Page 81 of Who’s That Girl?

‘I can’t explain it.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s just the way she is. I wouldn’t change a thing about her.’

‘You wouldn’t?’ I look at him in disbelief.

‘No,’ he says simply. ‘She’s just –’ he pauses, as if searching around for the right word, then finally finds it – ‘perfect.’

‘Perfect?’

‘The first time I saw her, it was boom.’

‘Boom?’ I’m aware that I’m beginning to sound like a parrot, but I can’t help it.

‘Yeah, boom. That was it. I’d fallen in love.’

I look at him, bewildered. How did I never know this? How could it be that there was someone going ‘boom’ all over me and I was totally unaware?

‘Jeez, I sound a total soppy moron, don’t I?’ he says, misinterpreting my silence. He smiles self-consciously. ‘You must think I’m some kind of idiot.’

‘No, not at all,’ I protest, shaking my head. Quite the opposite. In fact, if it wasn’t for Miles, I’d be in danger of falling for him. Ten years younger or not.

‘So why don’t you speak to her, tell her how you feel?’ I suggest.

He pulls a face at the very notion. ‘I’ve spoken to her a couple of times, but I doubt she even remembers me.’

No, I don’t, I think, looking at him.

‘She probably doesn’t even know I exist,’ he continues. ‘After all, I’m only a barman, and look at her – she could have anyone.’

I feel a tug of regret. Oh God, why didn’t I ever notice him all those years ago? He’s so sweet and lovely and such a nice guy.

Because you weren’t interested in sweet and lovely, Charlotte. You weren’t into nice guys. You were into all the wrong guys, remember? I remind myself. He’s right. You wouldn’t have noticed a barman with a straggly ponytail who wore tie-dye T-shirts. He wouldn’t have been cool enough.

‘Well, I think she’d be lucky to have you.’ I smile.

He smiles back crookedly and raises one eyebrow. ‘You think so?’

‘Absolutely.’ I nod. ‘You’re not that bad for a barman,’ I add jokingly.

He laughs. ‘You’re not so bad either,’ he responds. ‘In fact, if you were ten years younger, I might go for you myself.’

‘Oy!’ Affronted, I swat him.

‘I’m joking, I’m joking,’ he protests, ducking away, chortling. Grinning, he holds out his hand. ‘I’m Olly, by the way.’

‘I’m Charlotte.’

We shake hands and I notice something on the underside of his wrist. It’s dark in the club, and I only see it briefly, illuminated by the light from the fridge, but there’s no mistaking what it is: a tattoo of a frog.

Gosh, what a coincidence. It’s just like the one the barman in the gastropub has.

As the thought fires through my brain, it doesn’t even have time to register before another one is firing.

My chest tightens. No, it can’t be. It just can’t.

Can it?

Abruptly my mind divides into a split screen. On one side is Olly with his ponytail, tie-dye T-shirt and hippy bracelets, and on the other is the barman from the gastropub with short curly hair, broken nose and a scar that runs down his upper lip. No, that’s impossible. They look completely different.

But so did you ten years ago, whispers a voice inside my head.