Page 75 of Who’s That Girl?

I roll over restlessly. At my old house, I reflect, casting my mind back to the house party I threw to celebrate my twenty-second birthday. My memories of it are vague. In fact I was only reminded of it when Lottie mentioned it last night. Actually, she invited me. Which was slightly weird, to say the least, but of course I couldn’t go.

But you can go now, the voice says, putting an idea into my head.

Which of course I dismiss immediately. Honestly, how ridiculous. As if I’m going to get out of my nice, warm, comfy bed and go to a party. I’ve just had a lovely dinner with my boyfriend, my best friend and her husband to celebrate my birthday. I don’t want to go to some silly party.

Then again, I suppose it could be kind of fun.

A lot more fun than lying in bed on your own, unable to sleep, while your boyfriend lies snoring on the sofa, pipes up that little voice.

I feel myself wobble.

But what about Miles?

What about him? He’s out cold. You’ll be back before he wakes up.

I hesitate, my mind ticking over.

No, I can’t. It’s just too mad … It’s insane … It’s—

Oh, shut up, Charlotte. It’s a bit late for all that, isn’t it?

And flinging back the covers, I jump out of bed and start getting ready.

Chapter Twenty-two

Less than fifteen minutes later I’m in the car heading over to my old house. It’s pretty amazing how quickly you can get ready when all your clothes are at the dry-cleaner’s and you don’t have any choice about what to wear, I reflect, fiddling with the collar of my jacket, which I tucked under in my haste to get out of the flat.

Sure enough, Miles didn’t wake up. I half thought about leaving a note, or maybe even stuffing pillows in the bed to make it look as if I’m still asleep in there, but a) this is real life, not The Great Escape and b) unlike me, Miles is a really heavy sleeper even without all the wine and champagne. One time he even slept through the smoke alarm when I nearly set fire to the flat with an aromatherapy candle, but anyway, that’s a whole other story.

London is alive with Friday nightlife and it takes a while to cut across town, dodging black cabs that, with no notice, will suddenly stop dead in the middle of the road to drop off or pick up a fare, and getting stuck in the heavy traffic resulting from the diversion. And so, despite it fast becoming a familiar route, it’s not until nearly midnight that I finally turn into Kilmaine Terrace.

The street is lined with cars and, squeezing into a parking space without hitting any lamp-posts (see, my parking has got a lot better over the years, I think with a sense of satisfaction), I check my hastily applied make-up and climb out of my car. Then realise I don’t have a present.

Shit. I can’t go to a party empty-handed. Even if it’s mine. Well, sort of, I think, scrambling through the glove compartment to see if I’ve got any of those freebie lip glosses left. Then I have an idea. I know! What about all those bags of goodies that I bought yesterday? I was wondering how I was going to give them to my younger self without appearing odd, and this is the perfect solution.

Grabbing the bags out of the boot, I smooth down my skirt and walk towards the house. A bunch of brightly coloured party balloons tied to the front door are bobbing in the warm summer night’s breeze and I can hear the strains of the Verve’s ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ coming from inside.

Opening the gate, I climb up the front steps and then – for a moment – I hesitate, looking at my front door, my hand paused to rap the familiar brass knocker shaped like a dolphin. It seems like only yesterday since I had a key, since this was my home, where I lived, loved, dreamed—

‘Whoo-hooooo!’

Abruptly the door swings open to shrieking laughter and a couple fall out on to the doorstep. Heads rolled back in laughter, a can of Tennant’s Extra and a cigarette in each hand, they’re draped all over one another in what looks like an attempt to hold each other up. I jump back, before they knock me over.

‘Whoops,’ they slur, then burst into drunken giggles and start snogging in front of me.

I recoil. Oh dear. I’d forgotten what house parties used to be like in my early twenties. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

I can’t get past them as they’re blocking my way, so clutching the bulging carrier bags in my hands, I shove myself back against the hedge until they get tired of eating each other and untangle tongues.

‘Sorry, we’re just leaving,’ they apologise, grinning madly.

‘Oh, is the party over?’ I ask, as another few people spill out of the house and squeeze past them on to the pavement.

‘I hope not,’ the boy says, turning to the girl draped over his shoulder and licking her face.

Urgh. Lovely.

‘Charlotte!’