Who's That Girl by Alexandra Potter Read Free Book Online Page B

Ahead, I can see the signs for the diversion and as traffic starts merging into one lane, I resign myself to another long journey into work.
    My stomach gurgles. Yet again I haven't had time for any breakfast. Flicking open my glove compartment, I rummage around. I keep a stash of energy bars in here, just for emergencies. OK, so they're not just for emergencies - they're usually my breakfast these days, when I get to eat breakfast, that is. I buy them in bulk from the health-food store. Finishing a call, I tear open the wrapper and take a bite. These are full of oary goodness and are super-delicious. Well, actually, they're not that delicious. In fact, they remind me a bit of the food I used to feed my pet gerbil, but they're a lot healthier than a Twix, which is what I used to eat in my twenties. I chew quickly as we crawl along the high street, taking advantage of the few moments of silence before my phone starts ringing.
    It's that Beetle again.
    As I pull up at the lights, I feel a jolt of surprise. Gosh, what a coincidence . My eyes flick automatically towards the driver and I catch the briefest of glimpses. A split second. Barely long enough to see more than a flash of that same long, dark, curly hair before I'm blinded by the morning sunlight bouncing off the windscreen. Then she's gone. Disappeared behind a sunvisor. And I'm left staring at the car, feeling vaguely unsettled.
    And slightly bewildered.
    I peer closer. I didn't imagine it. That really does look like my old car, I determine, my chest resting against the steering wheel, my brow furrowed as I squint in the sunlight. In fact, it's exactly the same, complete with animal-rights sticker and rusting headlights. And bashed on the left-hand side from when I forgot to put on the handbrake and it rolled down the hill into the village and the farmer's tractor…
    As the lights change and the Beetle drives past me, I gaze at it in stunned disbelief. There's nothing else for it, it has to be my old car. It failed its MOT years ago on about a hundred different points… A vague memory stirs: the mechanic calling it a death trap and telling me that the next time I put my foot on the brake pedal, my foot would go through the bottom as it was so rusty. Dad very sweetly bought it off me as he loves fixing up old cars. He gave it to Mum as a runaround, something to use for taking the dogs on long muddy walks in the Dales, until eventually they ended up selling it to someone.
    Someone who must now be living in London. Someone who must look a lot like I used to when I was twenty-one, I decide, feeling a flash of jubilant triumph. See . I knew there had to be a rational explanation.
    As I drive off, I glance in my rear-view mirror, but the Beetle has already disappeared. It must have turned off somewhere, I muse idly, sailing across the intersection. And there was me beginning to think—
    I catch myself. Well, let's just say I was beginning to think all kinds of silly nonsense. As usual Beatrice is waiting for me with an outstretched cup of coffee. 'Morning,' she trills chirpily.
    'Morning.' Scooping up my coffee, I march over to my desk, turn on my computer and start checking my emails. 'Any messages?'
    'Larry Goldstein's people called to apologise that he's running late for lunch - I've changed the reservation to two p.m. - but he's very excited about meeting you.' She beams and crosses her fingers.
    'Anything else?'
    'Oh, and Miles called.'
    I look up, surprised. Miles never calls me at the office - he knows how busy I am. Plus he was supposed to be flying up to Leeds this morning. I feel a flicker of worry.
    'Is he OK?' I ask, going from zero to panic in less time than it takes to say 'accident and emergency'.
    'Yes, fine,' breezes Beatrice. 'He'd just landed.'
    Immediately I relax.
    'He said he tried calling you this morning but couldn't get through to you on your mobile.'
    'Oh, God, I probably forgot to turn it on,' I groan, digging it out of my pocket. 'I was in a bit