Page 73 of Who’s That Girl?

Well, they were nude suede. A ten-minute walk to the bus-stop and one packed bus-ride later and they were more of a sludgy grey and completely ruined.

‘I’m fine.’ I nod, turning the ignition. ‘It’s a five-minute drive. Plus I only had a few sips of wine.’

‘And champagne,’ he reminds pointedly, clicking on his seat belt. He begins adjusting his seat with the electronic levers.

‘Which I didn’t drink,’ I remember uncomfortably. Indicating, I pull out into the main road.

‘Yes, I noticed,’ he says grumpily, still fiddling with the levers. His seat starts whirring forwards, then backwards and forwards again.

‘Well, I couldn’t drink and drive, could I?’ I say lightly, as I start negotiating the traffic.

‘We could have caught the bus,’ he replies stubbornly. His seat reclines too far and he begins trying to hitch it more upright. ‘It goes straight from here.’

‘Yes, I know,’ I reply. I’m starting to feel slightly rankled. ‘You said.’

Suddenly there’s a loud crunch and his seat jack-knifes backwards.

‘Miles, will you stop it?’ I gasp impatiently.

‘Stop what?’ he replies innocently. ‘I’m just trying to get comfy.’

‘I know, it’s just—’ I break off and take a deep breath. I don’t know what it is, but I feel all nervy and on edge. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap,’ I apologise quickly.

‘I know.’ He smiles and touches my hand affectionately.

I feel horribly guilty. God, what’s wrong with me? Miles is being so sweet. Why am I being so grumpy about everything?

‘Don’t worry, we won’t be doing this for much longer,’ he says cheerfully.

‘Doing what?’ I ask distractedly, indicating right.

‘Having to alternate between our flats every weekend,’ he says, as if it’s obvious. ‘Soon we’ll be in the new house.’

‘Oh, right, yes.’ I clear my throat, as my voice has gone a little bit grainy. ‘Of course.’

‘There’ll be none of this back and forth – you in your place during the week, me in mine. Just think! We’ll be able to spend every single night together.’

He smiles at me excitedly, and I smile back while thinking of spending every night with Miles. Waking up next to him every morning. Brushing our teeth side by side in the bathroom. Day in, day out.

For ever.

I catch myself. For God’s sake, Charlotte, I don’t know what you’re worrying about, I tell myself firmly. It’s going to be fine. You love Miles; he loves you. And it won’t be any different to the weekends you spend together, will it? It just means that you won’t have to keep some of your clothes at his flat, or have to double up on toiletries, or keep your underwear shoved in one measly little drawer. Plus just remember how annoying it was a few weekends ago when you left your mouthguard at your flat and you woke up the next morning at Miles’s with a headache from grinding. This way, you’ll have everything in one place.

Feeling more positive, I pull up outside my flat. And just think, poor Miles won’t ever have to play squash again in my shorts, I reflect, stifling a giggle at the memory of his rather large thighs squeezed into my tight black Lycra running shorts when he’d forgotten his.

‘I know, it will be great,’ I agree, cutting the engine.

Then again, on second thoughts, that might be rather a shame …

Inside my flat, I pick up the post in the hallway. As usual I left early this morning, before the postman arrived, and amongst the usual credit-card bills and mortgage-related bumf, there’s a card from Mum and Dad. Bang on time, as usual. Mum is amazing. She has this knack of knowing exactly when to post a card to ensure that it never arrives a day early, or late, regardless of what the postal service is up to.

From the living room I hear the TV playing, and tearing open the envelope, I walk through to find Miles already ensconced on the sofa with the remote control in his hand.

‘Did you record this week’s episode of Location, Location, Location?’ he asks, without looking up.

‘Um, no …’ I say vaguely, looking inside to discover Marks & Spencer’s vouchers and a note to ‘Buy some proper food.’ I smile to myself. It’s been the same every year since I was at uni. I glance at my watch – they rang earlier, but I was in a meeting – wondering if it’s too late to call them. Actually, it probably is, I realise, with a pang of disappointment. My parents do everything early: ‘dinner’ at twelve, ‘tea’ at five thirty, then it’s a double-bill of Emmerdale and Coronation Street, and bed at nine thirty. I’ll have to call them tomorrow.

‘You didn’t?’ Miles frowns with dismay.