Page 129 of Who’s That Girl?

‘This is blackmail,’ he says finally.

‘And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ I reply evenly.

He swallows hard, still clutching the damning evidence against him. ‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Nothing,’ I say simply. ‘Goodbye, Dr Thompson.’ I start to walk away, then stop and turn. ‘Oh, and for the record, my name’s Charlotte.’ Turning back, I keep on walking. Somehow I don’t think that’s a name he’s going to forget in a hurry.

Chapter Thirty-eight

By the time I reach the lobby, my legs are wobbly. I’ve been running on adrenalin since early this morning, but now my face-off is over I feel limp and drained. Steadying myself against the wall, I take a deep breath. I can’t believe I did it. I feel a warm glow of euphoria, mixed with a shot of relief, not to mention disbelief. I did it. I did it.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. For a moment I just stay like that, letting it all sink in, letting my heart rate return to normal.

‘There you are!’ I open my eyes to see Beatrice bursting through the fire doors. I briefed her on what I was going to do. I thought it only fair – after all, I was putting the company at risk, and with it her job.

But if she’d felt any reservations, she didn’t show it. Instead she’d given me a rib-crushing hug and cheered me on. ‘So how did it go?’ she’s asking now as she reaches me. ‘I just saw Dr Thompson leaving in a cab with a peroxide blonde and a yappy dog.’

‘It went … well.’ I nod, searching for the right adjective.

She almost crumples with relief. ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ she cries, before turning pensive. ‘So was he terribly angry?’ Her voice is hushed and fearful.

‘You could say that.’

Beatrice takes a sharp intake of breath. ‘Honestly, Charlotte, you’re my hero.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ I smile wearily.

‘No, you are,’ she exclaims loyally. ‘Let’s go have a drink. There are a few cocktails left – we need to hurry up and get them before the journos do.’ She reaches out to link arms, but I shake my head.

‘No, I think I’m going to go home,’ I say quietly, clutching my head, which is beginning to throb. ‘I didn’t sleep much last night and I’m leaving early tomorrow.’

And that’s another thing. After hearing Lottie on the phone to Mum and Dad, it made me realise it’s been too long since I saw them, too long since we just sat around watching TV together and chatting about nothing, too long to miss people. Which is why I’ve decided to drive up tomorrow as a surprise and spend a few days with them.

‘Oh, absolutely, of course,’ nods Beatrice, who’s aware of my plans. ‘You run along.’ She gives me another hug, then, remembering herself, blushes. ‘I’ll stay and hold the fort. Finish off the cocktails.’ She shoots me a mischievous smile. ‘Well, someone has to.’ And turning, she stalks quickly away.

Leaving me alone in the empty lobby with just my thoughts. I feel slightly numb, dazed almost. Like in the lull after the storm, I realise, wandering over to the cloakroom, where I’d checked in my jacket. Because now it’s over, and today is the first day of the rest of my life.

Without Oliver.

Once again I feel that familiar nagging ache, though it’s not worry this time. I’ve been trying to block it out, but I can’t, it’s impossible. Just when I least expect it, his face pops into my mind. I can be driving in my car and I’ll remember something he said, or walking down the street and that erotic moment on the balcony will rush through my head and I’ll feel a tugging deep inside.

Ironic, isn’t it? Ten years ago I didn’t even notice him and now I can’t forget him.

Reaching the cloakroom, I zip open my bag and rummage for my ticket. God, there’s so much crap in here, I muse absently, while still thinking about Oliver. I’ll probably never see him again, never be able to tell him I’m sorry, that I quit the contract, and he’s never likely to find out. Well, it’s hardly front-page news, is it?

Anyway, so what if he does? It’s not as if I will have saved his granddad’s shop. No doubt Larry Thompson will just go ahead and get a different PR firm and it will be business as usual. Ultimately my stand won’t make a difference to anyone – not to Larry Thompson, not to Oliver and certainly not to his granddad.

Except that’s not true, I tell myself as I pass my ticket to the attendant. It will always make a difference to me.

‘Excuse me, miss?’

I snap back to see the attendant shaking her head. ‘This isn’t your ticket.’

‘It’s not? Oh, sorry.’ I dive once more into my handbag. Oh, there it is. I hand it to her with an apologetic smile and she passes me back the wrong ticket. Only it’s not even a ticket; it’s just a scrap of paper. Wow, I really am out of it, I realise, as I glance at it.

At the untidy handwriting, at someone’s address.

Olly’s address.