Who's That Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

was incredibly enthusiastic. Plus she has the poshest voice I've ever heard, which in the world of PR is invaluable.
    Traditionally the girls who work in public relations are middle-class girls from the Home Counties, not girls from Yorkshire with an accent that's pure Pennines. Actually, mine isn't so much pure Pennines any more. Ten years of London have mellowed it to the point where I take barths not baths and tea is something I drink, not something I eat at 5 p.m. Nevertheless, Bea's cut-glass accent opens doors that mine never could. We work as a team. A sort of bait and switch. I make the deals, get the contracts and take care of our clients, but Bea is the first point of contact for the press and media. And for that, her knack for sounding like the Queen is priceless.
    The phone starts ringing and Bea rushes to answer it. 'Good morning, Merryweather PR,' she trills. 'Which publication are you calling from? The Telegraph ? Oh, how thrilling! My grandfather was the editor for many years.'
    See what I mean?
    After rescuing the Melody account from imploding, the rest of the morning slips away in the usual hive of activity: making calls to journalists, writing press releases, taking conference calls with clients. One minute it's 9 a.m. and I'm trying to think of something sexy and fabulous to say about a dandruff shampoo, which is part of the new range by Johnny Bird, a West End hairstylist, and the next minute it's nearly one and I'm being tossed about in the back of a cab on my way to a lunch meeting at the Wolseley, a fashionable restaurant in Piccadilly. Usually I drive, but today I thought a cab might be quicker. More importantly, it means I can catch up with some work on the way.
    I hang on to a strap to steady myself while reading an email that's just popped in on my BlackBerry. Scrolling down with my thumb, I'm about to start typing a reply when my mobile starts ringing. I have a BlackBerry and a mobile. The BlackBerry's for business; the mobile's for personal calls. Normally I switch it to silent during day, but I must have forgotten. I dig it out and glance at the screen. It's my parents.
    Oh, shoot. Dad's birthday. I was going to call as soon as I had a free minute. The thing is, I'm still waiting for that free minute.
    'Hello, Charlotte Merryweather speaking,' I say out of habit before I can stop myself.
    'Oh, so you are alive!' laughs a voice dryly.
    'Oh, hi, Mum,' I say innocently, trying not to think of all the voicemail messages she's left over the past week. 'How are you?'
    'Didn't you get my messages?' she demands, refusing to be sidetracked by pleasantries.
    'Um… yes, but I—'
    She doesn't let me finish. 'Well, let's just hope your father and I never have an emergency,' she continues tetchily. 'We'll be dead and buried before they can get hold of you.'
    I roll my eyes. My mother loves melodrama. It's all the soaps she watches.
    'I mean, what's the point of having a phone if you never answer it?'
    'I was probably in meetings,' I proffer weakly.
    'I called you at home this morning. You still didn't answer.'
    Honestly, you'd think my mother was a prosecution lawyer, not a school secretary.
    'I must have been out. I had my trainer at six.'
    'Six in the morning?' she says, sounding shocked.
    'Yeah, I ran five miles.'
    ' You ran five miles?'' Her voice has gone all high-pitched. 'Oh, Charlotte,' she gasps anxiously,
    'are you sure you're not overdoing it? You should give yourself a lie-in sometimes.'
    A lie-in ? God, I can't remember the last time I had a lie-in. Oh, actually, I do - it was the morning after my big twenty-fifth birthday party. Which wasn't that long ago.
    It was nearly seven years ago.
    'And are you eating properly? You can't exercise on an empty stomach.'
    Suddenly Mum's switched from prosecution lawyer into concerned-mother mode.
    'Yes. I know,' I lie.
    My empty stomach gives an angry growl and I silence it by gulping down the Starbucks that I grabbed before I jumped in the cab.
    'Because