Page 96 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Wow.’ I nod, feeling both impressed and envious.

‘What about you?’

‘The furthest I’ve been in the last few years is Yorkshire. Too busy with work.’ I shrug in explanation.

‘No one ever dies wishing they’d spent more time at the office,’ he replies. ‘Or whatever the saying is.’

‘Well, my friend did get me tickets for Paris for my birthday,’ I say defensively. ‘Then again, I don’t suppose I’ll be going now,’ I add as an afterthought.

He furrows his brow questioningly.

‘I was supposed to be going with my boyfriend,’ I explain.

‘Did you guys have a blazing row or something?’

‘No, we don’t do rows,’ I reply ruefully, quoting Miles.

‘So what happened?’

Over in the distance, a peacock is fanning out its tail. I watch it for a moment. ‘I’m not sure,’ I say, shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans. ‘It just wasn’t right. We weren’t right. It’s like everything was perfect, but it wasn’t.’ I look at him, shielding my eyes from the sunlight. ‘Does that make any sense?’

‘Emotions don’t have to make sense.’ He shrugs, and we turn and keep walking.

Squirrels scurry across our path as we zigzag around the flower beds.

‘He didn’t seem your type,’ he says after a moment.

‘I know, that’s what Vanessa always says,’ I begin, then pause. ‘Hang on, how would you know what my type is?’ I stop walking and turn to him.

‘Well, he’s nothing like Billy Romani.’ He raises his eyebrows.

It takes a second for it to register, and then—

‘You do recognise me!’ I exclaim.

‘People don’t change that much,’ he says in explanation, and starts walking again.

‘I know, but I thought—’ I stop myself. Actually, I’m not sure what I thought.

‘I recognised you as soon as you walked into the pub on Monday night,’ he continues as we make our way towards a stretch of lawn, which is filled with picnickers. ‘To tell you the truth, I didn’t think you remembered me,’ he says quietly, glancing at me sideways.

I didn’t, whispers a small voice inside my head. And now I’m wondering how on earth that could have happened.

‘I wasn’t on your radar in those days.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ I laugh nervously, and then catch his expression. Gosh, he actually looks quite peeved about it. I hope he’s not holding some kind of grudge against me. A thought stirs. Hang on a minute. ‘Is that why you were so mean to me in the pub? To pay me back for ignoring you ten years ago?’ I blurt suddenly.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he refutes, but I can tell by the flash of colour in his cheeks that I’ve hit the nail on the head. ‘When have I ever been mean to you?’ There’s no mistaking the way he says that line. It’s abundantly clear he thinks I was mean to him.

‘Making fun of my allergies,’ I retort, ‘ridiculing me.’

‘Well, do you blame me? Come on, you’ve got to admit they are a bit ridiculous,’ he snorts derisively.

‘No, they’re not,’ I snap, bristling. In the space of a few seconds our conversation has jackknifed into an argument.

‘So let me get this straight: you can’t eat any dairy, refined sugar, wheat or nuts, and you can’t eat fish more than once a week.’ Counting them off on his fingers, he looks at me, eyebrows raised.

Now it’s my turn to blush. Actually, put like that, it does sound pretty ridiculous.