I wait to see if the two little ticks turn blue so I can see if she’s read it, but they don’t.
‘I bet she’s at Jay’s,’ I say. ‘I need to see her. I need to let her know that she’s our Lizzie and always will be and that all of this is a load of rubbish and it’ll blow over in no time. Won’t it, Daniel?’
‘Oh gosh, yes. Today’s newspapers are tomorrow’s fish wrappers Bex, trust me. Do you want me to come with you?’ Daniel says, his eyes full of concern. His phone beeps with a text message. He glances at it briefly, screws up his forehead and puts the phone back down.
‘No, it’s okay.’ I give him a kiss on the cheek. ‘But thanks for offering.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Daniel says quietly, his face sad. ‘I’m so unbelievably sorry.’ And not for the first time I get the sense that he’s wishing he wasn’t part of the Balfour family and all the shit and attention that come with it.
But he is. He always will be. And now, I’m going to have to be a Balfour too.
Crumbs.
As if this morning couldn’t get any worse, I get an unexpected (and unwelcome) call from one of my authors when I’m in the back of my Uber on the way to Jay’s. It’s a Sunday and I wouldn’t have normally answered, but it was a withheld number and I thought it might have been Lizzie.
‘Hello?’ I say eagerly into the phone. ‘Sis?’
‘You’re there, thank God.’
I groan inwardly, recognising the voice instantly. Darla Merchant was the first author I acquired when I got my promotion to commissioning editor at Richmond Books. Her debut novel I Will Love You is being released this Thursday and her nerves are in overdrive as we get closer to publication. It’s a big deal, having your first book out there and letting it loose on the world, but Darla is turning into – to put it plainly – a complete fruit loop. The book, an epic love story set in London in the year 2100, is amazing. We’ve worked solidly for months to get it into the best shape possible. It’s got an incredible cover and while pre-orders are a little lower than I had hoped, it’s getting really great early reviews from bloggers and journalists. But Darla, who is ordinarily a sweet, hardworking thirty-six-year old woman, has become more and more anxious over the last few weeks. I get it, this is her baby, and she’s been working on it for years, but her nerves are driving both of us to breaking point.
‘What’s the matter, Darla?’ I ask. The Uber driver politely turns his radio down when he notices I’m on the phone.
‘A book blogger just unfollowed me on Twitter!’ she exclaims.
I sigh. ‘Don’t worry! People follow and unfollow people on Twitter all the time.’
‘But what does it mean? Do you think she read the proof copy of my book and hated it so much that she simply couldn’t bear to see my face on social media?’
The truth is that yes, that could be what happened. But to admit that will only send Darla into further paranoid panic. My job as an editor is to soothe the nerves and calm the waters.
‘Of course not!’ I say brightly. ‘I wouldn’t think anything of it.’
‘Shall I get in touch with her and ask her why she unfollowed me?’
‘NO!’ I bark. ‘No.’ I say more calmly. Authors emailing bloggers to find out why they unfollowed them, or didn’t like their book, or didn’t review their book is an absolute no-no. A surefire way to make sure that blogger never reads any of their books again. And a fast way to start rumours circulating that you’re a paranoid freak and a nervous wreck.
‘Right.’ Darla says. ‘Will you get in touch with her, then? Her Twitter name is @BooksAreMyWholeUniverse.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. I know this is a nerve-wracking time for you, but I promise, one blogger unfollowing you doesn’t mean anything. Your book is incredible. It was incredible before you knew this blogger existed and it will remain incredible for long afterwards.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Definitely,’ I say, soothingly. ‘Look, it’s only one blogger and I know that her reach isn’t that big so I really do think there’s nothing to worry about. Listen, let’s catch up properly tomorrow morning, OK?’ I attempt to smoothly end the conversation. Now is not the time to deal with this. Lizzie is the only thing that really matters right now. At least it’s obvious that Darla clearly hasn’t seen the Daily World and her complete lack of knowledge about it reassures me that not everyone I know has seen it. At least not yet.
But then I think about all the people who probably have seen it already. Workmates, old schoolfriends, potential new authors. Is this what life will be like once I’ve married Daniel? Having to check the daily papers to see if me or my family are in there?
