Nicole’s ‘kind’ smile faded as she realised that this girl didn’t care who she was, but for some very strange and unsettling reason was only interested in her because she was linked to Rebecca fucking Ashworth.
The girl barely stopped to catch a breath before she carried on, ‘Ohmygosh, you’ll get to go to the wedding! How lucky! Rebecca and Daniel are 2017’s Kate and Wills. The country totally needs something like this, you know? A love story? They are so perfect together. It’s so Romeo and Juliet, too? Like star-crossed lovers’ vibes, feuding families, different upbringings. It’s just everything. And her hair! It’s so sleek! Do you know where she gets it—’
‘SHUT UP!’ Nicole almost screamed, before realising the pitch of her voice and quickly covering her mouth before any of the nearby diners noticed. It didn’t do to cause a scene. At least not one that wasn’t to your own benefit.
The girl gasped slightly, shocked at Nicole’s outburst. Without another word, she backed away slowly and disappeared inside.
Seffy looked at Nicole in astonishment. She’d always been able to control her temper before. At least in front of other people. Poor thing, thought Seffy. She must be feeling so worried about Daniel that she’s all but lost her normal cool composure.
Seffy poured Nicole another glass of champagne and held it out to her but Nicole ignored it, reaching instead for her phone.
She jabbed a finger at the screen a few times and then stopped. Seffy leaned over to see what she was reading. It was an article about how The Pink Topshop Dress was the fastest selling high-street dress of the year so far. Seffy read a quote out from the Topshop head office.
‘This is unprecedented. We have never sold out of an item this quickly. Rebecca Ashworth is the perfect model for our Petal dress and we’re thrilled she decided to wear it at her engagement to Daniel Balfour. The dress is currently out of stock, but we are hoping to have new shipments sent through within the next week. Until then, customers can put their name down on a waiting list.’
‘A waiting list?’ Nicole hissed under her breath. ‘People are crazy!’
‘Totally crazy,’ Seffy said, distracted. She was already planning which way home meant she would pass her local Topshop so she could put her name down on the list. She would never let Nicole see her wearing the dress, of course, but she could wear it in the comfort of her own home. It was such a lovely dress . . . and so flattering.
‘And the comments,’ Nicole muttered, scrolling down. ‘Why do so many people like her? This site is renowned for its trolling and hurtful comments. Why aren’t there any bad comments about her? I don’t understand.’
Seffy shook her head sadly. ‘It looks like Daniel isn’t the only one she’s fooled.’
Nicole picked up the glass of champagne that Seffy had poured and downed it in one. Her phone beeped with a text. It was Martin, the paparazzo.
Love, any chance you can get me a photo-shoot with Rebecca Ashworth? Everyone’s after her.
Nicole was about to slam her phone down onto the table but then had second thoughts. She read Martin’s text again, an idea forming.
‘Rebecca Ashworth wants attention, huh?’ she said, almost to herself. She started typing out a reply to Martin. ‘Then that’s what she’ll get. I’ll make sure of it. Everyone has dirt, a skeleton in their closet. We just have to find out what Rebecca’s is. I might not be able to trail her every day, but the paparazzi can. If she steps one foot out of line – which she will – they’ll catch it on camera.’
She laughed then, a humourless and mirthless laugh. Seffy laughed along nervously, taking a big gulp of her drink so she wouldn’t have to say anything. But then Seffy never said anything to Nicole about her behaviour. She wouldn’t dare.
