Page 49 of Who’s That Girl?

It’s like a light going off in my brain. Up until a moment ago I wanted everything to go back to normal, for this all to be over, but now … I hesitate, my stomach fluttering nervously as I decide what I’m going to do. I knew before all this went through my head.

‘Then again, I’m not that busy …’ I hear myself saying loudly.

Because I might not know why this is happening to me or how this is happening to me, but one thing’s for certain: if I go to this concert, I can save myself from a broken heart.

Stirred up, I smile determinedly. ‘How much do you want for the spare ticket?’

Chapter Fifteen

That night I go to bed and have the strangest dream. I’m with Doc Brown, the eccentric scientist in Back to the Future, and we’re driving along the freeway in the DeLorean. Only we’re not travelling at the speed of light, we’re going about five miles per hour because of the diversion and now the car has changed into my old VW Beetle, and Doc Brown can’t drive a car with gears, so we swap seats.

But when I sit back down, I’m not in a car any more, I’m in the Wellington and it’s not the crazy scientist sitting next to me, it’s Suki and she’s tutting and holding up a mirror so I can see my sun-damage. When I look at my reflection, though, my face is super-smooth and blemish-free and suddenly I realise there is no mirror. It’s me, aged twenty-one.

And I’m sunbathing. Without any sunscreen.

And my tan is getting darker and darker, deeper and deeper, and I’m trying to stop myself before I turn into an old leather handbag, but I’m not listening. I’m smoking cigarettes and drinking cider and singing along to Billy Romani.

Hang on a minute, are you sure this is a dream, Charlotte?

Snapping open my eyes, I tug off my eye mask and peer at my alarm: 2 a.m. Urgh. It’s the middle of the night and I’m wide awake. For a moment I lie there, watching as the clock changes from 02.00 to 02.01, my mind replaying footage from the pub, over and over and over and over …

OK, that’s enough. I’ve got to get up for work in less than five hours. I need to go back to sleep, otherwise I’m going to be exhausted. I feel a gnaw of anxiety. There’s nothing worse than the pressure of knowing you have to go to sleep to prevent you from falling asleep, is there?

Flopping back on to the pillow, I pull down my eye mask. I just need to relax. Drift away. In the background the sound machine is set to ‘Relaxing Ocean Lullaby’ and I listen to the waves rushing in, and rushing out, rushing in and—

This pillow is too hot. I turn it over and place my cheek on the cool cotton. Ah, that’s better. I squeeze my eyes closed again and try to fall asleep.

Also, it’s a bit lumpy. Hitching myself up on one elbow, I bash the pillow with my fist, pummelling the allergy-free feathers into submission, before flopping back down again. Right, OK. Sleepytime. I wriggle down underneath my duvet. The sound machine is still whooshing rhythmically, the humidifier is still puffing steam. Any minute now I’m going to be lulled into a drowsy slumber.

But first I have to get comfy. I toss, then turn, then toss back again. Gosh, is it me or is it really hot in here? I throw off my duvet and lie there relishing the cold air. Mmm, this is better. Much, much better …

Though now my feet feel a little cold. And is that a draught? In fact, you know what, I’m actually quite chilly. I tug back the duvet and strike a compromise by splaying my body half in, half out. OK. Perfect.

I lie very still and focus on clearing my mind, emptying it completely of all thoughts. Like, for example, me with bushy eyebrows, big hair and that God-awful silver eyeshadow that I’d forgotten all about. Or me smoking and drinking and sunbathing and basically doing everything that’s bad for me. Or me fancying losers like Billy bloody Romani.

Oh God, this is useless. I’m a terrible sleeper at the best of times, but now, with all this stuff spinning round in my head? Not a flipping chance. I know, I’ll read for a bit, I decide. Flicking on the bedside lamp, I sit up and reach for my new self-help book, Stress Is a Four-Letter Word. I turn to Chapter Two: Relax Your Mind. ‘You’re walking through a beautiful forest. The sun is shining. Birds are singing as they fly gracefully overhead. Tilting your face to the sky, you watch them, imagining what it would be like to be a bird.’

A bird? What kind of bird? I know, I’ll be an eagle. No, I can’t be an eagle – they don’t sing. What about a sparrow? No, too boring. A robin? OK, I’ll be a robin.

‘You imagine what it would be like to be able to fly away, to soar away into the sky, higher and higher.’

How high? I don’t like heights. I get vertigo. In fact I’m not that keen on flying either, especially not after that terrible flight I had years ago coming back from Spain. Oh my God, the turbulence! Everyone was screaming, even the cabin crew! I swear, I thought I was going to die—

OK, that’s it. Sod it.

I snap the book shut and chuck it down. It’s no good, I can’t relax, I’m too restless. Only a few days ago I was living my perfectly normal life, my head full of perfectly normal things like deadlines at work, dinner arrangements with Miles, my next workout, but now everything’s been shaken up and turned upside down and I’m not sure what to do.

Except stress about it, of course.

I clamber out of bed and tug on my dressing gown. Feeling all agitated, I go into the kitchen, flick on the kettle and grab the soya milk from the fridge, but as I reach for the handle, I pause. I have one of those big American types on which are stuck things – like an out-of-date gym timetable, some photographs of Ruby and Sam, a couple of recipes that I’ve ripped out of magazines and which I keep meaning to try, one day, and magnets that read things like ‘The journey is not the destination’ and ‘Women are like teabags: they don’t know how strong they are until they get into hot water – Eleanor Roosevelt.’ Vanessa got me that one.

Only I’m not looking at any of that stuff. I’m noticing an old photograph, half hidden underneath a postcard Mum and Dad sent when they went to Turkey. It’s one of those big drunken group shots taken years ago at some party. Peeling it off the fridge, I look at it closely. The sunlight’s faded it, bleaching out colours and washing out details, but I can still make out people’s faces.

I smile nostalgically. There’s me, right at the end, wearing that now-familiar terrible silver eyeshadow, and next to me is Vanessa. She’s wearing black, as always, and has her arm draped round Julian, who’s doing bunny fingers above her head. I smile to myself. Those two were always joking around back then, I muse, turning the photo over and looking at the date scribbled on the back. ‘My twenty-second birthday party’. Wow, what a coincidence. I turn thirty-two on Friday, which means this photograph was taken nearly exactly ten years ago. I peer at the photo again, trying to jog my memory for details, but I can’t remember any more. It was so long ago I’ve completely forgotten.

The kettle boils and I pour hot water on to the teabag, absently watching the water turning a deep brown as my mind starts ticking over. What else have I forgotten? Who else has slipped my memory? How many other make-up horrors have I conveniently erased from my internal hard drive?

On impulse I abandon the tea and, grabbing a torch from one of the kitchen drawers, pad into the hallway. There’s a little cubbyhole under the stairs that I use as storage. Crouching down, I pull it open and crawl inside. It’s dusty and there are several large cobwebs. Urgh, I’m terrified of spiders. I take a deep breath and try to remember the stuff I read about facing your fears. Even if they’re black and have eight very hairy legs.