Page 48 of Who’s That Girl?

The details are fuzzy now, but I’ll never forget paying some ridiculously inflated bill because I was young and naive and didn’t know to question it, then having to borrow money off Vanessa as I couldn’t afford to pay my rent.

‘When’s it going to be ready?’

‘They said next week sometime.’

‘Well, if I were you—’ The irony hits me and I catch myself. ‘I think you should take a male friend with you when you go back to collect it, that way there’s less chance of being ripped off,’ I suggest, realising how sexist that sounds and how a decade might have passed but some things haven’t changed. ‘If you’re anything like me, you won’t know the first thing about cars.’

She smiles gratefully. ‘Thanks for the advice.’

‘My pleasure.’ I stifle a yawn that’s just appeared from nowhere.

There’s a lull in the conversation. Suddenly I feel very tired. It’s been a long day. The strangest, most bizarre, most remarkable day of my entire life, but now I can feel it all catching up with me and I just want it to be over. I want everything to go back to normal.

A wave of tiredness engulfs me and, draining my glass, I reach for my bag. If I leave now, I can get an early night. And then, when I wake up tomorrow, all this will have turned into one of those stories people tell at dinner parties that always go, ‘You’re never going to believe this, but …’ Like that one Vanessa has about how she saw a ghost sitting on the landing when she was eight years old.

Although I have to say, I think bumping into yourself is slightly better than just seeing a paltry old ten-a-penny ghost clanking some chains. But like I said, no one’s ever going to believe me. I don’t believe me and I’m seeing it with my own eyes, I muse, taking in my surroundings one last time.

‘Hey, Lottie, I think I’m going to—’ I break off as my gaze lands on a poster on the wall: ‘Shattered Genius, playing at the Wellington, this Saturday, SOLD OUT.’ Hang on a minute, that name rings a bell … There’s a grainy picture of a band underneath. Scrunching up my eyes, I peer closer.

‘Have you heard of them? They’re amazing!’

Her voice grabs my attention and I turn to see her gesturing at the poster.

Quite frankly I have no idea, but I nod vaguely and concentrate hard on rummaging around in my memory. I’m so tired that everything’s fuzzy, but I know it’s going to come back to me any second.

‘You know, I’ve got a spare ticket if you want to go. My friend Nessy was going to come with me, but now she’s seeing Julian instead.’ She rolls her eyes and smiles. ‘He’s her new boyfriend and they’re totally in love.’

It suddenly strikes me how friendly I used to be. I’d just moved down to London from Yorkshire and the city hadn’t rubbed itself off on me yet. Now, after being here over ten years, I tend to keep myself to myself and am wary of talking to strangers. London does that to you.

‘Thanks, but I think I’m busy that night,’ I reply, shaking my head. Seeing myself once is freaky enough, but twice? I don’t think my sanity can handle a repeat performance.

‘Oh, what a shame.’ She tuts in commiseration. ‘I can’t wait. I love the lead singer.’

‘The lead singer?’

‘Billy Romani,’ she hisses excitedly.

As she says the name, her face lights up like Oxford Street at Christmas and I feel myself stiffen. I haven’t heard that name for years, I’ve blocked it from my mind, but now it’s all coming flooding back. Billy Romani was someone I had a crush on for months, and when we finally ended up spending the night together, I thought it was the beginning of some great big love affair.

For about two days. Until I found out I’d just been a one-night stand and he’d already moved on to another girl and—

Pain stabs. Well, anyway, the details aren’t important. Suffice to say, at the time I was heartbroken, but of course I bounced back, I remind myself, and since then I’ve never given him or what happened a second thought. Well, maybe sometimes, on the odd occasion, I’ve wondered what would have happened if things had turned out differently between us.

But they didn’t, and I’m glad. Still, it’s not something I dwell on. It was so long ago. I’m over it.

‘He’s so talented, don’t you think?’ she’s saying eagerly.

‘Um … yes, sort of …’

Talented at being a total bastard, I think grimly.

A vague memory stirs. Wait a moment. Wasn’t it after one of his concerts that I slept with him? I feel a clench of regret. If only I hadn’t done that, if only someone had stopped me—

An idea strikes and all at once I feel a flurry of possibility.

No, surely not. I can’t.

Can I?