Page 138 of Who’s That Girl?

The trader smiles and takes the note, then passes me my change and the earrings. There’s lots of smiling and nodding, and I feel a beat of delight. See, we all speak the same language in the end, I think happily as I loop the earrings through my ears and give them a little shake in the mirror. They dance back, the silver strands and pink glass twinkling in the bright June sunshine. So much more me than pearl earrings, I think, feeling a burst of pleasure.

Waving goodbye to the vendor and saying au revoir (that’s one phrase I do know), I continue weaving my way through the maze of stalls – selling everything from ornate jewellery to vintage clothes to handbags of every colour, size and description. Gosh, this is one of the best flea markets I’ve ever been to, I muse, consulting my guidebook again: The most famous flea market in Paris is the one at Porte de Clignancourt, officially called Les Puces de Saint-Ouen, but known to everyone as Les Puces (The Fleas).

‘Les Puces,’ I repeat to myself, breathing the aromas from the food stalls: delicious, sweet, sugary crepes, savoury croques-monsieurs, freshly brewed cafe au lait. My mouth starts watering. Mmm, I wonder if it’s nearly lunchtime yet? I think distractedly, wandering from one stall to the next, like a bumblebee bouncing from flower to flower.

In the old days I would have known exactly what time it was. I would have already checked my watch a hundred times today, but I don’t wear a watch any more. Plus I can’t look at the time on my mobile as I’ve left it back at the hotel. I pick up a raspberry-pink silk dress that’s caught my eye. I’m totally out of communication and it feels great. No phones ringing. No phone buzzing. No emails pinging. I can actually have a conversation that lasts more than a couple of minutes without being interrupted.

Though perhaps not in French, I reflect, resorting to hand gestures and facial expressions to try to explain to the stallholder I want a larger size.

But then, I don’t really carry my phone with me a lot these days. I don’t have to, not since I made Bea partner and gave her full control of running the company. To tell the truth, I wish I’d done it much sooner. She’s a complete natural and has hired staff, rented larger premises, taken on more clients. The business is doing better than ever.

And me? Well, I’ve taken a sabbatical to finish my novel. In fact I’ve enjoyed it so much that when I finish it, I might just write another. Or try my hand at a short story. Or even a screenplay. Who knows? I’m not going to look too far into the future. I’m living in the moment, and right at this moment I’m doing something I’m passionate about. Now, if ever that little voice in my head asks whether I’m happy, I answer without missing a beat. Yes. Totally.

The stallholder returns, smiling and with a larger size. Holding the dress against my body, I look at my reflection. Gone is the stressed-out, blow-dried, fully made-up woman I used to be; in her place is someone who leaves her hair to dry naturally, wears just a slick of lip gloss and can’t remember the last time she had eczema. I’ve also gone up a dress size these past few months due to my more relaxed diet, but I think I look a lot better – healthier and happier. Plus my boobs have got bigger, and you need boobs for this dress, I decide, doing my best to haggle in French, before giving in and buying it for the asking price.

But I don’t care – that’s all part of the fun of shopping at markets. That’s one of the things I rediscovered from my younger self. At least I think I did. To be honest, looking back now, I’m not entirely sure …

It’s been nine months since my accident. My broken bones have healed, the scar on my brow has faded, and with it my certainty of what exactly happened the week before my car crash. Or didn’t happen. Because, you see, with the passage of time the line’s been blurred between what’s real and imagined, what I believe and what I want to believe. Looking back now, I’m not so certain I ever did see my younger self that morning at the traffic lights, that I ever did get to spend a week with her, getting to know her and myself again. After all, let’s face it, it does sound crazy. More than crazy.

In the weeks that followed there were a few things that made me wonder if Beatrice was right and I did just dream the whole lot. First of all the parking ticket got lost. When I came out of hospital, I looked for it, but it must have got thrown away by accident, so I never got to check the date.

And I was a bit groggy when I woke up. I could have made a mistake, misread the date, got it wrong somehow. And when I was well enough to drive, the diversion was gone and I never saw my younger self or the old Beetle again. Then, when I went back to my old house and knocked at the door, a young couple with a baby answered.

I continue walking through the market, my eyes wandering across the different stalls, on the lookout for a bargain.

But there is one thing that makes me wonder. When the police called me up to investigate the accident, they told me the last time it was a two-way street was in 1997. According to traffic records, it had been made into a one-way street about ten years ago, after a rather nasty car accident. ‘The records appear to have been lost, but I seem to remember it involved a truck and a car,’ the policeman had informed me over the phone, ‘which is something of a coincidence.’

So maybe it did happen. Well, I like to think it did, but who knows? I was tempted to google ‘morphine and dreams’, but I remembered what the doctor said about self-diagnosing from the internet, so I didn’t.

So did I meet my twenty-one-year-old self or not? Was it all a figment of my imagination, a desire so deep down in my subconscious to find myself that I ended up literally finding myself? I don’t think I’ll ever know the answer. But one thing is for certain: I’ve changed. I’m not that strung-out thirty-something I was before the accident. I’ve learned how to relax, have fun, take holidays.

‘I ordered you a glass of rosé.’

Reaching the little pavement cafe’ where we arranged to meet, I find Oliver already waiting for me at a table. Sunglasses on, sleeves rolled up, he’s drinking a beer and examining the menu. Wherever we go Oliver examines menus, looking for interesting new combinations of flavours or unusual dishes.

‘Thanks.’ I smile, giving him a kiss as he curls his tanned arms round me and pulls me on to his knee. I take a sip of the chilled wine. ‘Mmm, delicious,’ I enthuse, and I’m not just talking about the wine.

We’re in Paris for the weekend. I finally got round to using those tickets Vanessa bought me for my birthday last year. We caught the Eurostar over on Friday and checked into this amazing hotel with its own spa and Michelin-starred restaurant.

Though to be honest, we’ve spent most of our time in the bedroom, if you know what I mean.

‘So what did you buy?’ He smiles, then rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me – everything!’

I laugh and start to show him all my goodies. He oohs and ahhs appropriately at my earrings, exclaims at my dress (even commenting on how it will match my new sandals) and doesn’t laugh when I show him the vase I bought that’s shaped like a guitar. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Best of all, he doesn’t tell me I should have invested the money I just spent in an ISA. And for that I truly love him.

But then there’s a lot to love about Oliver. He’s funny and kind and makes me laugh, and it doesn’t hurt that I fancy the pants off him. That’s not to say we don’t row about things. Boy, can we row. But it’s usually over as quickly as it starts, and then of course there’s the making-up that comes afterwards.

In fact I used to wonder why we wasted all that time, why it took ten years and a whole strange set of circumstances to bring us together, but I’ve come to realise it’s a good thing we didn’t hook up when I was younger, as I wouldn’t have appreciated him like I do now. And it wouldn’t be as great. Which goes to prove, there are some things I’ve learned as I’ve got older.

Only now he’s acting weird, I realise, as I move to the chair across from him, and he glances at me all shiftily.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

‘Nothing,’ he says, smiling tightly and taking a big swig of beer.

Oh-oh. Something’s definitely up. I observe him for a moment, trying to think what it can be. I draw a blank.

‘Shall we order?’ I suggest brightly.