Page 87 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Because it’s important to do what you love, don’t you think?’ she interrupts, before I can finish. ‘Like my dad always says, you’re at work a long time, so you might as well do something you love, something you’re passionate about.’

I feel a jolt of uncertainty. Gosh, Dad always does say that, doesn’t he? To tell the truth, I’ve never been passionate about PR, not even close, but then how many people are passionate about their jobs, I tell myself in justification.

‘True.’ I nod. ‘But that’s also a little idealistic. Sometimes you need to compromise and focus on a career that will allow you to pay the bills and give you financial security,’ I reason. ‘OK, so it might not be doing something you’re truly passionate about, but it can still be challenging and fulfilling.’ I can see I’ve got my younger self’s attention and I feel pleased. See. This is the amazing thing about being older: having the experience, the hindsight, the maturity to know what’s important.

‘Ugh, no thanks.’ Lottie pulls a face. ‘“Challenging and fulfilling,”’ she repeats, as if the words taste nasty. ‘That doesn’t sound like fun.’

‘Well, life isn’t always about having fun,’ I reply, feeling a little rankled.

‘Then what is it about?’ she asks simply.

Her question throws me. I open my mouth to try to respond, only I can’t. I don’t know how to answer that. Because she’s right, I suddenly realise. What is it about?

I’m saved from replying by the sound of the front door being slammed.

‘Oh, bloody hell, that’ll be one of the boys coming in,’ she groans. ‘Hang on a sec, I’m just going to nip to the bathroom before they do.’

She jumps up and disappears out of the room and I’m suddenly reminded of what it was like sharing a bathroom with six other people. Waiting your turn to take a shower in the morning and finally getting in there only to discover all the hot water has gone. Dashing to the loo in the middle of the night and finding someone already in there. Listening out for the door to unlock so you can go in and have a nice, long, relaxing bath, then one of the boys coming out complaining about last night’s curry …

‘Sorry, what were you saying?’ asks Lottie, reappearing.

I look up in surprise. I’d expected her to be ages, brushing her teeth, flossing, rinsing, taking off her make-up, applying creams. I mean, the whole bathroom routine takes me forever. Then it twigs. ‘Oh, was someone in there already?’ I pull a face in consolation.

‘No.’ She smiles, and flops back on to her futon. ‘All done.’

All done?

I stare at her in confusion. What does she mean, all done? How can it all be done in about ten seconds? I’m in there forty-five minutes.

Then I realise she hasn’t taken her make-up off.

Yet, pipes up a little voice inside my head. Surely she’s going to take off her make-up? I mean, every woman knows that your skin regenerates overnight and it has to be squeaky clean to soak up the nutrients from all those creams and serums you’ve slathered on.

I feel a stab of worry.

Don’t they?

‘Um, aren’t you going to take your make-up off?’ I say casually.

‘Nah. I can’t be bothered.’ She yawns, rubbing her eyes with the palm of her hand and smearing black eyeliner across her cheek.

I give a little inward shudder and, trying not to think of my poor skin, mentally add to my list:

18. Always take off your make-up.

Speaking of the list …

‘You know, instead of renting, you really should think about buying your own place,’ I suggest. ‘Then you’ll have your own bathroom.’

‘Yeah, right.’ She laughs as if I’ve just cracked a very funny joke. ‘With what?’

‘Your savings,’ I continue, bending down and picking up a wet towel. It’s been bugging me ever since I got in here. Folding it up, I lay it over the back of the chair.

‘I don’t have any savings,’ she tuts. ‘Apart from my overdraft. Actually –’ she pauses, thinking – ‘I’ve got a three-hundred-quid overdraft and there’s sixty quid left, so does that count?’

‘No, that doesn’t count,’ I retort quickly, suddenly feeling a bit like Miles must do when I get confused about investment funds. Saying that, I can see her logic. Sort of. ‘But you should start a savings account,’ I continue, reaching for another towel. ‘You don’t have to put much in, just a few pounds a month, but it will all add up.’ Finished with the towels, I begin tidying up the rest of the stuff. Well, now I’ve started …

‘And if I were you,’ I add pointedly, ‘I’d start a pension, and maybe invest.’ Putting some dresses on hangers, I start running through my list. ‘A little bit of an insider tip: if you can, buy shares in something called Google.’ Going off into a little fantasy land, I start imagining how I’d spend my millions. Though first of all I’d give a large chunk to my family and friends. My mind jumps to Vanessa, and her advice. ‘Oh, and before I forget, you must start doing your pelvic-floor exercises.’