Page 92 of Who’s That Girl?

Then stiffen.

Eugh, what’s that horrible smell? My nostrils wrinkle up in disgust. Yuck, it smells like stale sweat and cigarettes.

That’s because it is stale sweat and cigarettes.

Abruptly I realise I’m smelling my hair. My normally swingy, shiny, glossy hair that smells of elderberry and jojoba and something suitably fragrant now smells like an old ashtray and someone’s armpit. I take another cautious sniff. Eugh, that’s just gross. I spring up from the sofa.

I might not know what I want, but I definitely know what I need: a shower.

After giving my hair a thorough shampooing, followed by an intensive conditioning, I stay underneath the powerful twin shower heads for the longest time. Eyes closed, face upturned, I relish the hot water blasting my skin. My mind flicks back to Lottie last night, rolling into bed, still wearing her make-up. God, imagine what her skin will look like today. I shudder, squeezing out a blob of special microdermabrasion crystals and carefully scrubbing my cheeks. There’s nothing worse than sleeping in your make-up. She’ll look terrible.

And feel terrible, I muse, a vision popping into my mind of her drunkenly stumbling up to bed, instant noodles in one hand, a cup of black coffee in the other. Gosh, poor thing. I might not be having the greatest morning on record, but she’s got to be suffering from the hangover from hell.

Wrapped in towels, I make a fresh pot of coffee and then wander aimlessly around my flat for a bit. I check a couple of emails. Pluck my eyebrows. Throw out all the rotting organic vegetables from the bottom of the fridge. Plump cushions.

The whole day stretches ahead of me. Weekends are always spent with Miles, and this weekend was meant to be no different. In fact I purposely kept this weekend free from work stuff and appointments so we could do lots of coupley things as I’ve been so busy with work recently. Re-bond, as it says in my book about how to have a successful relationship. Only that didn’t quite work out, did it?

Finishing plumping all the cushions on the sofa and putting them all neatly on their corners, I look distractedly around me. I know, I’ll call Vanessa, I decide, reaching for the telephone. No, on second thoughts, she’ll be busy with the kids and won’t be able to talk and we’ll have one of those conversations where every third sentence is ‘No, Ruby, no. Mummy’s on the phone.’ Plus, to be honest, she’s got enough of her own problems right now without listening to mine, I reflect, thinking about our conversation last night in the ladies at the gastropub and feeling a beat of worry. I know, maybe I’ll go for a run instead, do some exercise. Then again, my muscles are sore from dancing last night. I had no idea dancing was such a workout.

In which case, maybe I’ll …

I draw a blank. To be honest, what are you supposed to do when you’ve just broken up with someone? I glance over at my bookshelves, bursting with self-help books, guides and manuals. My eyes scan the titles. There’s everything there from Stress Management to The Power of Positive Thinking, but there’s nothing on break-ups. Not even in my favourite, Good Listener, Good Lover. But then again, if you’re both good listeners and good lovers, you probably won’t be breaking up, will you?

Grabbing my laptop, I log on to Amazon and punch in ‘relationship break-up’. A whole ream of books appears before my eyes.

Clicking on one of them, I start reading a summary of what’s inside:

It’s important to mourn the end of a relationship, as this will allow you to move on. Be kind to yourself. This will take time. You cannot rush this important healing process as you move through the various stages: 1) shock and disbelief, 2) depression and grief, 3) anger and unfairness, 4) acceptance. At this final stage you are ready to move on with your life, feel positive and hopefully begin a new relationship.

Hmm, I suppose I must be at the shock and disbelief stage. I click on the book to order it. Well, I’ll need to read it, otherwise I’ll forget all the different stages I’m supposed to go through, though I’m not much looking forward to the next stage. I wonder if there’s a way you can gloss over that bit.

Out of stock. This product will take 4–6 weeks to ship.

What? I look at the screen in annoyance. I can’t wait four to six weeks to start mourning the end of my relationship. Those stages are going to take months and I need to get started right now. Shutting my laptop, I get up from the sofa. I’ll have to drive to a bookshop and buy the book instead.

Quickly I throw on some clothes and towel-dry my hair. I don’t need to blow-dry it today: I’m not planning on seeing anyone. I’ll just nip to the shops and hole myself up with the book until I finish it. I reach over to my bedside cabinet to put on my watch.

And freeze.

It’s not there.

Flummoxed, I stare at the bedside cabinet: alarm clock, eye mask, aromatherapy candle … but no watch. How can that be? I take my watch off every night before I go to bed. I’m as regular as clockwork, pardon the pun. It’s always there.

But not today.

Damn, where is it?

I know, maybe I forgot to take it off and it fell off my wrist when I was asleep. Clutching the ray of hope, I fling back the duvet and chuck a few pillows around. But it’s nowhere to be found. Panic flickers. It was a present from Mum and Dad on my eighteenth birthday. It’s engraved on the back and everything. It’s got sentimental value. Plus it’s my watch, for Christ’s sake! I can’t survive without my watch. How am I going to know what time it is? There’s not always a clock to hand, which means I’ll have to look at my phone every five minutes, and what if I have to turn it off in a meeting? Or it’s at the bottom of my bag and I have to keep rummaging for it? Or, God forbid, I forget to charge it?

With spiralling panic I dash around the flat on a desperate hunt. No scatter cushion, inflatable exercise ball or packet of organic coffee beans is left unturned, but it’s nowhere to be found. I must have lost it somewhere, but where?

OK, Charlotte, just calm down, I tell myself firmly, as I finally exhaust all possible hiding places, and myself. Retrace your steps, isn’t that what they always say? Last night I was at my old house, then before that the club and before that the gastropub for dinner …

Right, I need to start there. Grabbing my car keys, I dash for the door. I’ll drive back to the pub and ask someone.

Like the barman.

My stomach goes up and down like I’m on a swing.