Page 93 of Who’s That Girl?

Not that I want to see him or anything. I pause by the mirror. Well, all right, maybe a little, but only out of curiosity. Running my fingers through my hair, I dab on a bit of lip gloss. To be honest, I wouldn’t care if he was there or not.

He’s not here.

Walking into the pub, my eyes go straight for the bar. I feel a clunk of disappointment.

‘Hi, can I help you?’ A shaggy, red-headed barman pauses from wiping the bar and looks up.

‘I wanted to speak to someone about my watch. I lost it last night and I just wondered if it was handed in.’

‘I wasn’t working last night – hang on.’ He smiles, putting down his dishcloth. ‘I’ll get someone.’

As he walks towards the kitchen, I glance around the pub. Apart from a couple sitting in a discreet table in the corner, it’s practically empty.

‘Hey, Oliver,’ he calls.

My heart jolts. Olly – Oliver. That must be the same person. Oh my God, he is here.

There’s a pause, and then, ‘Yeah?’

Suddenly I realise I’m very, very nervous. It’s like my breath’s got caught in my lungs and I can’t breathe it out. Which is ridiculous. He’s just a barman.

Except he’s not just a barman, is he? pipes up that little voice inside me. He’s Olly from last night.

As he emerges from the kitchen, I see the red-headed barman saying something to him and pointing at me. He looks over. And for a brief moment I think I’ve got it wrong. He’s not Olly at all: he doesn’t look anything like him. He’s much older, different, chunkier, I realise, looking at his baggy grey T-shirt. I feel a sense of relief. I’m glad it was a mistake. I’m glad this barman isn’t Olly. This way is so much simpler.

And yet …

As he walks towards me, my stomach does that weird swingy thing again.

His hair might be cut short, he might have a scar above his lip, and he might now be wearing little round glasses, but behind them the pale grey eyes are the same. I didn’t make a mistake. Shit.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he mutters, not smiling. I falter. Well, that’s a great start.

‘Um, hi.’ I swallow hard. My throat has suddenly dried up. ‘I … er, was in here last night.’

‘I know. I served you,’ he deadpans.

I’m getting the distinct feeling I haven’t made as good an impression on him in my thirties as I did when I was in my twenties.

‘Um … yes, well … I lost my watch and so I was wondering—’

‘Nope, nothing’s been found here,’ he says, cutting me off.

I feel a snap of irritation. Has he even looked? ‘Are you sure?’ I try again. ‘I mean, it could be underneath a table or—’

‘Nope.’ He shakes his head. ‘’Fraid not.’

I have to bite my tongue. ‘Right, then,’ I say stiffly, hauling back my shoulders and meeting his eyes with my sternest stare. ‘Well, thanks for looking and for being so helpful. I’ll leave you my card in case you do happen to find it.’ I take one from my purse and lay it on the bar. ‘Sorry to trouble you.’

God, he’s such an arsehole. Talk about people changing. And not for the better, I fume, scratching my ears in agitation.

‘What’s wrong with your ears?’ he says as I’m about to turn and leave.

‘Nothing,’ I retort defensively.

‘They’re all inflamed,’ he points out.

‘I had an allergic reaction to some earrings,’ I say, attempting a casual voice.