Who's That Girl Read Free

the money on a holiday as I just need to relax. Honestly, I love Vanessa, but she's the one who's crazy. A holiday ? Like I have time for a holiday. Besides, I do lots of things to relax. For example, I do Pilates. Actually, perhaps do is a little bit of an exaggeration - I did it once and fell asleep during the mat exercises - but I've every intention of doing it regularly. And I take baths with scented candles and lavender oil and a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc. Admittedly, I haven't taken one recently - in fact these days it's more a case of dashing in and out of the shower with a Bic razor - but still. Plus I even have Paul McKenna's relaxation CD, which my mum sent me. Somewhere. Tucked away in a drawer probably.
    But I'm definitely going to listen to it when I have a minute…
    OK, so I wouldn't go as far as to say I'm relaxed as such, but who is these days? I run a company. I have a mortgage, and responsibilities, and lines round my eyes to take care of. I mean, it's not like I'm twenty-one any more.
    And thank goodness.
    Back then I was renting a room, working in a dead-end job and always broke. Now I have my own successful PR company, a lovely flat in a leafy part of West London and one of those new convertible Beetles. I eat out at restaurants and can afford to shop for designer clothes and take luxury holidays.
    Not that I do of course, as I never have the time, but I'm just saying. I even have my own personal trainer.
    Speaking of whom… Dragging my self out of bed, I swap my warm, fleecy pyjamas for my gym kit and hurry across to the window. I open the blind and pull back the curtains. It's still pitch black outside and for a moment I pause to stare into the silent, sleeping street. I'm thirty-one years old and I've got the life I always dreamed of. The doorbell rings, interrupting my thoughts, and I turn away from the window.
    'Coming,' I yell loudly, and rubbing the sleep from my puffy eyes, I dash for the door.
     
    Chapter Two
    An hour later, after running around the park and doing about a million star jumps, Richard, my personal trainer, is jogging me back to my flat. Richard used to be in the Territorial Army and likes to push me really hard.
    Unfortunately I don't mean 'push me' as in I'm on a swing wearing a floaty dress and going,
    'Weeeee,' but as in me face down on the tarmac gasping for breath while he barks at me to do another fifty press-ups.
    'OK, Charlotte, why don't we sprint the last hundred metres, huh?'
    Trust me, I have dozens of reasons why we shouldn't, but Richard has already zoomed ahead of me, all six foot three of solid muscle in racer-back vest and tiny black shorts. I grip on to my hand-weights and lurch after his receding figure, which is springing buoyantly along the pavement on powerful calves.
    'C'mon, no slacking. Fill those lungs. Lift those knees. Hup, hup, hup, hup .'
    I swear Richard has the biggest calf muscles I've ever seen. Apparently, when he was in the TA, he would run hundreds of miles with a backpack that weighed more than me. Which I always find a comforting thought - just in case I should collapse and need to be carried home one day, or something.
    I finally catch him up outside my flat.
    'See you same time Wednesday.' Still running on the spot, Richard slaps me heartily on the back and I nearly keel over.
    'Same time Wednesday,' I reply cheerfully, smiling brightly and opening my front door.
    'Now, don't forget to stretch out those muscles,' he yells, grabbing his elbows and effortlessly throwing in a little bit of over-arm stretching.
    'I won't.' I beam, giving a jaunty wave before disappearing inside. Where I collapse on the hall carpet.
    I do this three times a week. When I was younger, I used to be such a slob, but now I'm older and wiser and know it's really important to keep fit. Although right now 'fit' isn't exactly the word I'd choose to describe how I'm feeling. I'd go for something slightly different. Like exhausted or in agony .
    With sweat pouring