Page 125 of Who’s That Girl?

After what has to be one of the best meals I’ve had in ages, I drop Lottie at her house and drive home to my flat. Walking back into the living room feels like returning to the scene of a crime. The ice has now melted, leaving a soggy wet tea towel. Two cups of tea, stone cold with a glassy film, sit untouched on the table outside. Welly’s muddy pawprints have dried on the carpet.

Everything has moved from the present into the past. Wedging time in between Oliver and me. Pushing us ever further apart.

My chest tightens, but I don’t let myself go there. Swallowing hard, I look away, my eyes falling instead on the pile of files sitting on my dining table. I’ve still got to put the finishing touches to tomorrow’s press launch. After all, life must go on, I tell myself firmly, pulling myself together and beginning to clear up. I can’t sit around wallowing about what’s happened, feeling sorry for myself. I just want to put today behind me and forget about it, pretend it never happened.

I spend the next half an hour tidying up my flat, until every trace has been erased and it’s like Oliver was never here. Only then do I sit down to do some work.

Turning my attention to the files, I open my laptop and click on the Word document I’ve been working on. Everything’s been arranged. The press list has been drawn up. The invites have been designed and sent out. The venue’s organised. The problem with the caterers is sorted. The speciality cocktails have been decided upon (no champagne – bubbles play havoc with tooth enamel). The goody bags have been put together. All that remains now is to polish the speech I’ve been working on for the spokesperson.

This was my big idea: getting a celebrity to be the spokesperson for Star Smile. Combined with a goody bag and free teeth-bleaching, it’s guaranteed to draw journalists and generate press. It’s also an idea that Larry Thompson fell in love with at our first meeting and which probably swung the account for me. Yet even before I won the contract, I had already spent weeks drawing up a list of appropriate candidates, putting out feelers, approaching celebrities’ agents.

Celebrities are renowned for having their teeth fixed. You’d be hard pushed to find a Hollywood A-lister who hasn’t had a little help to achieve that perfect smile. Unfortunately you are really hard pushed to find one who will admit to it, hence a batch of perfect-toothed, wrinkle-free, bee-stung-lipped celebrities who insist it’s all down to Manuka honey and Pilates, not, as everyone in the industry knows, their regular visits to private clinics.

Thus, after dozens of rejections, and just when I was about to abandon the idea, Beatrice suggested Melody. Well, we already do the PR on her range of diet books and health foods, and she’s always on the lookout for more exposure, plus she’s the nation’s sweetheart, with just the right mix of glamour and girl-next-door. And let’s not forget, she needs something to counter last week’s scandal when she was caught eating a Big Mac.

Sure enough, she’s jumped at the opportunity, I muse, reading an email from her that’s just popped into my inbox regarding the outfit she’s wearing tomorrow. She’s also jumped at the new set of promised veneers.

I turn my focus back to the speech. ‘Welcome, everyone, to the press launch for Star Smile UK, the brainchild of Larry Thompson, or, as he’s been known in Hollywood, Mr Celebrity Smile. Star Smile promises to offer the latest in teeth-bleaching, the finest veneers, laser-gum contouring—’

‘I really want to be a writer.’

What? Where did that come from? I ignore it and keep working.

‘—state-of-the-art cosmetic dentistry, to cater for all our twenty-first-century smiles—’

‘Ever since I was a little girl it’s been my dream.’

Lottie’s voice flashes into my mind again, louder this time. For a split second I pause to listen, to reflect, then hurriedly brush it aside.

‘I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.’

It catches the breath in the back of my throat. It’s true. I really couldn’t imagine doing anything else, not even slightly. But that was then.

Rubbing my temples, I force myself to sit upright in my chair and focus on the screen. OK, I’ll think about that later. Right now I’ve got to get this finished. Dragging my eyes back to the screen, I begin reading over the rest of the speech.

‘You too can have a celebrity smile. You too can dazzle with the stars. A Star Smile is the latest must-have accessory. Forget this season’s handbag, trade in your last-season smile, be it crooked, stained or misaligned.’

Ugh, that’s not very sexy, is it? I need to vamp that up. Though God knows how I vamp up ‘crooked, stained or misaligned’. I mean, please, I can’t believe I’m even writing this kind of crap.

‘Do something you love, something you’re passionate about.’

Oh, be quiet! I think in frustration. That’s all well and good, and I’m in total agreement with my younger self on that one, but I can’t pull out of this now. It would be insanity. It would be career suicide.

And yet, as I look back at the screen, the words swim in front of my eyes and I realise I’m doing what I did before. It’s like Lottie said; I’m not listening to my gut instinct. This isn’t writing. This isn’t what I wanted to do. This wasn’t my dream.

‘I’m writing a novel. I haven’t finished it yet, but I’m going to.’

On impulse I jump up and go into my bedroom, where I get down on all fours and peer under the bed. Underneath is the box of photos I found in the cupboard. Tugging them out, I pull off the lid and rummage through the albums. I didn’t even get to look at them all, I reflect, stacking them up on the floor, along with another couple of old diaries and some ancient-looking birthday cards.

And then there it is: a thin pile of faded pages beginning to yellow around the edges.

My novel.

I stare for a moment at the title page, absorbing the feelings whooshing around. I feel suddenly emotional. It’s like seeing a part of me that’s been buried inside for so long I’d almost forgotten it was there. I swallow hard, tracing my fingers over the typewritten letters. Then slowly I turn the page and begin to read.

When I’ve finished, I stand up and walk back into the living room. I feel strangely euphoric. It’s good. Better than good. Better than I ever remembered. OK, so it’s a bit long-winded in parts, and there’s some clunky description, but it’s got something. Something that excites me. Inspires me. Makes me feel passionate again.

If there were any doubts before, now I’m left with none.