My stomach churns. I hadn’t really thought about it like that. All I’d been bothered about was Daniel, and now Lizzie . . .
Darla’s not so keen to let me off the phone.
‘I’m having my hair cut tomorrow. For the launch party.’
‘Great! Lovely!’
‘What if it goes wrong? What if they cut it too short and then all of the pictures will be of me with ugly hair?’
Is this a joke?
‘You will look beautiful, I’m sure. And anyway it’s not about the looks, it’s about the books.’ I say brightly, proud of myself and that catchy little rhyme, especially considering how many different problems my mind is currently trying to solve.
‘And what if no one turns up? Did you check the RSVPs? Did you . . . ’
The driver turns onto Mornington Crescent, which is right by Jay’s flat.
‘. . .check the list? And the press list? Will the bookshop have enough copies of the book? What if—’
Aaaargh! This is too much right now.
‘Psssssssh!’ I hiss down the phone. ‘Psssssh. The line’s breaking up. Hello?’
‘REBECCA? ARE YOU THERE? I NEED YOU, REBECCA!’
‘Pssssh. My reception’s pssssssh going. I’ll call you tomorrow pssshh!’
I end the call and take a deep breath. Darla will just have to wait. I try to ignore the sense of guilt creeping up on me. I’ve never lied to an author before. And I lie badly.
The Uber driver raises his eyebrow with a smirk, at my lie.
‘I was desperate,’ I explain.
The phone starts ringing again. Darla, this time from her mobile number.
‘Oh sod off, Darla, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.’ I mutter. I switch the phone off, get out of the cab and head over to Jay’s flat.
Chapter Eleven
Lizzie
I wake up the morning after the engagement party and pull on my old tracksuit pants and one of my favourite T-shirts, a baggy number I got years ago from an Iron Maiden concert. I down a pint of water and then head straight out for a walk in an attempt to clear my head. I’m hungover as balls and my mouth tastes like something had crawled in there and died an awful long time ago. The minute Becky asked me to behave before the party, I just decided to drink my feelings away. I know Becky hadn’t meant to upset me, but the truth was she had. I was already feeling shit about myself and that made me feel even worse. Clearly, drinking all the champagne was the answer to my problems. I didn’t intend to hear those two skinny twits slagging off my sister in the bathroom. And I certainly didn’t intend for things to turn out the way they did. But for people to actually believe that I’m the kind of person who would ever push someone onto the floor, for people to believe some manipulative society set over me . . . My stomach churns as I remember Becky’s expression. Like she wanted to believe me but she just couldn’t be quite sure. And Dad offering me coffee like I was some drunken old hobo who needed looking after. These are the two people who are supposed to know me the best, and they had to think about whether to give me the benefit of the doubt or not. They shouldn’t have needed to think about it, they should’ve just known. After leaving the party, I went straight to Jay’s, turned my phone off and passed out on the sofa. Before leaving the flat this morning, I’d noticed that Jay’s bed hadn’t even been slept in. He�
�d obviously hooked up with the old bartender flame last night. At least someone had a good night, I suppose.
Feeling very sorry for myself, I meander past a pretty meadow-type area, bursting with yellow and purple wildflowers. I don’t know anything about flowers but the colours are gorgeous and the sight cheers me up a little bit. I take a pic with my Polaroid. As I’m shaking the picture waiting for the image to appear, a woman walks past me with a tiny cute dog.
I think back to my lie to Becky that I was starting work as a dog walker, and I start wondering what it would actually be like. Becky was probably just being nice when she said it sounded like a great job for me but the more I think about it the more it sounds like it could be right for me. I would get to do loads of walking outside and I could take plenty of pictures for Instagram, maybe see if this whole photo-blogging thing is for me. And dogs don’t judge you. They won’t give a shit that I’ve not been the most responsible person in the world. They don’t care if you’re hungover on a Wednesday, or if you forget to put on a bra, or if you have KFC three times in one week. All they care about is sniffing bumholes and chasing sticks. (Reminds me of an old boyfriend of mine, actually.)
