Page 97 of Who’s That Girl?

‘So that means a ninety-nine ice cream with extra sprinkles and double fudge sauce is out of the question?’ he demands, completely straight-faced.

Huh?

He motions to an ice-cream van and I feel myself weaken. God, I’d love an ice cream.

‘Absolutely,’ I manage, trying to stay mad.

‘So if I get one, you’re not going to get one too?’

We move towards the ice-cream van.

As Oliver goes up to the window, I grit my teeth. Boy, this is hard. ‘No, definitely not.’ I shake my head decisively as he orders one for himself.

‘A ninety-nine with extra everything, please.’ He grins cheerily.

I shoot him a look. I’m sure he did that on purpose.

‘Mmm, this is delicious.’ He takes a large lick of the ice cream the vendor has just passed to him. ‘Sure you don’t want even a lick?’ he asks, taking a bite of Flake.

‘No, I can’t,’ I say stiffly, though I can feel myself salivating. ‘A nutritionist told me I’m intolerant, remember?’

‘Oh, now, I don’t know if I agree with that nutritionist.’ He cocks his head and looks at me. ‘I think you’re pretty tolerant. What do you say, Welly?’

Welly wags his tail as if in agreement and I struggle to stifle a giggle.

‘In fact I’d say you were so tolerant you’d probably agree to holding this ice cream for a minute while I go to the little boys’ room.’

‘Oh, you reckon?’

‘Uh huh.’ He nods. ‘And I think your tolerance levels are so high that even if the ice cream starts melting down the cornet, you’ll lick it to stop it going all over your hand.’

‘Really?’

‘Definitely.’ Smiling, he thrusts it at me and walks off.

Leaving me standing there feeling my anger melting away faster than the ice cream, which is already trickling on to my fingers in the hot sunshine. I shoot his retreating figure a smile. ‘You know what?’ I mutter, curling my tongue round the cornet and tasting the sweet vanilla. ‘Sod the nutritionist. I think you might be right.’

Emerging from the park, we wind our way down the skinny side streets that lead into Notting Hill and Portobello, the world-famous market, which is brimming with stalls selling everything from flowers to furniture to you name it. Weaving our way through the throngs of tourists, we hit the main road and a row of shops and restaurants. Designer clothes, designer jewellery, designer cappuccinos … my eyes skim over the windows, until unexpectedly Oliver stops in front of an antique shop.

‘I just need to pop in here for a minute,’ he explains, reaching for a well-worn brass knocker. Immediately Welly starts wagging his tail manically.

I suddenly recognise it as the shop I walked past with Vanessa a few days ago, when I saw Oliver through the window. ‘Oh, OK.’ I nod, following him as he pushes open the door.

Inside, the shop is cluttered with all kinds of treasures in its dimly lit corners, and there’s a musty smell of pipe smoke and furniture polish.

‘Hello, anyone home?’ calls out Oliver as Welly sniffs around, pressing his nose up against the legs of an old leather chair.

‘Hmm, it doesn’t look like there’s anyone around. Maybe I should make off with that rather nice French watercolour,’ he says in a low voice, pointing to a painting. ‘What do you reckon?’

I look at him in horror, then realise he must be joking. ‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ I whisper.

‘No, seriously,’ he says, glancing shiftily around. ‘Reckon I could get it under my T-shirt?’ He picks it up.

Oh my God, he’s not joking! I look at him aghast. Oliver the nice barman has turned into a thief!

And I’m his accomplice.

‘What are you doing?’ I hiss frantically, trying to tug it from him. ‘Put it down, put it—’