Page 98 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Ahem.’ Someone coughs loudly and I look up to see an elderly man has appeared from the back and is standing there with a pipe in his mouth, staring at us.

‘—down,’ I finish, throwing a strangulated look at Oliver.

Fuck. Rooted to the spot, my mind spins. How did this happen? I was only looking for my watch and now I’m committing daylight robbery. Literally.

‘So what’ve you got there, son?’

‘A rather nice sunset by Claude Derbec.’

I close my eyes. This is all too much. I wait for the inevitable. ‘Painted when?’

‘Around 1870, I think.’

Wait a second. I open one eye.

‘Not bad, not bad at all.’

I look at the old man. He’s beaming and stroking Welly, who’s lapping up the attention and returning it with giant sloppy licks on his hand.

‘So you did learn something,’ he’s saying, with a hint of pride in his voice.

‘Well, I had a good teacher.’ Oliver is smiling.

Confused, I watch as they embrace.

‘Hello, Granddad. How are you doing?’

‘Granddad!’ I repeat in astonishment.

And anger. I could kill him. I really could.

Oliver throws me a sheepish look. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist. You should have seen your face.’

I shoot him a look of fury. I want to throw something at him, but considering I’m surrounded by antiques, I’d best not.

‘And who’s your lady friend?’

‘Oh, hi. I’m Charlotte,’ I say, remembering myself. ‘Nice to meet you.’ I hold out my hand. He grabs it and shakes it vigorously.

‘So, tell me, what do you see in my grandson?’ he’s asking, looking at me.

I feel myself colour. ‘Um …’

‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ jumps in Oliver, his cheeks doing exactly the same as mine are doing. ‘We’re not … you know,’ he says awkwardly, gesturing with his thumb back and forth between us.

‘Ah, I see,’ nods his granddad, puffing on his pipe and surveying us both with interest, before demanding, ‘Well, why the hell not?’ and letting out a loud, rumbling laugh. ‘Time you got yourself a girlfriend. You can’t stay single for ever, my boy.’

Oliver looks as if he wants the ground to open up and swallow him and I smile in commiseration, while paying absolutely no attention whatsoever to the little voice in my head, which is gleefully whispering, He doesn’t have a girlfriend. He’s single.

‘Charlotte and I just met,’ Oliver explains. ‘Well, actually, we met a long time ago, but we’ve just –’ he searches around for the right word, and I wonder what he’s going to say – ‘reconnected,’ he finishes.

‘I see,’ says his granddad, raising his eyebrows, which scuttle up his forehead like two large white caterpillars. ‘How marvellous.’ He smiles. ‘Tea?’

He shuffles into the back to make tea, with Oliver joining him to help, leaving Welly and me exploring. It’s like the old curiosity shop. Everything is piled high on top of everything else – an engraved silver pistol, a stuffed peacock, a mahogany table with two large carved claws for feet …

‘Wow, you’ve got some amazing things,’ I enthuse, as Oliver and his granddad reappear, carrying a tray on which are precariously balanced various mismatched cups and saucers and a teapot shaped like a man in a top hat.

‘My Alice in Wonderland teapot,’ he says, observing me looking curiously. ‘A thirties original, hand-painted, with no chips or cracks on the glazing. It’s in perfect condition. One of only fifty sets ever made.’ He beams, flourishing it high in the air. A stream of hot tea pours forth from the Mad Hatter’s prominent nose. ‘A real collector’s piece.’ He passes me a teacup. ‘Milk and sugar?’