Page 133 of Who’s That Girl?

‘It’s a really powerful drug. I studied it at Cambridge,’ she’s saying.

‘I thought you did maths and physics,’ I say, feeling more befuddled than ever.

‘Oh, I did, but I took a chemistry module just for the fun of it.’ She smiles brightly.

I look at her in disbelief. Yes, she really did just say that. That’s not just the morphine talking.

‘Morphine is the principal medical alkaloid of opium,’ she continues breezily, ‘and like other opiates, it acts directly on the central nervous system to relieve pain. However, one of the side effects can be incredibly vivid dreams. In fact the word “morphine” is derived from Morpheus, one of the Greek gods of dreams.’

‘What? You’re telling me I dreamed it?’ I say disparagingly.

‘Most probably.’ She nods matter-of-factly. ‘You’ve been murmuring all kinds of things in your sleep. Something about Lottie … Olly … clubbing.’ She gives a little laugh. ‘That’s when I knew you must be dreaming. I mean, you? Clubbing? No offence, but when did any of us last go clubbing?’

Actually, now I’m thinking about it, it does sound totally implausible.

Wearily I let my eyelids droop. Having just regained consciousness, everything seems a bit too much and I feel as if my brain’s about to overload with all these revelations.

‘But I wouldn’t worry. It’s perfectly normal,’ she reassures quickly. ‘In fact there are many reported cases of people experiencing wonderful dreams when taking morphine, including visions, hallucinations, even lucid dreams.’

My eyelids snap back open. ‘What’s a lucid dream?’ I ask, frowning, then wincing as my temple throbs.

‘It’s when you feel totally conscious, yet you’re really completely asleep,’ she explains, helping herself to a mound of grapes next to my bed. ‘You’re dreaming, but it’s as vivid as the “real” waking life. You can go anywhere, meet anyone, do anything. It’s a sort of virtual reality.’

I suddenly remember the moment in the pub where I first met Lottie: Unless of course this is all some crazy dream and I’m going to pinch myself and wake up.

‘It’s actually incredibly fascinating.’ She smiles.

I feel a creeping realisation. What is she saying? What does this mean? That everything I thought was real isn’t? As the idea strikes, I feel my whole set of beliefs blown apart. Oh my God, does this mean that it really was all some crazy morphine-induced dream? That I didn’t really meet my younger self? That none of it happened?

‘So what about the press launch with Larry Thompson? Did I dream that too?’ My mind is reeling. I’m trying to make sense out of all this, but I feel totally disorientated. It’s as if I don’t know what’s real and isn’t real, what to believe and not to believe.

‘Oh, no, that certainly happened,’ says Beatrice firmly.

‘And did I …?’

‘Tell him where he could stuff his bleaching kit?’ she finishes, giving me a small smile. ‘Metaphorically of course.’

I manage my first smile of the day.

‘Speaking of which …’ She tugs out a trade paper. ‘He released a statement saying he’s decided not to expand into the UK at this time, due to the economic climate, and he’s going to concentrate on his business in the States.’

As she passes me the paper, I look at the short statement. So Oliver’s granddad’s shop will be saved after all, I realise, feeling a beat of pleasure, followed immediately by a tug of sadness as I think about Oliver. I brush it away quickly. There’s no point thinking about it. That’s over.

‘If you’re still feeling a bit confused, I can run through last week’s diary. It might make things clearer for you.’ I glance up from the newspaper to see Beatrice pulling her laptop out of its case. ‘I brought it with me so I could keep in touch with the office.’

‘Thanks, that would be really helpful.’ I smile appreciatively and make a mental note never to tease Beatrice about the diary again.

Balancing it on her knee, she tucks her hair behind her ears and squints at the screen. ‘OK, so on Monday you had a lunch meeting, followed by dinner with Miles at some new gastropub.’

That was the first day I saw myself at the traffic lights, I think, before I can stop myself.

‘Tuesday, you had the lunch meeting with Larry Thompson.’

And later that evening I followed myself to my old house.

‘Wednesday you had a doctor’s appointment.’

‘Because I thought I was hallucinating,’ I say, suddenly galvanised. ‘But I wasn’t. What I saw was real.’