“Miss, you won’t be leaving the hospital. Security will just put you in restraints. So, are you ready to behave yourself so I can take your blood pressure?” She was speaking to me like a small child, which was fitting because I was acting like one.
We were taken quickly into a room very similar to the one where I’d met Alex. I buried my head under the pillow on the bed, unable to face what was about to happen. The door opened.
“Miss Crawford, I’m Dr. Singh.” It was an elderly, friendly, and most likely non-tabloid-reading Indian man. “I see you have hit your head. Let me have a look.”
He examined my injury with his brows furrowed like he was seeing something other than dried blood and makeup.
“That is a pretty nasty cut. Luckily it is near your hairline, so there shouldn’t be too much of a scar.”
“Too much? I want no scar. Is there any way you can make it no scar?” I pleaded with him and he took pity on me.
“Miss, I assure you, you won’t see anything, but I can request a plastic surgeon if you like.” I nodded my head in appreciation.
“But first, can you please tell me what happened?” He was scrolling through my file on the computer.
“She tripped on Oxford Street,” Adrian answered for me.
“Well that is interesting, Miss Crawford, because here in your file it says you hurt your chin doing that exact thing several months ago.” He raised an eyebrow. “What a coincidence.”
My eyes shifted from Adrian to the doctor to the floor. They were all looking at me like I was hiding something, which made sense because I was.
“Ya … sure is.”
“Excuse me, sir,” the doctor addressed Adrian. “May I speak to Miss Crawford alone?”
“Uh, yes, of course.” Adrian was confused but left and stood outside the room.
“Miss Crawford, I am assuming one of these stories is untrue, or might I suggest you stay away from Oxford Street as it appears to be detrimental to your health.”
“Ok, fine, I admit it, the first one was a lie, but I really did hurt myself this time on Oxford Street. I bet if you Google it there are pictures up already.”
“I see.” He still wasn’t convinced. “Then why did you lie the first time?”
I was regretting asking for the plastic surgeon. I wanted to leave now.
“It was just really embarrassing and I don’t know, I didn’t think it mattered.”
“If someone is hurting you, Miss Crawford—”
“Oh, god, no. No it isn’t like that at all, I swear.” I took a deep breath. “Listen, I’m sorry I lied, but can I just get my stitches and leave? I want to go home.” Back to Canada.
Dr. Singh nodded, stitched me up, and let me go with a look of pity I wished I hadn’t seen. I was starting to think the fabulous life I’d assumed I had existed only in my head.
“PAIGE CRAWFORD DRUNKEN HOSPITAL ROMP.” “SMITH’S GIRL DROWNS SORROWS IN BOOZE.” I clicked from story to story on my Google Alert and then promptly deleted them. Getting regular updates of other people’s take on my life couldn’t be good for my “don’t kill yourself” strategy after my last date with Adrian. And it would be my last date.
He was nice enough to fake interest in seeing me again after the hospital but I guess being accused of domestic abuse isn’t very sexy because he never texted or called again. And neither did I. You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you are being dumped by someone you don’t even like.
My stomach growled, motivating me to make some dinner. I paused at the bottom of the stairs to see if I could hear Philip. Nothing but Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn’s hilarious antics in Wedding Crashers easing me into a false sense of comfort as I went up the stairs.
I opened the fridge to find my lonely shelf. French’s mustard I paid far too much for, eggs with bright orange insides, and a random half-eaten chorizo sausage ring. I’d taken the habit of eating chorizo, eggs, and toast for dinner the last few days, mostly because I already had it and could avoid going outside.
I sliced the last of the chorizo, placed it in the pan to fry, and cracked the raw eggs into a bowl I was sure was covered in gross flatmate germs. Owen Wilson was fighting off the sexual advances of Jane Seymour on our TV. If I managed to look even half as good as she did at her age, I was golden. I wondered if she’d had any work done. I also wondered if it was actually her tits Owen was grabbing or if they had a body double? Could you imagine that interview? “Excuse me, Miss, can you take off your top? Owen Wilson is going to grab your boobs. Here is $200 for your trouble.”
