I couldn’t believe my eyes! It was totally full with stuff that was probably worth more than my gross monthly pay. A couple of accessories, a beautiful clutch, and a dress. I picked up the note at the bottom of the bag.
Hi Paige,
I asked Carlos for your sizes. I work for Smashion PR and we represent loads of labels. This is just a selection of a few and I’d love to see you out in more of our stuff. If you want anything else, just give me a ring. I’ll send a courier to pick it up once you’ve worn it.
Laura xxx
This stuff was free? And just for me? Thank you fairy godmother Laura. I was totally ok with free rental clothes. It wasn’t my fault I ended up in the papers, and you should always look on the bright side, right? Silver lining and all that.
I threw on the few things in my closet that didn’t smell and the bangles from the goodie bag, then I laid out the dress, clutch, and shoes to save for my date tonight. On the off chance I was going to have a hot dog for lunch (more likely than I cared to admit), I didn’t want to risk a mustard stain. As I was about to leave the house, I glanced at my computer.
Should I?
I desperately wanted to check what, if anything, made it into the tabloids, but I was only one hung over hour into the day. Surely it would ruin itself without any premature help from me or Google.
Mood lifted because of my amazing willpower, I walked confidently to the tube only to be knocked down when I accidentally glanced at the papers on display at the newsagent. Only two of them had me on the cover and both used the picture of Charlie and me kissing. Really? Was there really nothing else deemed newsworthy? I thought Carlos said nobody would notice me at the party?
One of the headlines announced “Smith Girl’s New Love” which was not only annoying, but also going to be very awkward when I had to explain it to Alex. Assuming he didn’t see the papers and cancel.
I could smell roses as soon as I got off the elevator. When I got to my desk, they were everywhere, everywhere that is, except in front of my computer. Who was I expecting to send them anyway? Jason, who seemed to care more about his expensive sheets than me? Alex, who by now thinks I’m a whore? Or Charlie, who clearly set up the photo to get himself a little bit of press?
Well, that little round-up of my non-existent love life was depressing.
Carlos was beaming. Louis had sent him flowers. After I overcame my jealousy, I was really happy for him.
“Those are beautiful,” I said, standing behind him. He turned and that non-bitchy moment was gone faster than the fat-free cupcakes in the cafeteria.
“Did you give Louis back the stuff from yesterday? You’re totally fired if you didn’t,” he said as if he had the power to make sure that happened and then tossed me The Mirror with the picture of Charlie and I on the cover. “Who was that sexy man you were kissing all over the papers?” Awesome.
I read the article. Apparently Charlie was some pseudo-famous rugby player whose father was a famous politician in the eighties. According to The Mirror, he had a habit of dating models who then dumped him once their star eclipsed his. Charlie was actually quoted as saying, “Paige and I have a deep connection. Don’t believe what people say, she really is a lovely girl.”
Thanks.
Then he added, “Yes, we are definitely together. We are seeing each other again as soon as possible.” Except that we weren’t.
I threw the paper away and managed to write four sentences of an article about Tiffany’s engagement rings before lunch without crying or Googling nunneries.
At exactly five-thirty I grabbed my jacket and left the office. Alex hadn’t cancelled yet and although I was trying not to get my hopes up, I was pretty sure that meant he forgave me for everything and we were getting married. I was practically sprinting when I got to my place at six thirty-five. I hadn’t heard from Alex all day and decided it was because he was performing lifesaving heart surgery on a baby everyone else had given up on. So, although I reeked of the McDonald’s I’d snuck for lunch and day-old champagne seeping through my pores, I did my best to get ready.
In the fury of hot rollers, mascara, and blush, I tried not to think about how a Valentine’s Day first date was an epic disaster waiting to happen. I was just slipping on the shoes at five to eight when the doorbell rang.
Yay! He showed. Oh god, please don’t let anyone answer it.
I ran up the stairs dragging my coat behind me and barely had time to push my hair out of my face as I opened the door.
The boy cleaned up well. I thought he was attractive in his scrubs, so I was pretty much ready to hump on the steps when I saw him in real people clothes. He had on a great pair of dark-wash jeans with a light grey button-up top and an open black overcoat.
“Ready to go?” Cue his smile and my knees collapsing.
“Sure am,” I said a little too enthusiastically. “Where are we off to?”
“It’s a surprise.” I love surprises.
My phone started to vibrate in my bag before we got into the taxi. I ignored it until the second time it went off, less than a minute later. Alex glanced down at it. “Popular girl.”
“Sorry.” It was Lucinda. Whatever it was would have to wait until after the date … or tomorrow morning, if things went well.
We arrived at the restaurant and immediately people were staring a lot more than usual. I tried to ignore it. Alex shifted uncomfortably, so I grabbed his arm to reassure him. It didn’t seem to work.
He calmed down a little once we sat down at our table near the window overlooking the Thames. It was a secluded corner so most people in the restaurant couldn’t see us.
“Paige, tell me something about yourself I haven’t read in the papers.”
So embarrassing.
“Well, most of what you read isn’t true, believe it or not. I know lots of people must say that, but that’s really how it is.”
