Page 80 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Um … thanks.’ I go to grab the bottle, but our hands collide and somehow my fingers get all tangled up with his. The bottle slips free.

‘Nearly.’ He laughs as he catches it deftly and hands it to me.

‘God, I’m not normally so clumsy.’

With my cheeks burning like a furnace, I quickly pay him. Honestly, what am I like, lusting after a barman who must be ten years younger than me, at least? I mean, I’m practically old enough to be his mother. Well, OK, not his mother, but his older sister. His much older sister.

Still, I shouldn’t make a big deal of it, I remind myself quickly. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with thinking another man is attractive, is there? And so what if he’s ten years younger than me?

Gulping down the ice-cold water, I turn my back on the barman and instead focus on the dance floor, where Lottie is still dancing. But that’s easier said than done.

‘Amazing, isn’t she?’

I turn sideways to find the barman right next to me, leaning against the bar, his chin resting on his elbows. I look around for a moment, just to make sure he’s talking to me, before asking, ‘Um … say again?’

He gestures towards the dance floor, a faraway look in his eyes. ‘The girl in the dress.’

I feel a slight twinge of jealousy. Which girl? I think, following his gaze.

‘With the little blue flowers.’

I look back at him in astonishment.

‘She comes in the pub a lot.’

Me? He’s talking about me? I look back at myself on the dance floor, through the mass of gyrating bodies, and there I am, bopping away. Surely that can’t be right. He thinks I’m amazing?

‘You think she’s amazing?’ I repeat incredulously. Maybe I didn’t hear him right. After all, it is really loud in here.

‘Totally,’ he sighs.

Nope. I heard him right and that was a genuine sigh.

I turn back to my younger self, boogieing away completely obliviously, while my older self tries absorbing this information. I don’t think anyone’s ever called me ‘amazing’ before. I’ve had compliments but never amazing. Amazing is for superstars and celebrities. Not Charlotte Merryweather and certainly not Charlotte Merryweather when she was twenty-one. Sorry, just turned twenty-two.

‘Her name’s Lottie,’ I say, still feeling a bit stunned.

‘Oh, right.’ He nods. ‘Do you know her, then?’

‘You could say we’re kind of related.’ I smile.

He looks at me in disbelief. ‘No way!’ he snorts. ‘You look nothing like her.’

I feel my smile slide off my face. OK, so I know I look a lot different to how I did ten years ago, but there was no need for that snort. Now I’m a lot more groomed and a hundred times more stylish.

And let’s not forget about those eyebrows.

‘We’ve got the same noses,’ I point out stiffly.

He peers at me for what feels like just a little bit longer than is necessary. ‘Hmm, I suppose so,’ he concedes, somewhat reluctantly. ‘Kinda.’

I feel oddly miffed, and just a little bit jealous. Which is plain ridiculous. How can you be jealous of yourself?

‘So … erm … tell me, why do you think she’s so amazing?’ I ask curiously.

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ He shakes his head. ‘She just is.’

‘But can’t you be more specific?’ I persist.