Page 16 of Who’s That Girl?

Hearing her talking about us like that, I feel a beat of pride. I suppose we do really, I muse, imagining Miles and me in one of those glossy at-home shoots: ‘Property baron Miles and partner Charlotte, owner of Merryweather PR, relax in their stylish new home and talk to us about property, pension plans and—’

Actually, that doesn’t sound very exciting, does it? I try to think of something else. I mean, come on. We must do something exciting.

But my mind remains blank. It’s too early – my brain’s not working properly yet, I decide. Plus I’ve got other things on my mind. Speaking of which.

‘Would you get me the Thompson file, please?’

‘Oh, of course. Coming right up.’ Snapping out of her romantic daydream about me and Miles, Beatrice dashes over to her beloved filing cabinets.

Draining the rest of my coffee, I make a start on my inbox – I’ve got over a hundred unread emails.

As for me and Miles, I’ll think of something exciting later.

‘Another macchiato?’ asks the waitress politely.

I glance at my empty cup. I’ve been mainlining caffeine all morning to make sure I’m totally clear-headed and focused for this meeting, but I think I might have overdone it. I feel more jittery and anxious than ever. ‘Er, no, thanks, I’ll just have some water instead.’

It’s nearly two o’clock and I’m sitting at a table at a trendy private members’ club in Notting Hill, waiting to meet Larry Thompson, the Hollywood cosmetic dentist, famous for the whiter-than-white smiles of all the big-name celebrities, and owner of a hugely successful chain of Star Smile clinics in the US. He’s over from LA to meet with PR companies to discuss launching the first Star Smile clinic here in the UK.

My body tenses and I realise I’ve begun shredding my business card. Despite my shiny, suited veneer, I’m really nervous. I’m up against some stiff competition, but if I can win this launch, it will give Merryweather PR a huge amount of international publicity and put us firmly on the map.

‘Still or sparkling?’

‘Definitely still,’ says a voice with an American accent before I can answer.

I look up to see an older man. Attractive in that square-jawed, classic kind of way, he’s wearing a pale blue shirt and his steel-grey hair is swept back from his tanned temples, as if he just ran his fingers effortlessly through it while stepping off a yacht in St Tropez. And not, as is more likely, a result of half an hour with a hairdryer and lots of product.

‘Dr Thompson?’ I ask, hurriedly sweeping the little scraps of business-card confetti off the tablecloth into the palm of my hand. I stuff them into my tote bag under the table as I stand up.

‘Well, I was the last time I looked,’ he says, laughing confidently.

‘Charlotte Merryweather from Merryweather PR,’ I reply, giving him one of my professional smiles as I go to shake his hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you finally.’

‘Please, call me Larry.’ He grins. ‘And I assure you the pleasure’s all mine.’ Taking my hand in both of his, he squeezes his fingers around my own.

‘OK, Larry it is,’ I say cheerfully, doing my best to appear like this super-confident career woman with her own successful PR company. And not how I really feel, which is so anxious I can feel damp patches forming under my armpits despite wearing a ton of anti-perspirant.

‘Excellent!’ He beams.

He’s still holding my hand and I’m beginning to feel a little self-conscious. But that’s probably because he’s American, I tell myself, as he finally lets go. They’re all very touchy-feely, aren’t they? Unlike us reserved Brits with our brisk handshakes.

We break apart and sit down facing each other. As first impressions go, he’s much older than I thought he was going to be. When I googled him, his age came up as a vague late forties, but sitting here in the flesh, it’s obvious those photographs on his website are airbrushed as he looks at least a decade older. Saying that, he’s incredibly well preserved. Evidently no stranger to Botox, his forehead is unnaturally smooth and his eyes are a little stretched, but apart from that, he looks normal.

Except for his smile, that is.

As the waitress reappears with a bottle of still water and starts pouring, I gaze at his smile, transfixed. It’s slightly bizarre to see teeth like this in real life. I mean, they’re so white. And so, well, big.

‘Carbonated drinks erode the tooth enamel,’ he’s saying now, flashing me his blindingly white smile, which has nothing to do with tooth enamel and everything to do with porcelain veneers the size of dinner plates. ‘Just a little tip.’

‘Oh, right … um, thank you.’ I nod, mentally striking another thing off my list. God, what next? Soon I won’t be able to eat or drink anything. In fact, at this rate I’ll be on a drip. ‘So have you visited London before?’ I ask brightly, quickly brushing away the worrying image of me being fed saline solution intravenously.

‘Many times. London is one of my favourite cities. I always feel so at home here,’ he enthuses, taking a sip of water.

I suppress a smile of amusement. With his California tan and perfect smile, Larry Thompson couldn’t look less at home among grey-faced, wonky-toothed Londoners.

‘Well, you certainly brought the good weather with you,’ I say, launching into my well-rehearsed patter for visiting overseas clients. ‘So tell me, is this just a business trip, or do you have any fun things planned while you’re here?’

‘Oh, I’m hoping I’m going to have some time for pleasure.’ He smiles, resting his elbows on the table and leaning towards me.