Page 62 of Who’s That Girl?

‘But they will be different,’ she replies, sounding relieved. ‘Calendars are different from year to year.’

Oh my God, of course. I’m such a dummy. I never even thought of that.

‘The Gregorian solar calendar is an arithmetical calendar,’ she continues matter-of-factly. ‘It counts days as the basic unit of time, grouping them into years of 365 or 366 days. The solar calendar repeats completely every 146,097 days, which fill 400 years, and which also happens to be 20,871 seven-day weeks.’

‘Um, really?’ I say distractedly, staring at the diary in my lap. So that totally explains it. Today is a Thursday, but when I was twenty-one, today was a Saturday. Which means … All at once it registers: Billy Romani’s band is playing tonight. Shit.

‘Of these 400 years, 303 – the “common years” – have 365 days, and 97 – the leap years – have 366 days. This gives an average year length of exactly 365.2425 days, or 365 days, 5 hours, 49 minutes and 12 seconds.’

Beatrice is chuntering on, but I’m no longer listening. Instead my eyes are frantically glossing to the bottom of the page. Because there, in bold capitals, underlined twice and with four, no five exclamation marks are the words I’m dreading:

SLEPT WITH BILLY ROMANI!!!!!

I take a deep breath. ‘Fuck.’

‘Charlotte?’ says Beatrice uncertainly. ‘Is everything all right?’

No, I’m not all right. I’m not bloody all right! I’m about to make a huge mistake!

‘Sure, yeah, I’m fine …’ My mind is whirring and I glance at my watch. Maybe I’m not too late. Maybe I can still stop this. Dropping the diary on the floor, I jump up from the rug. ‘But I have to go.’

‘Go?’

‘Um … yes …’ I fluster. Music blares from the TV and I glance at the screen. ‘A quiz show is coming on,’ I blurt. ‘It’s my … um … favourite show.’

‘It is? Oh, well, enjoy. See you tomorrow.’

‘You too.’ I hang up and look wildly around for my car keys. There they are! And scooping them up from the coffee table, I grab the remote and flick off the TV.

Though I say I was a huge fan of Shattered Genius, I can’t remember any of their songs. Not a single one. Which is odd, considering I can still remember the words to Bucks Fizz’s ‘Making Your Mind Up’ and I can’t have been more than about five years old when they won the Eurovision Song Contest.

But I’m sure it’s all going to come flooding back when I hear them tonight on stage, I tell myself, as I drive back through the diversion. Unexpectedly I feel a slight thrill. I can’t remember the last time I went to see a live band. Actually, yes, I can. It was to see a tribute band that did all the James Bond theme tunes.

Reluctantly my mind slides back to that night a few months ago. Miles got the tickets. He’s a huge James Bond fan. He’s read all the Ian Fleming books about a hundred times and can quote the films off by heart. Which might drive me nuts if it wasn’t for Daniel Craig and those swimming trunks. I could watch him for ever. Though, according to Miles, you have to prefer Sean Connery to be a true 007 purist.

Anyway, I like Shirley Bassey singing ‘Goldfinger’ as much as the next person, but an ageing trio from Manchester on keyboards, with a sequenced light show, was a bit much. Their big finale was ‘Nobody Does It Better’, though quite frankly I beg to differ: I could have done better. But of course I didn’t tell Miles that. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I raved on about how amazing they were.

Unfortunately that slightly backfired as he went and bought me their CD ‘because you love them so much’. So now I always have to pretend to be listening to it whenever he’s in my car with me.

Taking the same route as yesterday, I cut down the side street. Luckily it’s late and there’s hardly any traffic on the roads, so it doesn’t take long before I’m pulling up outside the Wellington. As I turn off the ignition, I hear a tuneless din wafting out from inside.

Oh dear. Suddenly that vague excitement I felt earlier is replaced with a resounding thud of trepidation and I have a flashback to me in a dingy club, full of cigarette smoke, while a band thrash the hell out of the speakers. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe I’ve forgotten all of Shattered Genius’s songs for a reason.

Feeling my resolve wobble, I force myself to rally. I can’t turn back now. I’m here for me, remember. For Lottie, the twenty-one-year-old girl I used to be. And who right now is in that pub on course to get her heart broken by Billy Romani.

Unless I rescue her.

Resolute, I grab the handle and swing open the car door. As I step out on to the pavement, I hear the muffled clash of drums, accompanied by a sort of strange wailing that doesn’t sound human. OK, so that doesn’t sound great, but at least they can’t be worse than the James Bond tribute band, I console myself, slamming the door and hurrying towards the pub. Plus I used to be a fan of this band. My musical tastes can’t have changed that much. Seriously, how bad can they be?

Bad.

Very bad.

Like bloody awful.

Pushing open the door of the Wellington, I’m greeted by what sounds like an entire drumkit being thrown down the stairs, along with the drummer.

‘Thank God – you made it!’