“Paige, what’s zis smell?” asked Natalie, pointing at the smoking pan. I snapped out of my completely inappropriate thoughts about Jane Seymour’s boobs.
“Shit!” Somehow, even though I’ve seen Wedding Crashers at least thirty times in the last few months, I’d gotten caught up in the film and didn’t realize I was burning the house down.
Smoke billowed out of the pan and our over-dramatic smoke alarm began to wail. I waved a tea towel and frantically spread the burning smell around the room, hoping it would waft away from the alarm. It did, but away from the smoke detector turned out to be right into Philip’s room.
“Fiiiiirrree!” Philip screamed, running out of his room with an industrial-sized fire extinguisher. He didn’t take the time to look around before he sprayed everything in the general area with white foam, including Natalie and myself. Unfortunately I was in the process of yelling at him to stop when he turned the extinguisher in my direction.
My mouth filled with toxic foam and I coughed and sputtered profanities, accentuated with arm gestures. How had Philip managed to exist this long without someone “accidentally” killing him? And where did he get that massive fire extinguisher?
Either the foam ran out or Philip felt he’d extinguished the non-existent fire because he stopped spraying. We stared at each other in silence, save for the breakfast banter between Vince and Owen.
“What. The. Shit. Is. Wrong. With. You?” I said slowly while trying to avoid the droplets of foam sliding off my nose and into my mouth.
“Me? You bloody almost burned the house down,” he snapped back in shock, apparently not used to being spoken to by a woman covered in foam.
“You ’ar a douche bag, Philip.” Natalie wiped the foam off her arm.
“Well, you two enjoy cleaning this up. I’m busy working on my book and once that’s published, which will probably be next month, then I won’t have to deal with your infuriating antics anymore,” declared Philip before he stormed out of the room and slammed his door. God, I seriously hoped he wasn’t being delusional and actually would publish a book and leave. I couldn’t promise anymore that I wouldn’t kill him in his sleep.
My phone rang, miraculously still working after being a casualty on the counter.
“Hello, chicken! Get ready. I have a party for us.” Lucinda sounded perky. Obviously having to deal with a live-in psycho wasn’t a problem for her.
“I am covered in fire extinguisher foam. Can’t make it. Sorry.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you? Only you, Paige. Cheer up, darling, and I’ll see you at the Polo tomorrow?”
“Crap, totally forgot about that and I don’t have a hat.” Could today get any worse?
“I have a fascinator you can borrow. Get some rest, doll. Car leaves at ten tomorrow morning.”
I didn’t have the energy to explain that I had no idea what a fascinator was, and was unsure how having one would solve my hat problem.
I woke up bright and early after spending the remainder of my evening cleaning up fire extinguisher foam and watching the rest of Wedding Crashers with Natalie. I had a navy and white striped off-the-shoulder body con dress which fell just above the knee and had a nautical feel to it.
Lucinda held out an elaborate red headband as she opened the door for me. There was a large embellishment to the side in the shape of a flower with sprouts of feathers coming from all directions.
“That’s a fascinator?” I asked as I accepted
the monstrosity.
“Yes, chicken, now put it on and let’s go,” demanded Lucinda.
We ran out to the taxi while I put my plume on, wishing it were a hat. Lucinda assured me fascinators were appropriate and only old ladies wore hats. She Googled several pictures of Kate Middleton on her phone to further prove her point.
We stepped out of the car onto Windsor polo ground and my heel sunk all the way into the damp grass. Stuck, I called for help and Lucinda laughed while she handed me two clear squares I was supposed to affix to the bottom of my shoes. They did not go with my outfit and I pouted until we got to the tent and I saw several other women wearing what were essentially training wheels for stilettos.
She handed me a bright orange bracelet with the unnecessarily large letters VIP printed on one side and, when I turned the bracelet around, the China White logo printed on the other.
Cheesy euro trash music thumped and several (I assumed gay) men were dancing flamboyantly while grinding up against orange women with fake tits. Lucinda elbowed my ribs, bringing me out of my stare and I followed her to our table.
