Page 117 of Who’s That Girl?

‘So?’ I manage, feeling my body stiffen as I brace myself.

‘Well, now you’re going to walk again, how do you fancy continuing our conversation without a car window between us?’

‘Oh, right, yeah.’ I blush again. Nerves are whooshing around in the pit of my stomach. I’m trying to think of the right way to break the news about his granddad’s shop, but somehow I can’t seem to find one.

Most likely because there isn’t one, Charlotte, pipes up that little voice inside, but I disregard it. I’m just going to be honest and tell it like it really is.

‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.’ Releasing the door catch, I step out of the car and am immediately accosted by Welly.

‘Hey, sit down, boy,’ instructs Oliver, and Welly immediately sits down. ‘Someone’s pleased to see you,’ he says, and then smiles shyly. ‘He’s not the only one.’

The nerves that are swimming around in my stomach suddenly turn into butterflies. Maybe I don’t have to tell him how it really is right this minute.

‘So what are you doing around here?’ I ask, feeling all jittery, but this time it’s in a good way.

‘Oh, I was just in the area,’ he says vaguely. ‘I thought I’d take Welly for a walk …’ He trails off and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

Those butterflies are going crazy in there.

‘Well, now you’re here, I suppose I should invite you in for a cup of tea,’ I say, doing my best to look unenthusiastic.

‘Hey, no, I didn’t mean—’ He begins to protest, then breaks off as he realises I’m teasing. ‘I suppose I asked for that.’

‘I suppose you did.’ I nod. ‘Hang on a minute.’ Turning back to the car, I reach inside for my bag, folders, briefcase …

‘Hey, do you want me to give you a hand with all that?’

‘Oh, yeah, that would be great,’ I reply, leaning over the back seat where I have a big box of files. The top one is Larry Thompson’s and I suddenly notice on the front of it I’ve scribbled the address of his new clinic. My stomach flips. Shit. I don’t want Oliver seeing that. ‘If I needed you to help,’ I finish, re-emerging with all the bags and the files pressed closely to my chest in a Beatrice move. ‘But I like to do things for myself.’

‘Fair enough.’ He smiles evenly.

I feel a beat of relief. Phew, that was close. Still, like I said, I’ve got to tell him.

‘OK, well, this way,’ I say, puffing under the weight of all my stuff as I walk towards my flat.

I’ve just got to find the right moment.

I unlock the front door and step into the hallway. Oliver follows and lets Welly off his lead. Immediately he bounds off inside, racing through to the living room, leaving a trail of dirty pawprints all over the pristine cream carpet.

‘Oh shit.’ Oliver throws me a strangled look. ‘Welly! Come here, boy!’ he yells, whistling desperately. ‘God, I’m so sorry. I’ll tie him up outside,’ he apologises, looking mortified.

‘No, don’t be silly, it’s fine,’ I say quickly.

‘But your carpet …’

‘Is totally impractical,’ I finish. ‘Don’t worry, it’s only dirt, it’ll come off.’

Er, hello? Have I suddenly been taken over by an alien who is making me act completely out of character? Usually I freak out about the slightest mark on the carpet. I insist everyone takes their shoes off and if anyone drops so much as a crumb, I’m there with the vacuum cleaner.

But for some reason the thought that Welly is scampering all over my cream wool carpet, leaving behind great big dirty pawprints, has no effect on me whatsoever. In fact I feel almost happy that Welly is scampering all over my cream carpet, leaving behind great big dirty pawprints.

OK, I have been taken over by an alien.

Or I’ve got a crush.

My insides do a loop-the-loop.

And this time we’re not talking a fantasy I-fancy-Olly-the-young-barman crush: we’re talking a proper I-fancy-him-now-he’s-Oliver-and-all-grown-up crush.