“They won’t be able to sell the images. Everyone has been warned. I’m sorry that you had to deal with this alone.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”
“Do you want me to come home? I’ll cancel the meeting I had with Paris for this afternoon.”
“No.” He can’t come home every time I’m photographed. I know I have to learn to deal with this shit. “Finish your day. It’s fine.”
He hangs on the line. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I promise.”
“Just order in tonight; don’t cook. I’m going to be late with this stupid fucking meeting.”
“Okay.”
“Why don’t you go and get a massage or a pedicure . . .”
I roll my eyes. “Really?”
“I just thought . . .”
“You thought wrong. See you tonight.” I hang up.
Idiot.
Because a massage or a pedicure is so fucking riveting. Does he even know me at all?
I throw the phone onto the couch and begin to pace. I’m so bored that I can hardly see straight. I want to be positive and love it here, but deep down I already know.
This isn’t who I am.
This whole city-living life just isn’t me.
I want to work, but then I don’t want to commit to anything until after the three months. If we do decide not to live here long term, then I don’t want to let anyone down.
What if we stay?
Hell . . . the thought of living here forever is traumatizing. No grass, no sun . . . not one thing to fucking do. I had all these hopes and dreams of opening my own animal husbandry business when I got back from traveling. I’d been working toward it for years. I was going to get an apprentice and perhaps hire a stable to work from.
But now what?
I walk to the window and look at the busy city way below . . . there are no animals here. Not a one.
Except for the paparazzi, of course.
I exhale heavily, disappointed that I feel this way. I want to love it. I want to support Christopher and be the good girlfriend that he deserves, but it’s as if every day that I stay here, I feel like I lose a little more of myself. As if minute by minute I’m watching my hopes and dreams slowly drip down the drain.
If he had just told me who he was.
I know that I’ve said that I made peace with Christopher for lying to me, and I realize that he had a valid reason for doing it.
But deep down, I’m resentful. His life is chugging along just great, while mine has come to a complete standstill.
We don’t have an equal exchange of power. It’s all about him and his life and his job . . . and how I should fit into it.
What if I wanted him to fit into my life . . . could he do that? Of course not. It’s not even an option, and I mean, it’s ridiculous to even want that because he makes so much more money than me. Of course his job should come first.
The thought is depressing.
I fell for a simple cleaner and ended up with a workaholic . . . the two men I love are worlds apart.
10:00 p. m.
The movie is playing, but I’m not watching . . . I mean, I’ve never been one to watch a lot of television, but now that it’s my only company, I’m beginning to really despise it.
I glance at the time on my phone: 10:00 p. m. . . . god, it’s late. That must be some motherfucking long telecall to Paris. Poor Christopher, he’s been at work since eight o’clock this morning. I hope he at least had something to eat before his meeting.
He works too hard.
I exhale heavily and hold the remote up and turn the television off.
I’m going to bed.
I close the automatic drapes in the apartment and watch as all the twinkling lights of London slowly disappear.
I brush my teeth and climb into bed. I smile as I smell the freshly washed linen.
At least I achieved something today.
I stare up at the ceiling as my mind wanders over the week ahead. I might go to a bookshop tomorrow and stock up.
I haven’t read a book in a while. Maybe I’ll read War and Peace and all the other books I’ve never had time to read.
It’s the weirdest thing. When I was back at the farm, it felt like I no longer belonged there, like I’d grown out of it. But now that I’m here, this feels even more foreign.
I heard the horror stories of people having trouble settling back in one place after extended travel, but it’s much worse than I imagined. Torn from a world of memories with no idea where I want my future forever home to be.
I exhale heavily. How the hell do you settle back down after a trip like that?
I need to come back to earth.
I doze for a while, and I feel the bed dip. “Baby,” I hear Christopher whisper as he brushes the hair back from my forehead.
I smile and hold my arms out for him, and he lies on top of the blankets in his full suit and nestles his head into my chest. “I’m sorry I’m so late, sweetheart.”
“That’s okay.” I kiss his forehead. “You must be exhausted.”
“Hmm,” he whispers as his heavy eyelids close.
“Did you have any dinner?”
He nods.
“What did you have?”
“A glass of scotch and nuts from my office minibar.”
I smile into the darkness. “Your dinner is in the fridge on a plate. Put it in the microwave.”
“Did you cook it?” he asks with his eyes still closed.
“No, it’s takeout.”
He smiles. “Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because I don’t feel bad if I’m too tired to eat it.”
“Shower,” I prompt him. He’s going to fall asleep in his full suit.
“You want to have a shower with me?” He bites my nipple through my pajamas.
“No,” I murmur. “I’m half-asleep.”
“Party pooper.” He drags himself out of bed and disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the shower running.
I smile. His aftershave wafts around the room, and everything is just better when he’s home. I feel myself relax for the first time today.
Five minutes later he slides in beside me and takes me into his arms. He holds me tight. “I love you, baby,” he whispers sleepily.
I turn my head and kiss him over my shoulder. “I love you too.”
“Good night.” He kisses me again.
We lie in comfortable silence for a few minutes. I’m nestled safely in his big strong arms. The best place in the world.
“You work too hard,” I whisper.
But he doesn’t answer . . . he’s already asleep.
Friday night
The charity ball: my very first official engagement as Christopher Miles’s partner.
I’m nervous and have put way too much effort into overthinking every little detail.
I blame Zoe, the personal shopper. She dragged me around the entirety of London looking for the perfect outfit for tonight. I think she’s more nervous than me.
Per her instruction, I had my hair and makeup done, and now I’m about to get dressed. My clothes are laid out on the bed for me, and I hold the Spanx underwear up and look at it. It’s tiny. Did Zoe get me the right size?
These pantie things look like they would fit a child.
Zoe’s words from our shopping trip come back to me. This dress needs good supportive underwear. Do not wear it without.
Fine.
I walk into the bathroom and close the door. I don’t want Christopher walking in while I’m struggling to pull these fuckers up.
I step into them and . . . oh hell, so tight. I struggle and breathe in as I slowly pull them up. I put my hands on my hips as I stare at the Lycra black underwear in the mirror. It looks like shiny short bike pants. Jeez . . . I guess there’s no breathing tonight, then?
I put on the black lacy bra, the superboostiest thing I have ever seen. The girls are nearly at my neck. Surely people can’t wear this shit every day, can they?
My honey hair is out and curled in big Hollywood finger curls, and my makeup is sultry, with red lipstick.
I walk back out into the bedroom and pick up my dress, and Christopher glances in as he walks past the bedroom door. He stops and puts his head back around the doorjamb. He’s wearing a black dinner suit, white shirt, and black bow tie: classic black-tie porn. I’ve never seen anyone so handsome.
Delicious.