“So … you kissing that rugby player?”
And the date was over.
“That was … I don’t even know what that was. I had no idea he was going to kiss me, and I definitely didn’t know someone was going to take a picture.” I was frantically searching for the right words that would prove my innocence, but all I could think about was my phone that was still vibrating. Maybe Lucinda was in trouble. I went to reach for my phone, but Alex grabbed my hands and put them in his.
“Paige, calm down. I know. Anyone with half a brain would know if they read the article. You just need to be a little more careful.”
Never mind, Lucinda was totally fine. Probably.
“I will, I promise. Anyway, what have the papers not managed to dig up? I want to travel. I want to see Paris.”
“You want to see Paris? Travel?” He raised an eyebrow and I realized how generic I sounded. Note to self: get more interesting.
“What about you, Dr. Alex? All I know is you remind me of Hugh Grant with your accent, but are much better looking and hopefully don’t sleep with transgendered hookers.”
“Hugh Grant is my cousin.” He said it with such a straight face that I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
“Oh—uh, sorry I—”
He cracked a smile. “Paige, I’m kidding, but you’re right. I am much better looking than him.” He laughed at his own joke, which I found endearing, since I am often accused of that myself. But really, you wouldn’t tell a joke unless you thought it was funny, right?
I thought I saw a man creeping around the corner of the restaurant outside, but when I looked he was gone.
“Is your family from—” This time there was definitely someone loitering several feet away from our window. These jerks were really ruining the moment. The first man I thought I saw returned and joined the second. Alex and I both turned towards the window.
Before I could register what was going on, they pulled out their cameras and started snapping. The flashes were quick, furious, and blinding. It all happened in slow motion and I felt like I was watching some horrible movie. This couldn’t
really be happening to me.
Horrified, I spun my head towards Alex. His fists were clenched and his eyes narrowed, locked on the intruders at the window, snapping away. Turning back towards me, eyes wide, he started to get up from the table. What was happening?
Alex grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and left. Just like that. No words, he just turned his back and walked out of the restaurant. He didn’t even take me with him.
I sat staring at the empty seat, ignoring the cameras still flashing. A man I thought I could really like left me alone at a restaurant on Valentine’s Day and these vultures were here to capture every Kodak moment.
Tears began to stream down my face. No matter how hard I tried to stop them, they just kept coming. Why were they still taking those stupid pictures? Didn’t they have enough? Didn’t they realize what they’d done?
The waitress arrived to take our drink order and let out a surprised scream as the cameras attacked her as well. She left quickly without saying a word, as if she’d come upon a pack of hyenas with dinner in their mouths and didn’t want to disturb them.
I grabbed my coat and pushed through the oblivious diners and confused waitresses. There was another group of paparazzi waiting at the entrance. Apparently, they hunted in packs.
I ran towards a taxi rank across the street from the main entrance. A horn honked, but because of the spots in my eyes, I wasn’t sure how close I was to getting hit.
“Earls Court, please,” I shouted at the taxi driver through my tears as I opened the door. He looked at me with pity.
“Sure thing, luv.”
In the silence of the cab, I wondered how my life had become such a circus. I came to London for an adventure, not to be publicly humiliated on Valentine’s Day. My stomach growled and the vibration reminded me of my phone. Ten missed calls from Lucinda and several texts. I read the first one.
Kerry just announced her divorce from Stuart. Don’t go out! X
I really wish I had answered the call on the way to the restaurant. I thought about calling Lucinda, but I really just needed to be alone with two of my favorite men: Ben and Jerry.
As the taxi pulled up at my house, I prepared myself for the fury of photographers by wiping the tear-smudged mascara from under my eyes. But to my surprise, there weren’t any, just two police officers.
I paid the driver and slowly got out of the taxi, in fear that I would have to jump back in if they were there to tell me Philip had murdered everyone in the flat.
“Hello, Miss Crawford,” said the first officer. He reminded me a little of my dad, happy to see me and slightly worried.
“Hi … Is there something wrong?”
“Not anymore. Your flatmates called the police. The photographers were harassing them.”
Officer two nodded. “I don’t think they will be coming back for a while; you’re free to go in.”
They stepped aside to let me through my front door. Bet this was the shittiest celeb house they’d ever protected.
I sulked back to my room, stripping off the beautiful dress and slipping into my old University sweats and a Hello Kitty t-shirt. Folding the dress and putting it back in the big silver bag made me realize there was one winner in this situation. Smashion PR definitely got their money’s worth. I rummaged through the back of my closet. I was smart enough to buy a few bottles of red wine in my last grocery shop and hide them for this exact kind of emergency.
My stomach growled again. It was just past nine and I wasn’t going to risk heading outside. I picked up my laptop and searched for Domino’s. It had to be the one comfort from home they had here.
I placed my order for a small pepperoni pizza and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cookie Dough Ice Cream and went upstairs to open the wine.
All the clean glasses were covered in baked-on mystery food specks, so I climbed onto the kitchen counter and on the top shelf in the furthest cupboard found an old white I Heart NY mug from some flatmate past. It was relatively clean and slightly less depressing than drinking straight from the bottle.
