Page 66 of Who’s That Girl?

Lottie nods, but I can see she’s not thinking about loyalty and trustworthiness, she’s thinking about attractiveness and coolness. Because when I was her age, that’s all I thought about when it came to potential boyfriends. Speaking of which.

‘And who doesn’t want to be the next Liam Gallagher,’ I say pointedly, remembering Bob, who slept with his Oasis records. I start running through a few of the horrors I dated later on in my twenties. ‘You also need someone who doesn’t love drink more than you,’ that was Archie the trainee dentist. I broke it off with him, but he was so drunk at the time he didn’t remember. ‘Here’s a tip: if a man gets so drunk he passes out on the pavement outside the pub, leave him the number of his local AA and lose him faster than you can say “Taxi!”’

Lottie laughs, oblivious to the fact she’s got all this to come. Though with any luck she’ll listen to some of what I’m saying and learn by my mistakes, I think hopefully.

‘Oh, and you need someone who has drive and ambition,’ I add, remembering Zac, who lived in a tent in someone’s back garden. Zac was tortured and deep and angst-ridden, and talked a lot about the agony of life and having integrity and passion. I agreed with everything he said, while secretly wishing that I too could be deep and angst-ridden. Unfortunately I was too busy working and ended up paying for everything. ‘Someone with prospects,’ I finish emphatically.

‘Billy’s in a band,’ she replies eagerly.

‘Exactly. Never date musicians or men with skateboards.’

She throws me a puzzled look and laughs. ‘Don’t be silly.’

‘He’s going to hurt you, Lottie,’ I warn, my face suddenly falling serious. Painful memories that I’ve buried deep inside of me begin rising to the surface, and I feel a sense of urgency. ‘Please stay away from him.’

‘Hey.’

We’re interrupted by Billy, who has reappeared empty-handed. ‘I thought we could get some booze and go back to a friend’s house instead. Have a little after-party. There’s a few of us going.’ He looks straight at Lottie as if I’m invisible. ‘Fancy coming along and joining us?’

My heart thuds. This is it.

‘Well?’ He waits, hands on hips. ‘What do you say?’

No! Say no!

‘Erm …’ Lottie glances at me uncertainly. I can feel her wavering. On one side there’s me in her head telling her no, and on the other there’s her groin telling her very much yes.

‘Actually, I don’t feel that well,’ I blurt out desperately.

Well, I can’t risk leaving this up to my twenty-one-year-old groin to decide, now, can I?

‘In fact I feel really nauseous. I think I need to go to the ladies.’

Lottie looks at me, alarmed. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘If you don’t mind.’ I nod weakly.

OK, so I feel a bit mean fibbing, but like I said, it’s for my own good.

‘Sorry.’ Putting her arm round me, Lottie turns to Billy. ‘But no, thanks.’

‘No worries. Some other time maybe.’ He shrugs and, turning away, lopes out of the pub.

Watching him leave, I stifle a small yet victorious smile.

Chapter Twenty

Great. That’s the first thing crossed off my list.

Sitting at my desk the next morning, I unfold the crumpled piece of paper on which I’ve scribbled down my tips and advice and, taking a large black marker, draw a line through:

1. Do not sleep with Billy Romani.

I’m feeling really pleased with myself. Last night was a total success. After Billy Romani left, I made a remarkable recovery; in fact ten minutes later I was feeling well enough to drive and gave Lottie a lift home alone. Which partly explains my good mood. The other reason is because it’s my—

‘Happy birthday!’

I look up to see the door swing wide open with Beatrice attached to it, a bit like one of those magician’s assistants on a knife-throwing board. In her hands is a large cardboard box.