No time like the present. Before I can think on it any further I walk over to where the woman and her dog are standing.
‘Hi!’ I say brightly. ‘Your dog is gorgeous. What breed is it?’
The woman smiles proudly. ‘He’s a Lhasa Apso. His name is Dave.’
I stifle a laugh at the name and lean down to ruffle his fluffy head. ‘You know, I’m, er, starting work as a dog walker, if you’re looking for someone . . . ’
The woman looks at me thoughtfully. ‘You know, I was just saying to my boyfriend the other day how we could do with someone to take him on Sunday morning walks when we want a lie-in!’
‘I can do that!’ I say eagerly, pleased at how easy this is turning out to be. I’m a natural, clearly. Maybe things are going to start looking up.
‘Great. Let me speak to my boyfriend and then I’ll give you a call. What’s your name and number?’ The woman pulls out her phone to take my details.
‘Great! My name is Lizzie Ashworth and my number is oh-seven—’ Before I can finish reciting my number the woman frowns ever so slightly, and I stop. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Lizzie Ashworth. I know that name . . . ’
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. ‘Really? Er, well, I have an Instagram page that you might have seen.’ I shrug. ‘It’s just some amateur photography. I only have a few thousand followers but it’s rising every—’
‘No, no . . . it’s not that . . . ’
The woman screws her face up and fiddles on her phone for a few seconds, while I stand there feeling awkward and wondering where she knows me from. I hope to God she hasn’t seen the horrendous video of me drunk on YouTube that Jay put up a couple years ago. I’m wearing a pink cowboy hat and clutching a bottle of blue WKD.
The woman seems to find what she’s looking for because she gasps suddenly and in a lightning-quick movement scoops her dog up into her arms, clutching him to her protectively.
‘You’re Rebecca Ashworth’s sister!’
I blink, completely dumbfounded. She knows Bex? ‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s all over the Daily World! You started that fight!’
What the actual . . . ? ‘Excuse me?!’ I almost laugh at the absurdity of what she’s just said. What fight?
‘It’s right here!’ she exclaims, stabbing a finger at her phone. ‘You pushed that lovely Balfour girl! Why are you so jealous of your sister? You’re . . . you’re . . . just stay away from me and Dave.’ Her demeanour changes all of a sudden and she looks frightened. Of me.
She starts backing away and my stomach drops into my trainers. What is she talking about? How the hell does she know about Nicole?
I step towards her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can I see your phone, just for a quick sec?’
She starts backing away even more quickly. ‘Please go away! I don’t want any trouble! Leave me alone! Please!’
She’s clearly genuinely scared of me. I put my hands up and stop moving towards her. ‘Okay, okay! I’m going.’
And then I spin and start running for the nearest newsagents. I need to see that bloody paper.
When I reach the newsagents, I grab a copy of the Daily World and flick furiously through it. But there’s nothing of note. NO mention of me, or my sister or that idiot Nicole and her Angelina Jolie-wannabe mate.
I’m confused, and then I remember that the woman was looking at something on her phone. Of course. The Daily World has that whole celebrity gossip section on their website.
‘Do you have a phone I can borrow for a minute?’
The shopkeeper shakes his head. ‘I don’t believe in phones. Everyone staring down the whole time when people should look up more often. They’ll have a bloody accident.’
‘Oh, whatever, I can’t deal with this,’ I mutter, storming out.
I spot a guy a little further down the road, texting. I jog up. ‘Dude, sorry to bother you but I desperately need to borrow a phone. Pretty, pretty pleeeeease.’
The guy looks up and I almost gasp out loud when I realise that it’s the hot guy from that band, The New Design.
Up close he’s even fitter than he is under blaring stage lights. His dark curls are messy and shiny around his tanned, intense-looking face, his stubble is thick but not quite a beard yet. And he smells good too. Like peppermint and pub. Which sounds disgusting but it really isn’t and it seems to suit him. Not to mention pub is one of my favourite smells.
He grins at my outburst, his dark eyes lighting up in amusement. ‘You really want it, huh?’ He says.
