Dragging it out, I carry it into the living room and plonk it on the rug, then, sitting cross-legged beside it, tug off the dusty lid.

It’s filled with photos. Now everything’s digital no one hardly ever gets prints made any more, do they? But in the old days I always used to be getting films developed at Snappy Snaps and putting them in albums. I’ve got dozens of them.

I start flicking through one randomly, and then another, and another, until I find what I’m looking for: an album containing pictures of me when I was twenty-one. With renewed curiosity, I open it and gaze at the photographs. I’d just moved to London and it’s filled with a social whirl of parties, pubs and picnics. Here’s one of the many Christmas parties we had at Kilmaine Terrace, when I snogged Simon, who I worked with. I cringe. Boy, did I regret that in the morning.

Oh, and there’s Vanessa and I drunk and dancing at the Notting Hill Carnival – shortly after this picture was taken I fell into a bush and twisted my ankle because I was so drunk. I couldn’t wear high heels for months. It was such a pain. Literally.

I turn a page. And here’s me again in some horrendous patterned flares I bought from Camden Market. I shudder. I used to think they were so flattering, but looking at them now with the benefit of hindsight, I realise they made me look like someone’s sofa. God, talk about a fashion faux pas. I’d never let myself go out in those now.

I pause, the photo albums scattered around me. A seed of thought takes hold, starts to grow … Hang on a minute. If I can prevent myself from sleeping with Billy the wannabe rock star and save myself from getting hurt, why stop there? What about all the hundreds of mistakes I’m going to make, all the lessons I haven’t yet learned, all the dumb, stupid stuff I’m going to do because I’m naive and clueless and don’t know any better? Plus let’s not forget all these other fashion disasters. I cringe, spotting another photograph. This time I’m wearing PVC trousers that make my legs look like they are encased in bin-liners. Enough said.

All at once everything seems to broaden, like being in the movies when the curtains pull back and the screen widens, and I can see the bigger picture. And it’s not just about something specific, like the importance of wearing sunscreen, being warned about a dodgy garage or staying away from a loser like Billy Romani; it’s about everything. It’s about all the coulda, woulda, shouldas. It’s about getting the one-in-a-zillion chance to hang out with my twenty-one-year-old self.

Like Vanessa said, if only you knew then what you know now.

Well, now I can.

I feel a rush of exhilaration. Excitement. Potential. And suddenly it hits me. Oh, wow, just imagine. I’ll be like Yoda! A wise master, teaching myself the ways of the world, bestowing sage advice and words of wisdom, giving myself the benefit of my experience and hindsight. I can see myself now. I’ll be firm but fair, wise but approachable, like Dumbledore in Harry Potter, or Mr Miyagi in The Karate Kid.

But of course I mustn’t get too carried away, I think, catching myself hastily. After all, Lottie has no idea who I am, so it’s important I don’t appear like a know-it-all. I mean, I’m not going to give her a set of instructions or dos and don’ts or anything like that. No, I’ll just drop a few subtle hints, gently lead her in the right direction, give her a bit of friendly advice. I won’t make a big deal of it all.

Chapter Sixteen

OK, so I’ve made a list.

Fast-forward to nine the next morning and I’ve popped into a pharmacy before my meeting with a journalist. Armed with a basket, I’m navigating the busy aisles, on the hunt for a pair of eyebrow tweezers.

If I’m going to do this properly, I don’t want to forget anything, so I’ve just scribbled down a few random thoughts on a piece of paper. Nothing major, just some things off the top of my head. So, for example, first things first:

1.Do not sleep with Billy Romani.

I don’t care how handsome he is. How charming he is. How amazing that thing was that he did with his tongue – OK, Charlotte, enough of the reminiscing. He’s also a liar, a cheat and a heart-breaker.

2.Invest in property.

My dad’s motto was always ‘Buy, don’t rent.’ Of course I didn’t listen to him in my twenties and was much older when I bought my first flat. Maybe now I’ll listen to myself.

3.Better still, invest in any of the following: Apple, Microsoft, Google.

Admittedly that might be a bit unrealistic. Especially considering I used to have about two fifty pences to rub together at the end of each month. Plus I’m not even sure those things were around back then. But still, it’s important to …

4.Think Big.

And we’re talking about ambition, not hair.

Shuddering as I think about my younger self’s hairdo, which had a life of its own, I quickly glance back down at my list of instructions. Right, where was I? Oh, yes.

5. Start a pension.

OK, I’m just going to have to get the boring financial stuff out of the way first, so I can get on to the more important stuff on the list.

Spying the tweezers, I pounce on a super-professional-looking pair made from industrial-strength stainless steel with ‘precision edges’ for a salon finish. Like, for example …

6. Pluck your eyebrows.

Look, I’ve got nothing against thick eyebrows, but it’s one thing having sexy beetle brows and it’s another having Noel Gallagher’s monobrow. And while we’re on the subject of grooming …