Page 94 of Who’s That Girl?

He tries not to smile, but I catch the corner of his lips curl up in amusement.

Damn, why did I have to say that?

‘The ones your boyfriend bought you?’ he says evenly.

Triggering two thoughts: 1) that’s none of your goddamn business and 2) he was watching me.

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ I snap back, rattled. God, he’s such a know-it-all.

‘He’s not?’ He raises an eyebrow.

‘I mean, not any more.’ I’m beginning to get all flustered. I feel as if I’ve backed myself into a corner and now I can’t get out. ‘We just broke up.’ I look at the floor, wishing it would open up and swallow me. Usually I think before I speak, but for some reason I seem to have reverted to my younger self and my brain has disconnected from my mouth.

‘Hey, I’m sorry.’ Dipping his chin, Oliver looks at me from under his heavy brows, his expression one of concern. ‘Are you OK?’

I look up and meet his eyes. I don’t know why, but somehow I seem to want to pour my heart out to a complete stranger.

Only he’s not, is he?

‘Sort of.’ I shrug.

His mouth twists into a smile. ‘You know, I’m a really good listener. Working behind this bar, I get to hear a lot of stories, get to dole out advice, not that it’s necessarily any good. I’m a bit of an agony uncle.’

I can’t help smiling. ‘It’s a long story.’ I can feel myself softening towards him.

‘Well, I’ve got plenty of time. I was actually just about to knock off, go for a walk in the park, get some fresh air.’ He looks at me questioningly. ‘Don’t know if you’re interested …?’

I hesitate, then shake my head. ‘Thanks, but I should get going,’ I say, feeling awkward.

‘Of course. I understand – you’ve got a better offer.’

‘No, it’s not that,’ I protest, then realise he’s fooling around and relax.

At that moment there’s a loud scuffling as a door opens at the back and in scampers a big, scruffy black dog. With his tail wagging wildly, and a tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth like a long pink ribbon, the dog rushes up to me and starts trying to lick me all over.

‘That’s Welly,’ says Oliver, smiling.

‘Hi, Welly. I’m Charlotte.’ I smile, patting Welly’s head.

‘Looks like you made a friend.’ Squatting down, Oliver clips on his lead. ‘Leave the lady alone, boy. She doesn’t want to come for a walk.’

Watching them both, I think about going back to my empty flat, packing up Miles’s things, reading a self-help book. After all, I can’t go for a walk with someone I’ve just met.

Except I haven’t just met him, have I?

‘Maybe some fresh air would do me good.’

Smiling, he passes me the lead.

Chapter Twenty-eight

We leave the pub and head towards the park, which is only a few streets away. Today, though, those streets suddenly seem to stretch out endlessly in front of me, like those roads you get in America that go on for ever and you always see on the front of album covers. Streets that need filling with conversation, I think, sneaking a look at Oliver, who’s silently striding next to me on the narrow pavement, hands tucked deep into his battered jeans.

Anxiously I try to think of something to talk about. He obviously doesn’t recognise me as Lottie from ten years ago, otherwise he would have said something by now. So, I know – what about: ‘Guess what? Last night I went to a club and met you, only you were ten years younger, and you fancied me when I was ten years younger, but when I was ten years younger, I didn’t even notice you, and when I introduced us, I completely ignored you.’

Er, yeah, right, Charlotte. On second thoughts, perhaps not.

‘So, Welly, aren’t you a handsome doggy?’ I coo, resorting to the much safer option of talking to the dog. Welly ignores me and keeps sniffing the pavement. To tell the truth, I’m not brilliant with dogs. I love them, but I’m not what you call a dog person. I don’t know how to do the clicky thing with my tongue and I couldn’t tell a Labrador from a golden whatsit.