It was set up like a wedding with white linen covered round tables with numbers, a booklet at each place setting, large centerpieces, and an even larger bottle of champagne. We sat down and suddenly two flutes of champagne appeared. That had to be hands down the best part about London. Alcohol magically appeared wherever you went. And not like the wine from a box I used to drink in the back of my neighbor’s pick up truck, but the kind of booze rappers sang about.
Noise filtered from the grandstand into the tent and I remembered that along with alcohol, this event somehow involved horses. Lucinda dragged me outside with the commoners and we sat in the bleachers next to the Royal Enclosure, which had actual royals in it, one of whom I hoped wasn’t Wills. He might still be mad at me for stabbing him.
The huge field in front of me was at least as big as a football pitch but instead of looking at the fast legs of super hot guys, I was watching some pretty fancy footwork by the horses. And then I saw a rider fling a giant stick into the air.
“What the heck are they doing?” I asked, bewildered.
“Playing polo, darling. They ride the horses and use those sticks to get the ball into the goal.”
I thought for a moment, trying to picture how it worked without being distracted by the massive horses flying by us. “So … it’s kind of like hockey but with horses?”
A little droplet of champagne came out of Lucinda’s nose as she tried to stifle her laugh. “It’s exactly like hockey but with horses.”
So I spent a whole hour watching guys on horses swing their clubs around with no real grasp of who was winning. It’s not uncommon for my attention span to be compared to my three-year-old cousin’s, which meant I spent much of that hour actually ogling the Royal Enclosure to see if I could see my old best friend Will. The most I got was a glimpse of his dad’s bald spot, but even that was actually pretty exciting.
During halftime (or change of a game; like I said before, I had no idea what was going on), we walked over to the Pimms bus—as amazing as it sounds—to grab my absolute favorite drink of all time. We were second in line, after waiting a good ten minutes already, when Lucinda yanked my arm and pulled me under the bleachers.
“You know there is an easier way to make out with me,” I said, giving her a slightly dirty look. I’m not a fan of waiting in line for alcohol and then not having any at the end.
“Jason’s here.”
I felt a little faint. “What do you mean, Jason’s here?”
“I mean that asshole who whored you out to the papers and kicked you out of his house when you were seriously injured is standing about ten meters away from us right now.” She indicated to the far corner of the bleachers and I could just see his stupid face laughing with a group of friends. There was another guy, slightly shorter and fatter than Jason, and three girls, all of whom were a shade or two away from being legitimate Oompa Loompas.
I hadn’t seen him since that night outside Boujis and, although I did get to tell him what I thought of him, I still felt a little like I was going to puke.
“Whatever, I’m here too and have this fancy bracelet,” I said, trying to fake confidence as my head started to spin faster.
“So does he.”
“I want to go home,” I begged Lucinda, grabbing her wrist.
“Sorry, Paige, I’m not friends with wimpy girls. So, either we break up too or you stand your ground and remind Jason of what an idiot he is.”
I laughed uncomfortably but Lucinda’s glare cut that off.
“Fine,” I sulked.
Lucinda physically lifted my shoulders, fixed my makeup, and made me walk right by Jason without looking at him. It was probably the hardest thing I’d ever done, mostly because as we were walking towards him, he noticed me and I darted my eyes everywhere but directly in front of me.
“Paige!” shouted Jason as I marched by while Lucinda pinched my arm slightly as a warning to continue to ignore him.
Once I got over the bruise she left and calmed down with a glass of champagne in the tent, I was so glad I’d done it. He should be groveling and feeling like shit, not me. Secretly though, I was a little surprised at how good he looked. Maybe it was because it’d been a very long time since I’d gotten any but half of me—the half not being assaulted by Lucinda—wanted to jump his bones. And drinking this champagne wasn’t helping the part of my brain working hard to convince me it was a bad idea.
Lucinda was talking animatedly to a series of distinguished (read: old) and fancy men when she abruptly stopped, came over to me, and whispered in my ear, “They’ve invited us into the Royal Enclosure.”
