Page 91 of Who’s That Girl?

He’s right. If we ever have a difference of opinion, we don’t argue about it, we work things out. But that usually involves a compromise. And this time it’s about more than just a fireplace.

‘No, Miles, we can’t.’ I shake my head sadly. ‘We can’t work this out, not this time.’

‘Well, I think you’re making a huge mistake,’ he snaps.

Guilt stabs. God, I feel like such a bad person.

‘We’re going to lose out on a real steal with that house,’ he continues. ‘It’s a great investment. How can you do this?’

Slowly it registers. Hang on a minute, he’s talking about the house?

‘Plus I’ve already organised for the survey. That’s at least seven hundred pounds down the drain, unless I can cancel it, but I doubt it, at such short notice.’

Obviously he’s upset and just trying to distract himself. It’s his way of coping. I watch as he snatches his mobile off the counter, where it’s charging, and starts punching in a number. Then again, maybe he really is more bothered about the house.

‘I’ll call them now, see what I can do …’

‘Miles, listen, I’ll pay for the survey,’ I offer. ‘I’ll pay for all the costs we’ve incurred so far. It’s not important.’

‘Of course it’s important, Charlotte,’ he snaps.

‘No, it’s not, it’s really not.’ I shake my head. ‘It’s just a house. We’re talking about the rest of our lives.’

‘Just a house?’ He laughs in disbelief. ‘I don’t think so, Charlotte. It’s in a prime location. It’s a hot property.’

‘I don’t care if it’s a hot property!’ I yell, before I can stop myself. ‘I don’t care if it’s in a prime location, or if we can get planning permission for a loft conversion, or if it’s a great investment. I don’t care if we drink Pinot Noir or Cabernet Sauvignon. And I don’t care if I never see another episode of Location, Location, Location. Or talk about pension plans. Or listen to another James Bond theme tune as long as I live—’ I break off, panting.

We both look stunned by my outburst.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout …’ I trail off and spread my hands awkwardly. ‘It’s just that I’ve been trying to convince myself, going along with things. And I can’t any longer. I’ve got to be true to myself.’

‘But you said you loved the James Bond tribute band. I bought you the CD.’ He looks at me, his face hurt.

‘I know, I’m sorry,’ I repeat again, only this time more softly.

‘Me too,’ he replies stiffly, and putting the phone back to his ear, he turns away and stalks out of the kitchen. ‘Ah, yes, hello. I’m calling about the survey …’

Chapter Twenty-seven

OK, so let’s recap. In less than an hour I’ve gone from having a boyfriend, buying a house and being inches away from being what my mother calls ‘settled’ to having no boyfriend, no new house and feeling very unsettled.

Brilliant, Charlotte. Great move. One of your finest.

Feeling a bit stunned, I plop down on the sofa and try to take in this sudden turn of events. I hadn’t planned this to happen at all. When I woke up this morning, the first thing on my list of things to do wasn’t ‘Must break up with Miles.’

It’s just that once I faced up to the doubts that have been simmering in the background for so long, it all unravelled at the speed of knots. Like picking at some stitching, the whole thing suddenly fell apart. Right there, in the middle of my kitchen. And now I’m not sure quite what to do next.

Miles leaves, telling me he’ll come back for his stuff. I offer to drop it round in my car, as it will be much easier than him lugging it on the bus, but he curtly tells me he doesn’t need my help, thank you very much, as the number 47 goes right past his flat. He then pointedly returns my spare keys and slams the door behind him.

He’s angry and upset, and I don’t blame him. I feel dreadful, responsible, guilty. I also feel a huge sense of relief.

I glance across at the coffee table, where the estate agent’s brochure of my dream house lies in all its glossiness. As I pick it up, I realise that the nervous twist in the pit of my stomach that I’ve been trying to persuade myself was just pre-moving-in-together jitters has disappeared, gone. Along with the dream life I always wanted, I reflect, looking at the full-colour photographs.

At least, I thought I wanted it, only when I finally got it, it suddenly didn’t seem that dreamy. I flop back on the sofa, my head spinning. To tell the truth, I’m beginning to feel a bit disorientated. Like I’ve been running a marathon this last ten years and now the finishing line has just disappeared. I mean, if I don’t want that, what do I want?

God, this is all a bit heavy for a Saturday morning, isn’t it?

Scratching my inflamed ears, I give a huge hippo-sized yawn. I haven’t even had my coffee yet, I realise, closing my eyes. Saying that, I’m actually really tired. It was getting light when I finally rolled into bed, so I can’t have had more than a few hours’ sleep last night. I mean this morning, I think sleepily, snuffling into a cushion.