Page 113 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Um, thanks,’ says Larry Thompson, giving me a peculiar look.

‘No problem. It’s all part of the service,’ I quip, slightly breathless.

‘Service? Are you sure you don’t want that ride?’ Pulling open the door, Larry Thompson looks at me, his carefully groomed eyebrows raised questioningly.

‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

‘OK, well, we’ll speak tomorrow, before the press launch.’ Jumping in the cab, he slams the door behind him, then pulls down the window. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

I feel another stab of apprehension, but I ignore it. I always get really anxious before a press launch, especially one done on such short notice. It’s totally normal.

‘Yes, me too.’ I smile brightly, and as the cab pulls away, I hitch my bag over my shoulder, grip my briefcase and stride out energetically on my power walk.

Which lasts about five seconds.

As soon as the cab disappears round the corner, I drop my bag and briefcase on the ground and flop on to a nearby bench. Resting my elbows on my knees, I bury my face in my hands and exhale deeply. It’s as if I can literally feel the stress coming out of my pores, oozing all over this bench and trickling on to the pavement in one great big sticky, gloopy, stressful puddle.

Right now I should be the happiest girl in the world. My newest, biggest client loves me, we’ve found the perfect location for the first UK Star Smile clinic, and the press launch is less than a day away. It can’t fail. It’s going to be a resounding success. This is going to propel my career into a whole new stratosphere. I’ll get my picture in all the trade mags. The business will get tons of publicity, more clients. And then there’s Larry Thompson’s talk of Merryweather PR taking on his contract full-time, not just in the UK, but globally. We’ll have to expand, take on new staff, get more offices … God, it’s everything I’ve dreamed of.

Except …

Oliver.

My mind flashes back to Saturday afternoon. Walking through the park with him and Welly. Laughing as he threw sticks and had to fetch them himself. Chatting about anything and everything. Drinking tea and eating shortbread fingers with his granddad.

His granddad.

I feel my heart plummet. I can’t do it. I can’t take away his shop, his livelihood, his life. I recall his words: ‘I met my late wife, Betty, here. She came in to buy a china teapot … Antiques are in my blood, and look at me, I’m a bit of an antique myself now.’

But then again, he was probably going to retire soon anyway, I tell myself comfortingly. I mean, he must be over eighty. I’m sure Oliver will understand. Though it’s doubtful I’ll ever be able to face him again, anyway, or his granddad, I think sadly.

‘Beautiful day we’re having, isn’t it?’

A voice snaps me back and I turn round to see an old woman sitting along from me at the other end of the bench. Resting her swollen ankles, her wrinkled face tilted to the sky, she’s like a white-haired cat basking in the sunshine.

If she was there earlier, I didn’t notice her, but then it could have been snowing and I probably wouldn’t have noticed.

‘If you say so,’ I manage glumly.

Turning her head sideways, she looks at me. ‘Let me guess. It’s a man.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘That sigh. It nearly knocked me over.’ She smiles, raising her eyebrows.

Honestly. Why does everyone think a woman’s woes are always to do with a man? ‘No, not at all,’ I say, a little indignantly. ‘I’ve got a problem at work.’

‘I see.’ She nods, but something in the way she looks at me tells me she doesn’t believe a word of it.

‘Well, actually, it’s not a problem as such,’ I add. ‘The client’s really happy with everything, it’s just …’

‘You’re not really happy,’ she prompts.

I glance at her. She says that so authoritatively it’s almost as if she knows exactly how I’m feeling, but of course she can’t possibly know. She’s an old lady, with snow-white hair, a thick winter coat on even though it’s summer and a walking stick, I muse, looking at her hand wrapped round it and noticing the sunlight catching her pretty emerald ring, shaped like a flower, next to her gold wedding band. She must be about eighty. What can she know about my life, or how it feels to be me?

‘Well, it’s not as simple as that,’ I try to explain. ‘You see, there are other people involved – Oliver and his granddad. And I’m the reason his granddad is going to lose his shop.’ It’s like now I’ve started I can’t stop and it all comes spilling out. ‘Which means Oliver is probably going to hate me, like he no doubt did ten years ago when I ignored him.’ For a brief moment I jump back to the moment when I tried to introduce Lottie to him, how she wasn’t paying attention, how the whole time her entire head was filled with thoughts of Billy Romani.

‘But that’s not really my fault, because back then I didn’t notice the nice guys. In fact it’s only because a few days ago I went to my birthday party from ten years ago, and I was in my thirties, that I met him again, when he was in his twenties, and I got a second chance.’ An image of Olly behind the bar in that tight T-shirt releases a butterfly in my stomach. ‘And then of course when I found out he was the barman at the gastropub …’ Suddenly I realise I’ve got completely carried away. I stop talking.