Page 57 of Who’s That Girl?

‘A wise decision,’ butts in the estate agent.

‘Um … yes, I think so,’ I say dazedly.

Selling our individual properties? That must have been the point when my attention wandered.

‘It makes perfect financial sense.’

‘I know, it’s just …’ I falter, my mind slipping back to the conversation about the fireplace and Miles not understanding the magic of real fires. I don’t know how to put it into words. I can’t even make sense of it myself, let alone explain it to Miles. Or the estate agent, who’s watching me intently for signs of hesitation.

‘I have to tell you I’ve got several other interested parties chomping at the bit on this one,’ he warns. ‘In fact I’ve already had a couple of offers over the asking price, so I reckon you’d have to make a really good offer to clinch the deal.’

My stomach tightens. God, it’s all suddenly very real. Buying a place together is something Miles and I have talked about over mixed olives and a bottle of wine, and it all sounded lovely in theory, but until now I’ve never really thought it through. Haven’t really grasped what it entails.

‘I guess I’m just a bit nervous,’ I confess.

‘I know, darling.’ Miles smiles good-naturedly. ‘But don’t you love this house? You’ve always said you want a garden, and there’s masses of room …’

It’s true. I am always saying that. Maybe I’m just worrying about nothing. I look at Miles. He’s so handsome and smart, and he’s found us this amazing house, and he wants us to buy it and move in together.

And I’m standing here dithering?

I grab a hold of myself. Charlotte, are you completely mad? What more do you want? What more could any girl want?

‘You’re right,’ I say decisively. Throwing my arms round his neck, I give him a kiss. ‘Let’s make an offer!’

Chapter Eighteen

Back in the office, I sit at my desk eating a salad and stare at the glossy estate agent’s brochure of the house. It looks gorgeous. It’s got everything I’ve ever wanted: shiny wooden floorboards, big shutters, south-facing garden. It’s my dream house.

But even so, for the rest of the afternoon I can’t turn off that nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach. Every time I start to work on a press release, and even in my meeting with a journalist from a supermarket magazine, I find my mind wandering back to that moment in the bedroom when we talked about a nursery, or get a flash of Miles’s excited face as we walked around the garden and he talked about extensions and planning permission and loft conversions.

As the digital clock on my computer screen flicks from 18.29 to 18.30, I put my computer to sleep. I’ve got my dinner date with Larry Thompson in half an hour.

‘OK, I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say to Beatrice, who’s hidden behind a barricade of files that are piled up on her desk, her decision to reorganise the filing cabinets at four o’clock this afternoon not being one of her wisest.

‘You’re leaving?’ Popping her head up above the A4 parapet, she looks at me with disbelief. ‘Already?’

‘I’m having dinner with Larry Thompson at his hotel,’ I remind her.

She rolls her eyes. ‘Of course.’ She nods, then shoots me a bright smile. ‘Good luck! And don’t forget to order their famous chocolate profiteroles.’

Arriving at his hotel, I valet the car and hurry up the front steps. A uniformed doorman opens the door for me and I smile appreciatively. Gosh, I love this hotel. It has to be the nicest one in London. I always dream about staying here. Once, after a night out in the West End, I suggested to Miles that we splurge on a suite and spend the night here, but he looked at me as if I’d gone bananas. Why on earth would we pay a fortune to spend the night in a hotel when we only lived a few miles away? Which wasn’t really the point, but anyway …

I’m a little bit early, so I cross the grand marbled lobby to where a couple of immaculately groomed receptionists are fielding telephone calls and queries from guests.

‘Hi, I’m here to meet Larry Thompson.’

At the mention of his name a look passes between the two receptionists. ‘Ah, yes, Mr Celebrity Smile,’ says one, smiling brightly. Too brightly. I get the impression he’s not the most popular guest at the hotel. ‘I’ll call his room. May I ask your name?’

‘Charlotte Merryweather, from Merryweather PR,’ I add out of habit.

‘One moment.’

As she dials the room, I take in the elegant lobby and try to steady my nerves. Several well-dressed guests are milling around, while over in the corner there’s a blond man wearing sunglasses and muttering into his mobile. He looks a bit like Daniel Craig. Actually, I think it is Daniel Craig! Excitement stabs. Oh my God, just wait till I tell Miles! A real, live 007. And he’s gorgeous. Though of course Miles doesn’t like Daniel Craig as 007. He says having a blond James Bond is a travesty …

He turns to face me. Oh, it’s not him at all. ‘Miss Merryweather?’

‘Yes?’ I snap out of my thoughts and look across at the receptionist.