Page 20 of Who’s That Girl?

‘It will give us a chance to get to know each other a bit more.’

I’m nodding and smiling as he’s talking, but I’m flashing back to a few moments ago. Did I imagine it? Did I?

‘It’s important to make sure we’re on the same page. Don’t you think?’

He is smiling smoothly at me and automatically I switch on my professional smile, but my mind’s all over the place. I wanted this contract more than anything, but now …

Larry Thompson is still looking at me expectantly, waiting for an answer.

‘Absolutely. Thursday evening it is, then!’ I suddenly hear myself saying.

He breaks into a wide smile. ‘Excellent!’ Picking up his glass of water, he clinks it against mine. ‘That’s a date!’

I smile brightly. I’ve done it! The contract’s mine.

Oh God.

Chapter Seven

I wave Larry Thompson off in a cab and cross the street to where my car’s parked. I check the time. Lunch went on for a lot longer than I expected and it’s late. I need to get back to the office, tell Bea the good news and—

‘Lottie!’

A familiar voice behind me interrupts my train of thought and I swing round. No one ever calls me that any more except … Squinting in the bright summer sunshine, I peer down the busy street, past cafes spilling out on to the pavement, people drinking cappuccinos and eating pastries, shoppers laden down with designer bags, a mother with a double buggy and an ageing cocker spaniel …

‘Nessy!’ I break into a grin. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I live here, you idiot,’ she counters jovially. ‘What are you doing here?’

Vanessa is my oldest friend. I met her the day I went to London to interview for my first job on the cross-stitch magazine. She was sitting on a wall, outside the office, smoking a cigarette and looking utterly cool. To a nervous girl just off the coach from Yorkshire and wearing her mother’s suit, Vanessa epitomised everything about London. Six foot tall and a platinum blonde, she was twenty-five years old and shared a flat with some friends in Kensington. I was in awe of her.

I still am a bit. Happily married to Julian, her handsome lawyer husband, she’s mum to two adorable children and lives in a big, rambling house in Notting Hill, with a fridge covered in finger paintings and thousands of family photographs cluttering the walls. We lead completely different lives and don’t get to see each other as much as we’d like, but we’re still incredibly close.

‘I had a business lunch,’ I say, gesturing to the restaurant. ‘I was just going back to the office.’

‘Bollocks to that.’ She frowns, looping her arm through mine. ‘Aunty Charlotte is coming back to ours for a cup of tea, isn’t she?’ She peers into the double buggy, where Ruby, aged three, and Sam, who’s just turned one, giggle and gurgle respectively. ‘See, that’s a yes – in case you needed me to translate,’ she says, and I can’t help laughing.

‘OK,’ I surrender. I know better than to argue with Vanessa. ‘But just one cup.’

‘One cup,’ she repeats innocently, and grasping the handle of the double buggy and the dog lead with one hand and me with the other, she propels us all down the high street.

‘God, if someone stuck their hand up my skirt, I’d punch them!’

I’ve just spent the last ten minutes telling Vanessa all about my weird ‘incident’ with Larry Thompson, while she furiously blitzes something unidentifiable in the blender until it resembles orange gloop.

‘I can’t go around punching people,’ I gasp, as the blender finally falls silent.

‘Why not?’ She pauses from feeding Sam, a spoonful of orange gloop held suspended in the air.

‘It’s not professional …’

‘Neither is making a pass at you in a restaurant,’ she counters.

Distractedly she puts the spoon in her own mouth. There’s a loud squawk. ‘Oops, sorry, darling,’ she coos, remembering herself. ‘Silly Mummy is hungry too.’ Hastily she shovels up another spoonful, then turns to me. ‘It’s sexual harassment.’

I heave a sigh and rub my forehead. I feel a headache coming on.

‘Sorry, that’s my old lawyer head back on again,’ she says, giving my shoulder a rub. ‘Ignore me. I’m trying to be supportive, not stress you out. Are you OK?’