Chapter Fourteen
Lizzie
I am in hiding. OK, not actual hiding like The Fugitive, but, you know, mildly disguised. It turns out that a hell of a lot of people read the Daily World and I must have an especially recognisable face because I kept getting recognised in the days after that shitty article was published, and not in a good way. Shopkeepers, people on the Tube, the old man who works at the library. I could see it on their faces as it dawned on them who I was. Their smiles dropped and they’d sneer, or simply look away as if embarrassed for me, or (and this was the worst) I’d see a look of fear cross their faces. It was horrible. I went for two more job interviews – one at a call centre in Ealing and one at Starbucks in Covent Garden. When they saw my face they came up with rubbish excuses why I wasn’t suitable for the job. I told the supervisor at Starbucks that the Daily World was full of lies. I told her that I wouldn’t hurt a fly, which is true because I’m scared of flies and run away from them all the time. But it didn’t matter. She had no interest in employing me. Hence the need for the mild disguise. My blonde curls are pretty distinctive so I have taken to twisting them up on top of my head and shoving them under a baseball cap. The only one I could find in my stuff was an old New York Yankees one, so it looks OK in a retro nineties sort of way. I’m also wearing sunglasses. It’s not even sunny outside right now so I look like a total dick wearing sunglasses for no reason. But I can live with that because the disguise seems to be working and no one has recognised me in two days.
I’ll admit it, I was annoyed after Becky asked me to lay low for a little while. I know she was only saying it to protect me but I didn’t ask to be involved in this and now I’m walking round in a baseball cap and sunglasses looking like someone from the Guess Who? board game just so I can walk down the street in peace. It’s working, though, as the press seem to be focusing on Becky now and losing interest in me. Still, better safe than sorry until the coast is completely clear. I don’t want to risk appearing in those pages again. It doesn’t mean I have to be happy about the situation, though.
Being low-key is boring. I can hardly go to job interviews wearing sunnies and a baseball cap so the job search is on hold for the time being. I can’t go out partying because I’ll be tense and won’t be able to relax in case people are filming me on their phones, waiting for me to fuck up which, let’s face it, I probably will after a few drinks. So I’ve taken to wandering the local park like a vagrant, taking pictures of random dogs to send to Becky as proof that I am really a dog walker. I haven’t actively approached anyone about walking their dogs since the incident with that woman the day the news story was printed so I take photographs in a covert way. Yes, I look like some weird dog perv, and yes, I know how odd that sounds.
I sit down on a pretty wooden bench and spot a gorgeous Labrador bounding its way across the park towards me. I laugh at its daft, playful energy and snap some pics. The dog’s owner, not far behind, follows from round the corner and I’m startled to see that it’s the guy from the band. You know, the guy who I cried in front of the day that article was published. I’d forgotten he lived in this area. I put down my camera and breathe a sigh of relief when I realise I’m wearing my disguise and he won’t recognise me.
‘Hey! It’s you!’ he calls in his smooth American accent.
I pull my baseball cap over my brow, sinking down slightly in the bench, hoping that maybe he’s talking to his dog. Maybe his dog is called You?
No such luck. He strides over: black skinny jeans, knitted jumper, scruffily trendy with black curls falling over his ridiculously sexy face. That is a face I’d like to lick. He plonks himself down beside me on the bench, while his dog races across the grass, trampling the wildflower beds under his big paws.
‘I was hoping to bump into you again,’ he said easily, as if talking to a girl who was sliding further and further down the bench was the most natural thing in the world. ‘I’ve been thinking about the mystery of the crying girl and wondering how you were. And now here you are and I can ask if you’re OK and why you were so sad that day.’
I look up at him. There’s no way he’s talking to his dog. ‘You recognise me?’
He nods and pulls a face as if to say ‘obviously’. Then he smiles slightly, taking
in my cap and sunglasses. ‘Wait – are you in disguise?’
I nod and take off the sunglasses. Clearly there’s no point in wearing them around him. ‘That was the idea, yeah.’ I pull off my cap as well, hoping that my curls might tumble down around my shoulders in a sexy and appealing way. But of course they don’t. I reach my hand up to where my hair is sitting tangled and stiff on top of my head. It must look like a cross between a bird’s nest and an Afro. Balls. I pull it down as best I can and look at him.
He gives me a big open smile. ‘Go on then. Tell me what that was all about.’ Then his eyes darken slightly. ‘Unless you were crying the other day because of a real tragedy. Did someone die? Crap. You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry. I’m really nosy. It’s a legit problem.’
I pull a face. He’s really sunny and chatty. I did not expect that. On stage he’s dark and mysterious and aloof. In real life he’s like one of those charity workers who stop you in the street and chat your ear off until you agree to sponsor a donkey just to get away from them.
