Page 43 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Is that a phone?’

‘Oh, you mean my smartphone?’

‘Smart phone?’ he repeats, as if it’s a foreign-sounding word. ‘I’ve never seen one of those.’

‘Really?’ I look at him in surprise. ‘In that case, how do you get your emails?’

‘Emails?’ he repeats. ‘On a phone?’ He laughs and shakes his head. ‘Yeah, right. Since when? You need dial-up and a computer for those.’

Suddenly I get this really odd feeling.

OK, so now he’s definitely pulling my leg, right?

A shiver runs up my spine and, despite the beery warmth, I can feel goosebumps prickling. There is something very weird going on here.

‘Oops, sorry.’

A voice cuts into my consciousness as someone from behind bangs into me, spilling what’s left of my cranberry juice down my shirt. Damn. I look down to see it covered in red, seeping splodges.

‘Oh God, I’m really, really sorry. It was an accident.’

Digging out a tissue, I start dabbing at my shirt. It’s white linen. I’m never going to get the stain out.

‘Can I buy you another drink?’

‘No, thank you.’

Except in the split second it takes for me to answer, something registers as not quite right; something about her voice sounds familiar. I stiffen. Hang on minute. I twirl round, my heart thudding loudly in my chest, my breath caught tight in the back of my throat. Because I already know exactly who’s standing behind me. Even before I see her, I know who she is.

Just like I know that voice.

Our eyes lock. And in that instant every single rational thought I’ve ever had flies right out of the window.

Because it’s me.

Chapter Thirteen

For a moment nothing happens. Time freezes. As if someone just pressed ‘pause’ on the video that is my life and said, ‘OK, so what do you think about that, then?’

Except I can’t answer.

In books I’m always reading about people being rendered speechless, and I’ve often thought it an interesting concept, but one that was more literal than realistic. After all, no one’s ever really speechless, are they? You can always think of something to say. Even when I was dumped by Colin Pickles at middle school with a blunt ‘I don’t like you any more’ I found my tongue fast enough to reply with a ‘Well, I don’t like you either, spotty.’ OK, so it wasn’t going to win any awards for the most witty riposte, but at least I said something.

Unlike now.

Now I really am speechless. Lost for words. Struck dumb. And every other saying that means my earlier irritation has drained completely away as my mind makes that leap from disbelief to belief. This isn’t a hallucination. This is real. And all I can do is stand here in stunned silence as I stare at myself. My twenty-one-year-old self. In the flesh. Right here. In front of me.

Oh fuck.

I feel a thrust of panic and my mind starts whirling like a merry-go-round.

Fuck-oh-fuck-oh—

‘Are you OK?’

A strong Yorkshire voice stops me spiralling further and I snap back to see my younger self looking at me with concern. God, I’d forgotten how broad my accent used to be.

‘Um … yes,’ I fluster. ‘I’m fine.’