Before I knew it I was standing amongst people with very, very expensive taste. I thought I saw Posh Spice twice, but both times it wasn’t her but some other rail thin fashion mogul/WAG.
Mystery champagne appeared in my hand, held delicately in a crystal flute. All I could think about was how that glass was probably worth more than my bag. And that the security people were probably watching me to make sure the glass didn’t accidently find its way in there.
The glass of champagne lasted all of thirty seconds in my hand before it bounced off the soft grass. Lucinda hurried over to me to help clean off the champagne running down the front of my dress but stopped when she saw why I’d dropped it in the first place.
Alex was standing across the room, making polite conversation with someone who was no more than two degrees of separation from the Queen.
“Ok, we can leave,” whispered Lucinda into my ear. “Even I wouldn’t be able to handle this.”
I didn’t say anything. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t find the words. No more than ten minutes ago my biggest issue was Jason, and now I was praying to be back outside with that shit show in exchange for quick relief from this one.
“Paige? We should go. Come.” Lucinda pulled gently at my arm but my feet wouldn’t move. They had other plans.
“I think I need to do this, Luc,” I said with my mouth, but neither my heart nor head agreed.
“No, you don’t,” insisted Lucinda as she attempted to pull me out of the enclosure.
I couldn’t let this opportunity go. Turns out London isn’t as big as it seems and you always run into people, yet this was the first time I’d run into Alex. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances that had led to him leaving me in the restaurant. Maybe he couldn’t be photographed because he was a foreign prince in hiding. Or he’s probably, like, fourth in line to the English throne. Or maybe he has photosensitive epilepsy. Either way I needed to know, and although causing a scene in the Royal Enclosure wouldn’t have been my first choice, it was my only option.
Breaking free from Lucinda, I bee-lined it for Alex. I was possibly walking with too much purpose because just a few steps away from Alex I was intercepted by a brick wall of a secret service type guy who was so tall my eye line was pretty much at his rib cage. He did not appear
to be pleased to see me.
“Umm, hi. I know this might seem weird, but it’s really important I speak to that guy. Not the important-looking one, the hot one,” I said, discreetly pointing at Alex, although being road-blocked by this 007 reject wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.
Annoyingly, he didn’t move out of my way, so I peered around his massive elbow.
Alex was staring right at me. Either he was terrible at making a surprised but happy to see me face, or he was having an aneurysm.
Things weren’t going as I had planned. Alex excused himself from his conversation and moved farther into the “no commoners allowed” area. I felt like I was going to throw up. Run away from me once: shame on him. Run away from me twice: I’m a masochist.
A reassuring hand found its way to my shoulder and I turned around to see Lucinda using her laser eyes to blow up Alex’s head.
“Cunt!”
Everyone in the tent turned to gawp at Lucinda, who in turn looked like she wished she’d used an even more offensive word.
“Umm, ya, maybe we should go.” I grabbed Lucinda and backed slowly out of the tent while continually pulling my left heel out of the soft ground. In my Alex blackout walk, I lost one of my stiletto training wheels.
“I’m sorry, but he is a massive cunt,” she said as soon as we were back with the commoners.
“Luc, totally agree with you but that might actually be the most offensive word in the English language. Not a great thing to yell.”
“You’re such a prude,” she teased. “Let’s get more Pimms.”
By now the line was gone and revelers were back in their seats, watching horse hockey. All except one.
“Hey,” came a voice from behind me.
Now, I almost felt sorry for Jason. He obviously didn’t know what kind of mood Lucinda was in and picked the exact wrong time to show his face.
“You too? Can’t you just stop trying to hurt her for one fucking minute? She’s too good for you, Jason. And you’re clearly an idiot for not realizing that in the first place. So, I suggest you and your small penis get out of our sight. And if you ever, ever even think her name again I will go and get my massive boyfriend who also happens to be a barrister to bankrupt your ass, and then punch you in the face.”
The Accidental Socialite Page 18