‘Didn’t you just look at your phone after I used it the other day?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘I didn’t want to pry . . . ’
‘It’s a long story.’ I say, deciding that I don’t want to tell him. He’s looking at me like I’m not Rebecca Ashworth’s violent sister and I like that. He obviously doesn’t read the Daily World.
‘Fair enough.’ He shrugs. ‘GOOD BOY!’ He calls over to his dog who is sniffing a tree. ‘Good Boy, c’mere!’
Something clicks. ‘Hang on. Is your dog called Good Boy?’ I ask, stifling a laugh.
He shrugs. ‘Yeah. I don’t have to ask him “who’s a good boy?”. He knows he’s a Good Boy. It’s great for his self esteem.’
When you put it like that, it makes perfect sense. The dog races over, jumping up and licking his owner’s face.
‘Ugh!’ The American wipes the spit off his face. ‘Halitosis!’
I laugh and ruffle the dog’s ears. He’s beautiful, with a gorgeous, open face and the brightest eyes. ‘This is going to sound weird.’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘But can I take a picture of you two? I’m an amateur photographer. Well, I’m trying to be.’
‘Sure! My name’s Justin, by the way.’ He holds his hand out.
‘Lizzie.’ I say taking his hand and shaking it.
Holy shit. His hand feels incredible. I’ve never felt a hand like it. This guy is seriously sexy. He’s big and dark and gruff and American and . . . nice.
I stand up, lift the Polaroid from where it sits around my neck and take a few steps back from the bench. Justin pats the space beside him and Good Boy jumps up next to him. Justin slings his arm around him, like they’re just a couple hanging out on a bench. It’s hilarious.
I steady the camera, get my angle perfect and snap. The satisfying noise of the film making its way out of the bottom of the camera never fails to give me a kick.
I shake the photo and take a seat next to the pair of them. Justin leans over and watches with me as the photo develops. As the brightness of the film fades into colour we both burst into laughter. Good Boy is side-eyeing Justin, a real WTF look, like he’s throwing him the deepest shade he possibly can.
‘That is not Good Boy behaviour!’ Justin says in a mock sad voice.
‘I have to upload this to my Instagram!’ I laugh with excitement.
‘How can you do that? It’s a Polaroid.’
I take out my phone and snap a pic of the Polaroid. ‘That’s how, you tool.’
Justin raises his eyebrows and narrows his eyes with amusement.
I play with the shadow, saturation and contrast a little before uploading it to my account.
‘That looks great!’ Justin says, as the little icons pop up to show that the photo is already getting likes. And then I remember that I already have a photo of him on my feed, from when I saw his band in Camden. I quickly swipe off my Instagram. Don’t want to go looking all Kathy Bates early doors now, do we, Lizzie?
‘Thanks,’ I smile. I breathe in the fresh air and realise that this is the most pleasant I’ve felt in a while, and all it took was one relatively short conversation with this guy. ‘Listen,’ I say, my heart pounding in my chest. ‘Do you fancy maybe going for—’
Before I can finish, his phone beeps and he grabs it like he’s been waiting hours for it to beep. ‘Sorry, just a sec,’ he says. He taps onto his phone and reads. His face breaks into a huge smile.
‘Well, that’s someone you’re happy to hear from!’ I laugh at his massive grin.
‘It’s my ex. I’ve been trying to get her back ever since she broke up with me and she seems to be softening a little.’
His ex. Who he’s been trying to get back.
I mentally roll my eyes at myself. Of course there’s another woman. Of course. He can’t look like that, be in a band, literally give birth to charisma and there not be a woman involved already. Whoever she is, she’s a very lucky lady.
My stomach drops as I realise what a lucky escape I just had! Imagine if I’d actually had the chance to ask him out? And then he would’ve had to let me down gently. Mortifying. Note to self: do not ask out beautiful rock gods on the cusp of mega stardom. IT WILL NOT END WELL FOR YOU, YOU TIT! Even more mortifying than crying in front of someone and then running away from them would have been that rejection.
