Page 8 of Who’s That Girl?

Oh, actually, I do – it was the morning after my big twenty-fifth birthday party. Which wasn’t that long ago.

It was nearly seven years ago.

‘And are you eating properly? You can’t exercise on an empty stomach.’

Suddenly Mum’s switched from prosecution lawyer into concerned-mother mode.

‘Yes. I know,’ I lie.

My empty stomach gives an angry growl and I silence it by gulping down the takeout coffee that I grabbed before I jumped in the cab.

‘Because there was an article in the paper yesterday and it said vegetarians lack … Hang on a minute …’ There’s the sound of rustling papers. ‘Here it is. “Vegetarians lack essential minerals and vitamins.”’

‘Rubbish!’ I exclaim, rootling around in my handbag and unearthing various vitamins and packets of health supplements. I’m forever buying different types. Only last week I read an article about ground apricot kernels. Apparently, you can live to be a hundred if you eat them in the right quantities. Unscrewing the lids, I swallow a handful. Unfortunately the quantities are so large you’d have to live to be a hundred just to have enough time to eat all the bloody things.

‘A cooked breakfast, that’s what you need.’

‘I don’t have time to be eating a cooked breakfast,’ I reply a little impatiently.

‘Well, you know what they say, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”’ She clucks disapprovingly.

I roll my eyes again. ‘I bet Jack was successful, though,’ I can’t resist muttering.

My mum is always telling me I work too hard. Which is true. I do work too hard, but that’s just part of running a successful business. Mum doesn’t understand. She never wanted a career. All she wanted was to get married and have a family. For her, a job was just a job. A way to earn a bit of ‘pocket money’, as she puts it. But then she’s always had Dad to look after her financially. It’s different for my generation. Better.

At least I like to think so.

‘Did I tell you, Marion just had a third grandchild?’ replies Mum, ignoring me pointedly.

Yes, three times, I think, as I drain the last of my coffee.

‘That’s great. Send her my congratulations.’

‘Her daughter’s your age, you know,’ she persists. ‘Remember Caroline Godfrey? You were both angels in the school nativity.’

And that’s another thing my mum does. Tells me all about her friends’ daughters and how they’re giving birth at a rate of knots. Populating the village with lots of bouncy, rosy-cheeked grandchildren, while her mean, selfish daughter lives over two hundred miles away in London, has personal-training sessions and is a vegetarian. Worse still, she isn’t even married.

Talking of which.

‘How’s Miles?’

Oh-oh.

Let me translate. In mother-tongue ‘How’s Miles?’ means ‘Has he proposed yet?’

To be fair, it’s not just Mum who does this. Miles and I have been together for eighteen months and everyone assumes he’s going to propose. Everyone also assumes I’m going to say yes. After all, why wouldn’t I? He ticks all those boxes that they go on about in women’s magazines: he’s handsome, successful, loyal, reliable and we never argue. In fact in the whole time we’ve been together we’ve never once had a row. Which is great, isn’t it?

Only sometimes there’s a part of me that wouldn’t mind the odd argument. Like I say to Miles, we’re allowed to have different opinions. It might even help add a teensy-weensy bit more excitement to the relationship, a bit more va-va-voom.

Anyway, like I was saying, I can’t think of a single reason to say no.

Not that I’m trying to, of course.

‘He’s great. Is Dad there?’ I say brightly, swiftly sidestepping the subject. ‘I want to wish him happy birthday.’

‘Oh, yes, hang on, he’s just getting the post.’ I wince.

‘David, luv, it’s our Lottie,’ she calls loudly, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. ‘You did send him a card, didn’t you?’ she hisses.