The night is a soiree of glamour.
People stop and talk to Christopher, commenting how relaxed and happy he looks.
And he . . . he plays the room like a pro.
All eyes are watching him. Everyone wants to talk to him. He laughs and jokes. The room is in the palm of his hand. Funny, charming, and sexy as all hell, Christopher Miles is London’s darling it boy.
The longer I’m here, with the beauty and glamour, the more an underlying question in the back of my mind steps forward to the front.
What does he see in me?
I’m just a normal country girl.
I’m not gorgeous or glamorous with a high-flying job, and I certainly don’t look like the beautiful model-like women who keep trying to make eye contact with him.
I’m like a fish out of water.
For the first time in my life, I feel something foreign crawl up and sit like a lead ball in my stomach.
Insecurity.
I know that there are others in the room who are wondering the same thing I am.
Why her?
Why has he chosen to settle down with someone so normal? Now that I know the life and people he’s used to, I see why the sight of me causes such a stir. Why photographers are scrambling to get a shot and follow me everywhere. They’re trying to work out what he sees in me. They’re waiting to get the scoop for when we fall.
Stop it.
I sip my wine, disgusted by my thoughts. It’s not healthy to think like this.
Christopher holds his hand out. “Do you want to dance, sweetheart?”
I smile, grateful for him.
“I do.” He leads me onto the dance floor and takes me into his arms as we sway to the music. He kisses my temple, completely oblivious to everyone who is watching us.
“You look beautiful.” He smiles over at me.
I force a smile.
How long will you believe that?
I walk out the door of the shop to a whirl of paparazzi.
“Hayden, Hayden, this way,” they all call.
I drop my head as I am ushered to the car by the security guard. He opens the door, and I get into the back seat and am whisked away. “Idiots,” Hans sighs as we drive into the traffic.
I feel my heartbeat slowly return to normal.
I can’t go anywhere now without being followed.
Hunting Hayden Whitmore has become a sport. I’m hounded night and day by photographers.
I had planned on having some lunch somewhere, but I can’t.
What’s the point?
I’ll be a nervous wreck the entire time, knowing they are waiting just outside for me.
“Where would you like to go, Hayden?” Hans asks me.
“Home, please.” I sigh.
His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and he gives me a sad smile. “As you wish.”
One month later
I sit cross-legged on the floor as I stare out the window. The sky is gray.
The clouds are full as I watch it come down.
Does it ever stop raining in this godforsaken place?
It has rained every single day that I’ve been here, and like a plant, I’m dying without the light.
The life is seeping out of me. A heavy blanket weighs on my shoulders, and I can’t shake it off, no matter how hard I try.
Every day is the same.
I can’t go out; I’m followed. I can’t lie in the sun, because there is no fucking sun. I can’t feel the earth beneath my feet because there is no earth.
All I do . . . is wait for Christopher to come home so that I can feel whole again.
Something is missing . . . everything is missing. But somehow everything is whole.
We’re together. I’m with Christopher, the love of my life, supporting him and his important job. I should be happier than ever before.
But I’m not.
I find myself crying alone in the shower. Staring into space. My appetite has completely gone.
I’m sad to my bones . . . I can’t shake it, no matter how hard I try.
I feel the loss of my life. Of who I was. The life I had.
I miss me.
I want to make my life here with my Christopher.
I love him more than anything. I would walk to the end of the earth if it meant that we were together . . . and it feels like I have.
But all he does is work, even on weekends. And I know this isn’t his fault; this is what he does. He’s trying his hardest. I know he is.
I need to snap myself out of this because I want to love it here. I want to feel excited to wake up. I want to support him and make friends, but as soon as I walk out that door, I’m followed by photographers, and it’s all too hard . . . so I just stay home. It’s easier that way.
But I feel lost in a concrete jungle.
I need the sun. To feel the warmth on my skin, the wind in my hair.
The grass beneath my feet.
Fresh air . . .
Cows.
My eyes well with tears, which then break the dam to slowly roll down my face. I angrily wipe them away. I need to stop this. Cut it out already. This isn’t helping anyone, least of all me.
Buzz, buzz . . . buzz, buzz . . .
My phone sounds. I close my eyes, unable to answer it.
I know it’s Christopher, and I know that he will hear the tears in my voice and come rushing home . . . just like he did yesterday.
No matter how hard he tries, no matter how much we love each other, he can’t fix my problem.
I miss my home.