Page 84 of Who’s That Girl?

And yet …

As she keeps chattering away, it suddenly strikes me just how different this Vanessa is to the Vanessa I saw only a few hours ago at my birthday dinner, to the Vanessa who stood next to me in another set of ladies’ loos talking about Julian.

She smiles dreamily, then giggles. ‘Or maybe I’m just crazy.’

Now she’s all wide-eyed and excited, bursting with hope and happiness and this shiny new thing called love, but earlier tonight she seemed so resigned and unhappy, almost defeated.

I watch as she pulls out a compact and sets about reapplying what used to be her trademark scarlet lipstick, drawing two perfect arches of colour on her top lip and sweeping across the bottom with one deft flick of her wrist. She hasn’t worn red lipstick in a while. In fact tonight she wasn’t wearing any make-up at all, until I gave her the lip gloss, and her hair was pulled back in a knot as usual. Apparently she didn’t have time to take a shower as the babysitter was late.

But it’s more than that. It’s more than unwashed hair and the lack of lipstick; it’s like seeing a photograph that used to be in colour, only now it’s in black and white.

‘Ooh, look, there’s a free one.’ She gestures ahead to an empty cubicle I hadn’t noticed.

‘Oh, yes … thanks.’

Leaving her applying a fresh coat of mascara, I disappear inside. I suddenly feel incredibly sad. An awful lot has changed in ten years, and for the first time it hits me that perhaps not all of it is for the better.

Chapter Twenty-five

Fast-forward to 3 a.m.

If only.

Seeking solace on a sofa in a darkened corner, I check my watch for the umpteenth time. I feel as if I’ve been here for hours. Days. Weeks, almost. And now I’m bored and tired, I have a headache, my feet hurt, and I want to go home.

But I can’t. I have to stay and keep a watchful eye on Lottie, who at some point in the evening switched from water and has proceeded to get completely trollied on free birthday drinks. I’d forgotten just how drunk I used to get. At one point I actually started dancing on the table.

And in those heels. I don’t know how I did it.

Rubbing my temples, my eyes do an automatic sweep around the club – like the searchlight from a lighthouse – to check on Lottie’s whereabouts and make sure she’s not getting into trouble. Or falling off a table. Just then the music stops abruptly and the lights come on.

My heart skips a beat, hardly daring to believe what’s happening. Oh my God, does this mean …? Hope holds my breath tight as clubbers begin leaving the dance floor and heading for the exit. Yes, it does! I almost feel like dropping to my knees and kissing the floor. The word ‘relief’ doesn’t even come close.

Halle-bloody-lujah. That’s it.

It’s over.

‘Aw, what a bummer,’ slurs Lottie, emerging from the crowd, her face sweaty and wearing an expression of utter dismay. ‘I can’t believe it’s finished. Already!’

‘I know. What a shame,’ I fib, hastily grabbing my bag and throwing on my jacket. ‘OK, let’s go.’ I start racing out of the club, my sore feet suddenly coming back to life.

Outside, everyone is milling around on the pavement saying goodnight.

‘Hang on, everyone, before you leave I want to take a photo,’ Lottie yells. Producing a camera from her bag, she starts herding people together.

‘No, you need to be in it, Lottie,’ shouts someone.

I’m still standing by her side and she turns to me. ‘Charlotte, will you take the photo?’

‘Of course.’ I take the camera from her with the intention of getting it over with as quickly as possible and then going home, but as I look through the lens, it suddenly hits me: the familiar line-up, the clothes, the smiles.

Oh my God. This is the photograph I have at home on my fridge. The one taken on my birthday.

By me?

My mind whirls in confusion. But how? That can’t be. Unless—

‘Come on, hurry up,’ yells someone.