Page 72 of Who’s That Girl?

‘My mother’s French,’ he explains, a small smile playing on his lips.

Is he making fun of me again? Is that supposed to be a joke?

‘Isn’t that offensive to French people?’ I reply a little stiffly.

‘You haven’t met my mother,’ he responds evenly.

A look flashes between us and I suddenly feel all jittery. ‘No …’ I manage, struggling for a witty comeback, but my mind’s a total blank. ‘Obviously,’ I add lamely.

‘I want to propose a toast …’

Miles’s voice snaps me back and I turn to see him raising his champagne flute.

‘… to Charlotte on her birthday.’

Julian and Vanessa raise their glasses. ‘To Charlotte,’ they both chorus.

‘And to our new house.’

‘Our house?’ I swivel round to face him.

‘I’ve been saving the best till last. The estate agent called earlier, but I wanted to keep it as a surprise,’ he explains, grinning delightedly. ‘They accepted our offer. It’s ours!’

‘Ours?’ I repeat, taken aback. So taken aback, it seems, that I’ve turned into an echo.

‘Here you go,’ says a voice close to my ear, and I glance up to see the barman passing me a champagne flute. ‘You’re not allergic to bubbles, are you?’ He throws me a look.

‘Um … no … I’m not … thanks,’ I mumble, meeting those pale grey eyes of his, before quickly averting my gaze. ‘I mean, wow, that’s great!’ I enthuse, turning back to Miles, who’s still grinning from ear to ear.

Raising his champagne flute, he clinks it against mine. ‘Here’s to us!’

I smile dazedly. ‘To us.’

Chapter Twenty-one

We leave early.

‘Babysitters,’ grumbles Vanessa, pulling a face in apology as we stand outside on the pavement.

‘If we’re not home by ten, it goes into triple time,’ adds Julian, raising a rueful eyebrow.

‘Crikey, I’m in the wrong job,’ chortles Miles, slightly flushed from too much champagne.

‘No worries.’ I smile, giving Vanessa a hug. ‘I need an early night anyway.’

Which is true. I do. Especially after last night. And it doesn’t matter that it’s my birthday, does it? I mean, so what? It’s just another birthday. It’s not like I’m disappointed or anything silly like that, I think, as we all say our goodbyes.

Waving them off in a black cab, Miles and I walk to my car.

‘Are you OK to drive?’ he asks as I beep the lock and slide into the driver’s seat. Miles doesn’t own a car. He says having one in London is like throwing money down the drain and is always nagging me to use public transport: ‘Just think,’ he always says, ‘with all the cash you save you could invest in an ISA.’

Which is true. I could.

Then again, I could also buy a fabulous new handbag.

‘Because the number seventy-two goes straight from here.’

Miles has the bus timetable ingrained on his brain. On our first date he took me out for dinner, but he refused to take a cab to the restaurant – even though it was raining and I was wearing a new pair of shoes. A pair of nude suede strappy sandals.