He’s American, which surprises me. He never speaks at the band’s gigs, just sings into the microphone, so I’d assumed he was British.
The way he asks if I really want it does something funny to my stomach. But funny in a good way.
‘Um. Yes. I do want it.’ I say stupidly. He chuckles and hands over the phone.
With shaking hands, and momentarily forgetting about the fittie next to me, I pull up the Daily World website.
Holy fucking dickballs. I don’t even have to scroll down. It’s there right at the top.
BRAWL AT BALFOUR ENGAGEMENT PARTY
I feel tears spring to my eyes as I scan through the story. They’ve used that stupid picture of me at that fancy dress party from ages ago. I had such a good time that night but they’ve made out that that’s my usual clothing, like I’m some sort of mouthy scally. Awwww man, I normally dress so much better than that! (Today excluded, obvs.)
‘Fuck,’ I mutter as I they mention Nicole’s charity work (really? She does charity work?) and how I’m jealous of my sister ‘landing her prince’.
I need to get home, to somewhere private, where I can cry without anyone seeing. I click off the site and hand the phone back to the American. He must notice the expression on my face because his grin fades and he says, ‘Are you all right?’
I shake my head, unable to speak, and try to stifle a sob but it’s no use. Hot tears of humiliation spill down my cheeks. Before he can say anything else, I turn around and run down the street, tripping over an errant paving stone as I do.
Well, that was a great first impression. I am such a knob.
Chapter Twelve
Becky
Jay answers the door dressed in only a white towel, slung indecently low around his hips. I try to avert my eyes, but there’s nowhere else to look apart from at his perfectly tanned and perfectly muscled abs.
Jay smiles, revealing his dazzlingly white teeth. He leans against the door frame with the confidence that only a man who knows how beautiful he is can do.
‘Stop ogling the goods,’ he teases. ‘You’re going to be a married woman soon.’
I flush red and remember why I’m here. ‘Can I come in? I need to see Lizzie. Is she okay? Did she see it?’
Jay frowns a
nd beckons me into his building and we start the assent up to his tiny studio in the attic of the building. I’ve only been here once before – to pick Lizzie up the morning after she was dumped by that horrendous musician. Jay couldn’t get any sense out of her through the crying and I was enlisted to decode the sniffles and snorts and grumbles and sobs.
‘I’ve not long since got back. She’s not here, but she left her phone so I don’t expect she’ll be too long. Why? What’s the matter?’ He looks back at me. ‘You look panicked. Is everything okay? Is Lizzie all right?’
‘You didn’t see what happened last night? At the party? Or this morning?’
Jay shakes his head. ‘I left early.’ He looks sheepish for a brief moment. ‘Saw an ex and we left to have glorious hate sex. Sorry, kitten. It was a nice party – what little I experienced of it, at least.’
I don’t even know how to begin telling him what’s happened so I simply pull up the news website on my phone. Shit. Since I left my flat, there are at least another hundred new reader comments under the article. I don’t bother reading them – I don’t want to know.
I hand the phone over to Jay without a word.
He stops still on the stairs, and I hear a sharp intake of breath. ‘Bollocks. Shit tit-wank bollocks. Oooohhh, that is not good for morale.’
That pretty much sums it up.
Once we’re in Jay’s studio, he slams the phone down onto the sofa beside him. Without a word he darts over to the open-plan kitchenette, opens up the fridge and takes out a bottle of gin so cold that condensation runs down the sides. He grabs two cocktail glasses from a top cupboard and swiftly mixes us a couple of stiff drinks.
I look at my watch. It’s 11.30 a.m. I’ve never taken a sip of alcohol before 1 p.m. a day in my life. And even then it feels a bit devilish. But if there’s any time I need it, it’s now. And Jay is making dirty martinis. My favourite. I accept the glass with a grateful smile. We both down our drinks, Jay mixes two more wordlessly and sits down on the futon beside me. It’s a bit awkward, to be honest. I don’t know him really, outside of his relationship with Lizzie, and now, in this crisis, it’s not like I can make my usual polite small talk. Talk about diving in at the deep end.
My Sister's Wedding: For better or worse, two families are about to become one . . . Page 7