I sat in silence on the couch in the large empty living room. More tears came. What was I doing here? What did I think was going to happen? I would move here, have a fabulous job, meet an amazing man, and see the world with no consequences?
Don’t get me wrong, I like me, but I’m not that interesting. In Canada I had a cootie-free home with central heating and friends to call when I had my heart broken. In London I was either going to be murdered by my creepy flatmate or catch the plague from my used bed. Yes, used, i.e. someone else slept in it, probably several people actually, and now it was mine to lay my head down after a hard day at work. Wrap your head around that one.
My mug was empty already. I poured another generous glass and resolved to get out of my funk. I have a home and a job and parents who (if they haven’t Googled me) still loved me. Turning on the TV to a music channel, I found Taylor Swift singing soulfully to the camera. She was fa la la-ing about finding innocent love, losing innocent love, and taking a chance. I was suddenly irrationally angry at Jake Gyllenhaal for breaking her sweet little heart. And that guy from One Direction. And John Mayer.
As I watched Taylor and her impossibly hot co-star feed the white horse in the video, I polished off the second glass of red wine and got to thinking about finding The One.
It’s not that I want it now, it’s knowing I’ll probably have to wait several more years and have horrible relationships until then, only meeting the person who really gets me in my thirties. And that’s assuming I ever meet someone who truly gets me.
To be honest, I have known myself for twenty-two years and I hardly get me. When are you supposed to stop holding out for the white horse and settle? Is settling even an option? Or is everyone else smarter than me and know, after all the flashiness of a fairytale love story, the prince leaves on his white horse and all you are left with is a pile of horseshit?
Jesus, I needed to stop listening to Taylor Swift.
The doorbell rang. I opened it to find a frightened deliveryman holding my order while keeping an eye on the police officers staring him down. He handed me the pizza and I handed him £15 and told him to keep the change.
As I watched him go, I noticed Philip coming up the street. He was definitely the last person I wanted to see, so I abandoned Taylor and ran back downstairs with my wine, pizza, and ice cream.
I turned on my laptop and browsed the movies I had downloaded on iTunes. Two choices presented themselves: When Harry Met Sally and Scarface. The choice was obvious. Love could kiss my ass tonight. Right after Tony Montana declared he wanted the whole world, and everything in it, I began to feel better about my situation. At least I wasn’t a drug-addicted gangster who everyone was trying to kill.
My Ben & Jerry’s didn’t come with a spoon, so I cautiously headed upstairs with the pint of ice cream. The last thing I wanted was to be quizzed by angry flatmates complaining about the paps.
The lights were still on upstairs. As I walked through the hallway towards the kitchen, I passed Philip’s room and heard some noises. Very distinct noises. Moaning and headboard banging to be precise. That creep was getting laid! Someone actually wanted to have sex with him, on Valentine’s Day, and nobody would even have dinner with me.
I was officially in kill myself mode and in order to make sure my inevitable fate wouldn’t be to die alone with fifty cats, I had to see the quality of woman who would actually sleep with someone like him. Mostly to gauge the amount of time I had before I was reduced to sleeping with a semi-employed weirdo.
I loitered in the kitchen for a bit eating the ice cream, until I heard the noise stop and footsteps towards the door. I tiptoed back into the hallway, intending to accidentally run into the conquest.
His door opened and Gemma walked out in just a sheet. I choked on my mouth full of cold cookie dough and chocolate chips. She saw me and, not nearly showing enough embarrassment considering the situation, went down the stairs to her room without saying a word.
I stood there, trying to give myself the Heimlich maneuver.
List of Flatmates in Order of Craziness, revised 3rd edition:
1. Sleeps with nut jobs on wet crack house mattresses, Gemma
2. Takes suitcases shopping, Philip
3. I’m not gay but I get BJs from dudes, Guillermo
4. Learns English via Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn, Natalie
Back in my room, I turned the movie back on and devoured the ice cream, ignoring the crippling brain freeze.
My phone vibrated. It was a text from Alex.
I’m sorry. I can’t.
Of course you can’t. I let out a deep sigh and slammed my laptop shut; I was officially sucking at life.
I woke up with a horrible feeling of dread which I thought came from bad seafood. But then I realized I hadn’t eaten seafood in weeks and that dread was the realization that I had to eventually go out in public again.
Rolling out of bed, I contemplated calling in sick until I remembered that most people I work with are literate and will know the real reason why I didn’t want to go to work.
When I arrived at the office I was once again assaulted with the smell of roses. This time I knew for sure there weren’t any for me.
“I’m sorry,” Carlos said quietly as I sat down at my desk.
He had cleared all of the papers and magazines that usually littered the tables in our area. I knew I had to face it eventually, so I went online and checked the headlines.
Most of them had me on the cover because Stuart and Kerry had enough sense to stay home. Several of them insinuated that I was crying because I broke up the marriage—these were the ones who still believed I uttered much more than just “thank you” to Stuart. The others assumed—rightly—that I was crying because my sorry ass got dumped on Valentine’s Day before we even ordered drinks. They all seemed to be oblivious that they had actually caused what happened.
The Accidental Socialite Page 6
