Page 68 of Who’s That Girl?

After my conference call with the gym account team, I dash to meet Katie Proctor, which officially is a meeting about getting promotional features for our clients in the newspapers she writes for, but unofficially is a chance to catch up over iced lattes. Then I snatch five minutes to reply to emails on my phone – my inbox seems to fill up whenever I’m out of the office – before dashing for another appointment.

And another. And another. Until hours later I find myself sitting round a boardroom table with a lot of men in suits, discussing a campaign to raise awareness of a new range of hair masks by Johnny Bird, while surreptitiously glancing at the clock on the wall. It’s my last meeting and it’s running late. Like, really, really late.

Like the dry-cleaner’s is shut late.

Screeching into the kerb half an hour later, I jump out of the car and dash across the road, but the shop’s in total darkness.

Bollocks.

I stare in dismay at the ‘closed’ sign on the door.

What am I going to do now? My dress is in there. Along with everything else, I reflect, thinking about the huge pile of dry-cleaning that I finally got round to dropping off a couple of days ago. That’s the problem with expensive designer clothes – they’re all dry-clean only. You can’t just chuck everything in the washer, like I used to do with my clothes when I was younger.

But of course that’s because they’re better designed, better cut and made from much better fabrics, I remind myself.

Not that any of that is much good if I can’t bloody wear them, I think, feeling a clench of irritation. Turning away from the shop, I climb back in my car. Saying that, even if I had something to wear, I don’t have time to go home and change now anyway, I realise, glancing at the time on the dash board. The reservation’s at 8 p.m. and it’s ten to already.

Hurriedly I pull out my make-up bag and after a quick once-over with some lip gloss, blusher and mascara, I turn the ignition and pull out into the traffic.

‘Red or white?’

Entering the pub, I’m greeted by Vanessa, who jumps up from the table and energetically throws her arms round me. ‘We can’t decide and you’re the birthday girl, so you get to choose!’

‘Um …’ Breaking free from her bear hug, I slide into the seat next to Miles, who stops munching on a breadstick to kiss me hello.

‘Happy birthday, darling.’ He smiles pleasantly, then frowns. ‘I thought you were wearing the dress I bought you?’

‘It’s a long story.’ I roll my eyes, then glance at the remaining empty seat. ‘Where’s Julian?’

‘Working late,’ says Vanessa, and we exchange looks. ‘He says to start without him and he’ll be here as soon as he can.’ She smiles cheerfully. Anyone else would be fooled by her broad white smile, but I’ve known her too long: it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘So what’s it to be?’ she enthuses, changing the subject and passing me the wine menu.

‘Oh gosh.’ I look at the dozens of wines. I don’t know much about wine. As I’ve got older, I’ve progressed from cider to Liebfraumilch to dry whites and learned that if you pay less than a fiver for a bottle, you’re going to wake up with a very bad hangover, but that’s about it. ‘What about this Sauvignon Blanc from Australia …?’

‘No, no, no.’ Miles clicks his tongue. He likes to think of himself as something of a sommelier. ‘If you’re going to go for a Sauvignon Blanc, it has to be from the Marlborough region of New Zealand.’

‘Oh, OK, then.’ I shrug.

‘Though personally I think we should go for a nice full-bodied red.’

‘What about a Merlot?’ suggests Vanessa, tearing off a chunk of bread.

‘A Merlot?’ repeats Miles, pulling a face.

‘Oh, please, what is this? Lessons in how to drink wine?’ tuts Vanessa, rolling her eyes.

‘There’s nothing wrong with trying to develop a palate,’ he replies, a little rankled.

‘She’s only teasing,’ I say, rubbing his arm and shooting a glance at Vanessa, who’s burying her face in a bread roll.

Actually, I know she’s not. Vanessa and Miles have never seen eye to eye. They’re like the human equivalent of oil and water.

‘Not drinking yet?’

I look up to see Julian striding towards us. Carrying his briefcase and wearing a smart navy blue suit, he looks every inch the suave, successful lawyer.

‘Happy birthday, Charlotte.’ He leans across the table to give me a kiss.

‘We’re still figuring it out,’ replies Miles, a little tightly.