Page 89 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Ooh, yes, good idea,’ nods Miles. ‘I’ve got a bit of a hangover after last night. All that celebrating.’ He looks at me and I feel a twist of panic. ‘I must have crashed out on the sofa as it wasn’t till the light woke me up, streaming in through the blinds, that I crawled into bed. Not that you’d remember,’ he adds, looking at me pointedly.

The twist of alarm tightens a notch. Oh shit.

After leaving my younger self asleep in bed, I’d driven back from my old house and arrived at my flat when it was just getting light. Assuming Miles was still fast asleep on the sofa, I’d headed straight into the bedroom, which was in complete darkness because of my blackout blinds, and flopped straight into bed. But what if Miles woke up while I was out clubbing? What if he came to bed and discovered I wasn’t there? What on earth am I going to say? My mind starts frantically flicking through a list of excuses. How on earth am I going to explain—

‘You were fast asleep. Completely dead to the world,’ he continues, and I look at him in astonishment. ‘You were obviously exhausted. You’re normally such a light sleeper.’

I got away with it. He doesn’t know! My body almost sags with relief.

‘Must have been all the excitement about the house, hey?’ He beams.

‘Er, yes, absolutely.’ I smile uneasily. ‘It totally wiped me out.’ I do a show of stretching and throw in a faux yawn. Which turns into a real one. Actually, I am still pretty tired.

‘Do you want me to help with the coffee?’ Misinterpreting my show of exhaustion, Miles starts to get out of bed.

‘No, no,’ I say urgently. ‘You stay there. I’ll get it.’

‘Hmm, I think I’m going to like this living together,’ he says and, looking pleased, he slides back underneath the duvet.

Leaving him behind in the bedroom, I hurry into the kitchen, grab a bag of coffee beans, pour them into the grinder, switch it on and reach for the espresso pot. Then pause. Hugging it to my chest, I lean against the counter and watch the coffee beans whirling round and round, like all the kinds of strange, unfamiliar thoughts that are whirling round in my head.

I think back to last night. To all of it: my birthday dinner, Miles and the champagne, Vanessa and Julian, Lottie and the club, Olly the barman … At the memory of Olly my stomach does a little loop and I feel a flash of something. Excitement, fear, foolishness? I don’t know what. A scene from our conversation slides across my mind, down my spine, through my groin and comes to an abrupt full stop as my mind throws up an image of the barman at the gastropub. Annoying, irritating, belligerent and the same person. God, it’s all got so confusing.

‘There you are.’

I twirl round to see Miles standing in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing my bathrobe. It’s too small for him and his pale arms and legs are sticking out from the cream waffle towelling, making him look rather comical.

‘I wondered what had happened to the coffee.’

I become aware of the noise of the grinder, still buzzing away, and quickly turn it off.

‘I thought we could have our coffee and then go take a second look at the house,’ he continues, reaching for the Weetabix. He keeps a box at my flat. Apparently he’s eaten them since childhood and can’t break the habit. Not that he seems to want to. I’ve never seen anyone get as much pleasure from sprinkling a layer of sugar on top of Weetabix, patting them down with the back of his spoon, carefully pouring milk around them (‘like a moat’, he once explained), making sure he doesn’t pour it on the Weetabix directly, as that would make them soggy, and then eating them with the kind of precision you’d expect from a brain surgeon.

‘So we need to hurry up. I’ve arranged to pick up the keys.’

‘Oh, um … yes, right.’ I nod, feeling a familiar jangle of nerves.

Turning back to the espresso pot, I rub my ears distractedly. They’re still itching. In fact they’re actually rather painful, I realise, leaning forwards to peer at them in the shiny stainless-steel toaster. I get quite a shock. My ears are red and inflamed, and there’s an angry rash beginning to run down the side of my neck. Oh my God, it must be the pearl earrings. I’m allergic to them.

And all at once it’s like the earrings are a sign. A sign that this isn’t right. Buying this house. Moving in together. Me and Miles. I feel a jolt of fear and recognition. It’s as if someone just unlocked a door inside me that I’ve been too afraid to open, because I know what’s on the other side.

I’m not in love with Miles.

As soon as the thought pops into my head, I realise it’s been there for longer than I care to remember. I’ve just been avoiding it, ignoring it, pretending it wasn’t true, putting a PR spin on my own relationship, trying to convince myself that we are right for each other, that Miles is right for me. And it’s only now I’ve finally admitted it to myself.

Now I just have to admit it to Miles.

Like a drum roll, my heart starts thudding loudly in my chest as I turn to face him. He’s sitting on a stool up at the counter, carefully cutting off a slice of Weetabix with his spoon, and still talking.

‘There’s lots of things we need to start to sort out. For example, are they leaving the curtains and blinds? If not, we’ll have to get those ordered and they can take at least four to six weeks.’

I have to tell him. Taking a deep breath, I summon all my courage. ‘Miles, I don’t know how to say this, but I can’t—’

‘Oh, don’t tell me,’ he interrupts, pulling a face. ‘You’ve got yoga.’

I swallow hard. ‘No, I haven’t got yoga.’

‘I mean, surely you can reschedule? This is very important,’ he continues, turning back to his cereal bowl.