Page 41 of Who’s That Girl?

I can’t answer. Quite frankly I’m too embarrassed. In fact I’m going to have to take this secret with me to the grave. God forbid if anyone were to find out. ‘What did you do last night, Charlotte?’ ‘Oh, I just drove back to the house that I lived in ten years ago, looking for myself when I was twenty-one, as my assistant told me that time travel is possible and I wanted to check.’

I head towards number thirty-nine, keeping my eye out for a clapped-out tangerine-orange Beetle. I scan all the parked cars.

But no, nothing.

Well, what did you expect, you idiot?

I feel both foolish and relieved at the same time. And something else … a twinge of disappointment. Because as unthinkable as the whole fantasy is, there’s a secret part of me that’s fascinated by tales of the paranormal, that’s watched every single episode of The X-Files (I had the hugest crush on David Duchovny) and loves the idea of it being possible. After all, let’s be honest, who didn’t adore The Time Traveler’s Wife?

Abruptly my bladder twinges, interrupting my thoughts, and I realise I need to pee. Damn, I need to find a loo. And fast.

Looping round the garden square at the bottom, I do another quick scan of the parked cars – not because I really think it’s going to be there, but because I’m the kind of person who always goes back in the house to check I’ve turned off the gas – then, satisfied, whiz back down Kilmaine Terrace. There must be a loo around here somewhere …

Then I remember – the Wellington. The pub had just opened when I lived here, and Vanessa and I became regulars. It’s around here somewhere. I pull up at the give-way sign at the end of the street. I think it’s left. Actually no, it might be right. I hesitate for a moment, my bladder nagging me to hurry up and get a move on.

Shit, where is it?

Then I have a flash of inspiration.

I know, I’ll type the name into my GPS, I decide, proud of my quick thinking. This thing is brilliant. It will give the precise directions. I just type in the name …

That’s funny.

I look at the screen of the system on my dashboard. It’s totally blank. I randomly punch a few buttons in the hope it’s going to suddenly spring back to life, and then give it a little shake, which is my usual scientific approach at fixing electronic gadgets and which, surprisingly enough, generally works.

But nope, not this time. The screen remains resolutely blank.

My bladder twinges hard. Now of course I really want to pee. Bloody thing, I curse, feeling slightly irritated. Oh, well, the pub’s around here somewhere. I’ll just have to try and go from memory. I take pot luck and turn left and follow the road as it winds round the church. Now, this is looking familiar. It should be on the right … I turn another corner. No, it’s not there. What about the next corner …?

As I turn right, I feel a rush of happiness as I spot the familiar painted pub sign. Hurrah. There it is, the Wellington. Quickly parking, I dash out of the car and into the pub. God, it hasn’t changed a bit, I muse, feeling a rush of nostalgia as I walk inside. Same scuffed floorboards on which are clustered lots of wooden tables and chairs, same large open fire that’s all blackened and sooty from winter use, same chalkboards filled with scribbles describing today’s specials and a large extensive wine list, which I remember was a totally new thing back in 1997.

Wow. It’s like stepping back in time.

Then I catch myself and smile with amusement. No pun intended, of course.

Despite still being early evening, it’s quite busy with the after-work crowd, and excusing my way through to the back of the pub, I hurry downstairs to the toilets. They’re still in the same place, thank goodness, and I dash gratefully inside an empty cubicle.

Good job I’ve been doing all those pelvic-floor exercises, I tell myself, finally relaxing my muscles. Boy, that’s a relief.

I flush the loo and go outside to wash my hands. It’s all exactly the same. As I go to dry my hands under the fan, I glance absently in the mirror to check my reflection. I must have looked in this mirror a thousand times when I was twenty-one – checked my hair was OK, my lipstick was just so, reapplied my eyeliner – and now here I am, a whole decade later, back here again. For a moment I pause, lost in thought. It’s strange. So much has happened since then. My life is so different now, I feel so different now, look so different now, that it’s hard to imagine me back then.

The door swings open and another girl enters. I snap out of my reflections. Catching the door before it swings shut, I scoot out of the ladies and back up the staircase, fully intending to walk right out of the pub and drive home. But that was before I caught the ponytailed barman’s eye.

He cocks an eyebrow. ‘So did you find it OK?’

I stop mid-step, like a thief caught in his tracks. Oh God, is he talking to me? ‘Um … excuse me?’ I feign innocence.

‘The toilet,’ he says pointedly, giving me a look. A look that says, ‘I know your type, just waltzing in here to use the loo without buying a drink. What do you think this is, a public toilet?’ Trust me. It was that kind of look.

‘Oh, yes, thank you.’ I smile awkwardly.

‘Anything else we can help you with?’

‘Just a cranberry juice, please,’ I hear myself saying.

Honestly, Charlotte, you don’t have to buy a drink if you don’t want to. Just turn round and walk out. Who cares what he thinks? He’s just a barman.

But it’s too late. He’s already getting out the juice.