Page 25 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Oh, and I’ll take a couple of these.’ She plucks two family-size bags of Maltesers and throws them down on the counter. ‘And a packet of twenty Marlboro Lights.’

‘I thought you’d given up,’ I say, trying not to sound like the disapproving, health-conscious, anti-smoking friend and sounding exactly like the disapproving, health-conscious, anti-smoking friend.

‘So did I,’ she says grimly, tapping in her PIN and snatching her carrier bag from the checkout girl, who looks rather terrified at the sight of the angry, six-foot, wild-eyed woman who’s already lighting up a cigarette despite the large ‘no-smoking’ signs.

OK. Perhaps this is not the time to give her a lecture on the dangers of smoking. Instead as we’re walking through the automatic doors and on to the pavement, I’m racking my brains for something to say. Something light. Something to distract her, like for example, ‘Look at that lovely painting.’ I pause in front of an antique shop. In the window is a large oil-covered canvas.

Vanessa puffs agitatedly on her cigarette. ‘What, the one of the bull-fighter goring the bull to death?’ she says, puzzled. ‘You think that’s lovely?’

Oh, shit. I hadn’t even looked to see what it was.

Now I look closer, I see his large red cape flung wide, the swords in the bull’s back, blood gushing from its neck. Ugh. It’s horrible.

‘But you’re a vegetarian. I thought you’d hate it.’

‘I do hate it,’ I say hastily, shuddering with disgust. ‘But it’s got some … um … interesting use of brushstroke …’

‘It has?’ she asks doubtfully. ‘Where?’

Me and my big mouth.

‘Um … yes, look here …’ I step right up to the window and peer through the glass. Vanessa joins me. I gesture vaguely. ‘See? OK, let’s go now.’ I link my arm through hers and turn to lead her away, but she holds firm.

‘Where? I can’t see,’ she grumbles.

You know when you’ve started something you wish you hadn’t?

‘Over there,’ I say breezily, and then tug a little harder, but she’s unbudgeable.

‘I really can’t see what you’re talking about,’ she snaps, being all passive-aggressive.

See. That’s one of the phrases I learned from my self-help books. ‘Oh, well, never mind, let’s go,’ I cajole, noticing a couple of figures inside, standing in the shadows. One of them is an old man with white hair and a tweed jacket. Probably the owner, I think distractedly, as he picks up something and shows it to the barman from the pub.

‘Oh God, not him,’ I groan out loud.

‘Who?’ pounces Vanessa. I swear she has the reflexes of a cat.

‘No one,’ I mutter, putting my head down and quickly turning away from the window.

‘Where? Inside the shop?’

Vanessa is one of those people who, if you say ‘Don’t look now’, will look. And she’ll make it obvious she’s looking.

‘Ooh, him?’ she exclaims, practically pressing her nose against the glass.

Shit, he’s going to see me. He’s going to turn round at any moment and see my friend pressed up against the glass like one of those stuffed toys you see suckered to car windows. And me standing next to her like a right lemon.

He looks over. And sees me standing there like a right lemon. As our eyes lock, I feel a jolt of embarrassment.

‘Ooh, he’s nice-looking,’ she’s now cooing approvingly. And loudly.

‘Nessy!’ I hiss. Hastily pulling my eyes away, I scoot a few shops down along the pavement, out of his view. My heart is thumping. God, what’s got into me?

‘What?’ she says innocently. Reluctantly, she gives one last look before following me. ‘So, come on, who is he?’ she asks, catching up.

‘Oh, no one. Just some barman I met the other night who was really annoying.’

‘Are you sure? He looked kind of familiar. Actually, I think he’s the husband of one of the women at Ruby’s playschool.’