Page 38 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Great. Thank you,’ I say, standing up with relief. Five more minutes and my credit card and I would have caved under the pressure.

After hastily reapplying my make-up in the loos, I find Beatrice on her third glass of champagne and chatting animatedly to a journalist. As with most launches, it’s largely press and industry people here, though as always there’s the odd reality star posing for photos in a white spa robe.

‘Oh, hi, Charlotte.’ Beatrice breaks off from her conversation as I approach. ‘This is Patrick.’ Throwing out her hand as if to say ‘Ta-dah’ like a magician, she looks at me, her eyes sparkling.

I know that look. She fancies him, and she’s drunk. Or, as Beatrice likes to put it, ‘a little squiffy’.

Patrick and I exchange pleasantries. He’s wearing a blazer with gold buttons.

‘He works for Golfing Weekly,’ she beams, playing with her pearls like some people play with their hair. She smiles eagerly at Patrick. ‘Isn’t that exciting?’

Patrick chuckles in an attempt at modesty.

‘So you’re a keen golfer?’ I ask, making conversation.

‘I play off seven,’ he says knowledgeably.

‘Wow, that’s amazing,’ coos Beatrice, leaning closer with what is supposed to be a surreptitious move and is instead a clunking great big sideways shuffle. Subtlety is not Beatrice’s strong point. She hangs at his elbow, looking up towards his shiny, pink face.

‘And my wife plays off five, so we like to make a lot of golfing trips. The Algarve’s our particular favourite.’

‘Wife?’ repeats Beatrice.

‘Yes. She’s semi-professional,’ he adds proudly.

There’s a beat.

‘I’m sorry, will you ladies excuse me?’ Patrick smiles politely. ‘I’ve just spotted a colleague.’ He disappears into the crowd.

I glance at Beatrice. She looks crestfallen.

‘Oh, well,’ she says, forcing a smile, ‘never mind.’

I can tell she’s upset, but she’ll never admit it. Stiff upper lip and all that. In fact Beatrice could probably plunge thirty thousand feet in an aeroplane, crash into the ocean and find herself surrounded by man-eating sharks and she’d still say, ‘Oh, well, never mind.’

‘So, tell me, how was the facial?’ she asks, swiftly changing the subject and trying to be all cheery.

Deeply disturbing, I want to reply, but instead I settle for ‘Very educational’ and pass her the bag Suki gave me. ‘I got you some free samples,’ I say, trying to perk her up.

‘For me?’ Pressing her hand to her chest, she looks at me as if I’ve just given her diamonds. ‘Ooh, Charlotte, you shouldn’t have!’

‘Beatrice, they were free,’ I point out. ‘Free samples usually are.’

‘Well, I know, but still …’ Putting down her champagne glass, she dives on the bag and starts pulling out products. ‘A body lotion … foot scrub … a moisturiser. Oh, goodee, I need some new moisturiser. I’ve totally run out of the Pond’s Cold Cream Granny gave me.’ She starts reading off the back label, “‘Turn back the clock with this luxury moisturiser, which erases fine lines with our specially patented formula, leaving your face looking and feeling ten years younger.”’ She gives a little snort. ‘Well, that’s nonsense.’

‘Mmm, yes, I know,’ I murmur absently. I’m still feeling perturbed about my facial.

‘No moisturiser can make you look ten years younger. It’s impossible.’

‘Mmm, yes.’ Digging out my compact, I peer at my skin. It doesn’t look that bad, but still.

‘I don’t care whether it’s made of crushed pearls from the Adriatic or not …’

Hurriedly I start powdering my cheeks and forehead.

‘… there’s only one thing that’s going to make me look twenty-one again and that’s time travel.’

Out of the blue I get the weirdest feeling. ‘What did you just say?’ I ask, abruptly zoning back in and snapping my compact shut.