Page 61 of Who’s That Girl?

I love having a cleaner. That’s one of the great things about being older – being able to afford the luxury of having a cleaner. Only the irony is, I usually end up cleaning for my cleaner as I don’t want her to think I’m really untidy.

Easing myself up from the sofa, I set about tidying the photographs when my phone rings. I glance at the screen. It’s Beatrice.

‘So did you get the profiteroles?’ she demands as soon as I pick up.

‘Excuse me?’

‘For pudding?’

‘Um … no … we just had green tea.’

‘Just tea?’ she exclaims. ‘Oh, what a shame! They’re so yummy.’

I check my watch. ‘Beatrice, did you just call me to talk about dessert? Because it is rather late …’

‘Oops, no, sorry,’ she says breathlessly. Beatrice is always breathless, even when she’s sitting still. ‘I wanted to find out how the meeting went with Larry Thompson and if you need any facts and figures, or anything really, ready for first thing tomorrow morning.’

My impatience turns to gratitude. There are assistants and then there is Beatrice.

‘It went really well,’ I tell her, wedging my phone underneath my chin so I can continue stacking photos. ‘He seemed really impressed with all my suggestions and my ideas for the location for his new flagship clinic, and so we agreed to touch base on Monday for a final run-through before the press announcement.’

‘Oh, bravo!’ she cheers. ‘So do you want me to check the diary and see when you’re free? I have it right here …’

Like I said, Beatrice takes her job of looking after the diary very seriously.

‘OK, great.’

I turn back to the photographs. Gosh, there’s so many of them, and I still didn’t look at all the albums, I think, glancing at the ones left in the box. Idly I pick up a couple. Hang on a minute, what’s this? One of them is smaller and leather-bound. Flicking it open, I realise it’s not filled with photographs, but with pages of my handwriting. Oh, wow, it’s an old diary, I realise. And here’s a couple more.

Digging them out of the bottom of the box, I spot one embossed with the date: 1997. My heart does a little leap. I wrote this when I was twenty-one.

‘So let’s see, you have a nine a.m. conference call with the new gym account people to discuss their new range of flavoured water. Then you’ve got coffee at ten a.m. with Katie Proctor the journalist, followed by an eleven a.m. appointment …’

As Beatrice continues running through my diary, I read my own from ten years ago. Here’s the entry I wrote on the first day I moved to London, 23 February 1997. My eyes flick over my description of the office, my boss, meeting Nessy:

Tall and blonde and smoking cigarettes on the wall outside the office, she seems really cool but a bit intimidating. She told me her name is Vanessa, I hope we’ll be friends.

Smiling to myself, I thumb curiously to today’s date. I wonder what I did ten years ago today? I glance down the page of swirly handwriting:

So exciting! All day I could barely concentrate!

Huh? I wonder what I was so excited about.

I’ve been looking forward to seeing the band all week and it was great! Shattered Genius were amazing.

Whoah, just one minute.

Frowning, I look again at the entry. I went to see Shattered Genius? But that can’t be right – that’s not till Saturday. I glance again at the date. Did I read it wrong? No, sure enough it’s today’s date: 23 August.

‘Huh, that can’t be right.’ I stare at it, puzzled.

‘What isn’t?’

I zone back in.

On the end of the phone Beatrice sounds alarmed. ‘But it must be. I’ve already confirmed your three o’clock,’ she’s saying anxiously.

‘Oh, no, nothing. I was just looking at an old diary and the dates are different. I must have got mixed up.’