Justin is still tapping away on his phone, and I’m starting to feel like a lemon just sitting there, so I stand up.
‘I should be heading off!’ I say brightly. ‘Lots to do!’
Justin looks up briefly and flashes me a grin that makes me wish hard that he didn’t have an ex, that he’d never had another woman ever and never will again, apart from me.
‘It was nice to meet you, Lizzie,’ he says in that lovely accent. ‘Maybe I’ll see you around the park again?’
‘Yeah, definitely!’ I say, giving Good Boy a farewell head pat. ‘Bye!’
I wander out of the park, feeling more disappointed than I have the right to feel. I wonder if Becky’s free later? I don’t fancy going home just yet and wallowing in self-pity. Jay’s out and I don’t really feel like being on my own. I pull out my phone and send her a text.
Hey, are you about? Can I come round for a brew? Can let myself in with my key and see you when you finish work?
The three dots appear immediately to show Becky is replying. She is the fastest text responder I know. It’s part of her organised nature. I turn in the direction of the bus stop that will take me to her flat when her text comes through.
Sorry hon, but am at an author’s launch after work and Daniel taking me out afterwards to chat wedding stuff so won’t be home until late. I’ll see you at the dress fitting? x
I send her a quick reply, telling her not to worry and that yes, I’ll see her at the fitting. I put my phone away with a sigh, and turn around and head back towards Jay’s for yet another night on my own.
Chapter Fifteen
Becky
I take a deep breath and push open the glass door to Chelsea House, where Darla’s launch for her novel I Will Love You is being held. I’ve been to plenty of book launches over the years, but this is the first time I’ve been to a launch for one of my own authors. The book was released last week and we’ll be getting the first week of sales soon. The reviews have all been amazing but it’s hard to tell how that will affect sales until the actual numbers are confirmed. It’s nerve-wracking!
I’ve come straight from work. There will be lots of photographs taken so I changed before I got here and am wearing a white silk blouse from Zara paired with some skinny black jeans from ASOS and some red pointy-toed court shoes that I mostly never wear as they hurt my feet but I’ve decided to put fashion over function for the first time today as it’s such an important moment for my career. My hair is so short there’s not a great deal I can do with it so I’ve played up my make-up with a fire-engine-red lip and I’m hoping the big statement black and gold ring I’ve added from Acc
essorize should do the trick and liven the whole thing up.
‘There you are!’ Darla calls, as soon as she sees me walk through the doors. She’s a late-thirties woman with a gorgeous head of thick blonde hair. Tonight she’s wearing a lovely black velvet dress with a pair of petrol blue heels that perfectly match the colour of her book’s cover. I doubt very much that’s a coincidence.
‘Congratulations!’ I say as we kiss cheeks. I hand her the small bag I’ve brought containing a gift of a little silver star necklace. Because she’s my ‘star’ author? Cute, eh? Or is it cheesy? Well, either way, I’m sure she’ll love it. My bosses at Richmond Books will present her with a framed picture of her novel later, but I thought I’d get her something too, to make it extra special.
Speaking of bosses, one of them, Toni, approaches with two glasses of champagne, one for me and one for Darla. She congratulates Darla on her launch and we make small talk for a few minutes before Toni says, ‘Becky, can I just borrow you for a minute?’
‘Of course,’ I say. She sounds serious and I wrack my brains for anything I may have done wrong or mistakes I might’ve made. I can’t think of anything. ‘Is everything OK?’ I ask once we’re alone in the corner.
‘Have you had the chance to check your email this afternoon?’ Toni asks, a gleam in her eye.
I shake my head. ‘I was in meetings all afternoon and then I had to come straight here.’ I’m really panicking now. ‘What’s happened?’
Toni’s face breaks into a smile. ‘Official sales are in for last week and it looks like I Will Love You is going straight into the fiction top ten!’
I stare at her, thinking I’ve misheard. ‘Top ten?’ I manage. ‘Are you serious?’ I knew things were looking positive when the book first went into shops but straight into the top ten?
My Sister's Wedding: For better or worse, two families are about to become one . . . Page 9
