1 Scottie
1
Coming Of Age – Maisie Peters
(Almost) Two Years Later
I never much cared what the newspapers and gossip rags wrote about me, but the article exposing the threesome with the F1 drivers in Monaco … yeah, I cut that one out and framed it.
Monaco had been fun. All of Europe had been fun. Everywhere I went was sun soaked and carb heavy, with late nights and later mornings. But when that second winter in exile rolled in, I found myself longing for London again. I had ended up crashing at my mum’s house.
Kit Sinclair was a supermodel in the 90s, accidentally left knocked up after a one-night stand with Matteo. Barely eighteen, she was on her own, and at the start of a promising career. So, after a brief holiday to Switzerland, a baby, and an intensive version of the cabbage soup diet, she returned triumphant to the runway, leaving all parental rights in the hands of the oh so trustworthy Matteo.
‘Good morning, love,’ Mum yawned, tucking her short blonde hair behind her ear as she walked into the kitchen. ‘What’s making headlines today?’
I glanced at the iPad resting in front of me, featuring a photo of last night’s escapade: me being escorted out of a trendy SoHo nightclub, tightly linked with a Dutch prince. Or wait, was he Swedish?
‘Nothing new, really. Not worth looking at.’
‘I’m sure I’ll catch up later.’ She slid into the chair across from me, a luxurious silk dressing gown draped around her slender frame. Leaning forward, she delicately pinched a slice of toast from my plate, taking a minuscule bite akin to that of a bird, before placing it back.
I arched a brow at her. ‘I can make you your own if you’d like?’
‘No need,’ she dismissed me with a wave of her hand. ‘I’m heading out to Bellamy’s for lunch. Don’t want to spoil my appetite.’
I shrugged, not bothering to argue with her, before finishing up my own piece. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to reach out to her six months ago, when I discovered we were both in Paris for Fashion Week, courtesy of Page Six. Despite the absence of a relationship between us, I had always assumed it was her who didn’t want a connection.
But after tracking her down, and two bottles of French wine later, she’d finally told me the truth. Matteo had forced her to sign over parental rights, threatening to leak stories about her to the press. Her career was only beginning to heat up at that point, and the press was an entirely different beast in the 90s.
Mum had allowed him to take me away, still a teenager herself, believing it was best for her to disappear from my life. I had never felt the absence of a mum until these past few months, and now, I wondered how different my life might have been if she had been a part of it.
‘Oh, I forgot to say, a friend stopped by for you last night,’ she said casually, taking a sip of tea. My eyebrows furrowed as I tried to remember if I was expecting a visitor. I had never brought anyone here, always meeting in hotels or bars. Somewhere public where I could be seen in case I got up to something.
‘Who was it?’ I asked, curiosity tinged with a hint of caution.
She squinted for a moment as she seemingly wracked her brain for a name. ‘Jonathan?’
My heart clenched as the name hit me like a lightning bolt, throwing me back to that dark night almost two years ago. The last time I’d seen him. He’d called, but I’d blocked his number and tried to forget. He’d claimed to be innocent, but since he had been my coach, I didn’t know who I could trust.
‘Jon was here?’
Mum nodded, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. ‘Tall guy? Handsome? Could do with some Botox around here?’ She pointed to the side of her eyes. ‘Only a little, of course, don’t want to lose that hunky, weathered look altogether.’
I wasn’t sure about the wrinkles, but the rest sounded like him. ‘What did he want?’
‘To talk, I think? I told him he could stay. I certainly wouldn’t have minded. But I also didn’t know when you’d be back.’
‘Do you know if he’s …’
‘Coming back? I think so. He didn’t want to wait around, but he was eager to chat.’
I swore under my breath. I had no intention of ‘catching up’ with anyone from my old life, especially if they had a connection to Matteo. The only news he’d have of me would come from gossip rags. I swiftly carried my dishes to the sink, my mother’s eyes tracking my every move.
‘I’m going out of town,’ I said. ‘I have a Danish prince who offered to show me around Copenhagen.’
My mother responded with an exasperated eye roll. ‘Darling, been there and done that. Trust me, there’s not much excitement in Copenhagen, even with a prince by your side.’
I shot her a confused look before resolving. ‘Fine,’ I declared, my mind already racing. ‘I’m sure there’s plenty to do in Paris. I’ll catch the next train.’
Rushing out of the kitchen and up the grand staircase, I made my way to the guest bedroom I’d been calling my own and grabbed an empty duffle bag. I grabbed what clothes I could, not bothering to think of outfits as I went. It was Paris, after all. I could shop.
‘Scottie, what are you doing?’ My mum lazily appeared in the door frame, cup of tea in hand.
I didn’t bother to even look at her as I answered. ‘Packing.’
‘No, I mean you packed my Dior dress,’ she exclaimed, a small hint of annoyance in her voice. ‘I love that we are the same size, but I told you – no taking the vintage out of the country.’
Without uttering a word, I tossed the dress back to her, my determination undeterred. I continued my packing mission, locating my passport on the dresser and throwing it in the bag.
‘I’m not sure why you’re in such a rush,’ my mother remarked, her tone teasing. ‘He was quite handsome. I wouldn’t be so quick to escape if a man like that was searching for me.’
‘If you knew who his boss was, you’d be running too,’ I replied cryptically.
‘Maybe …’ she trailed off. ‘Or …’
‘Or?’
‘Or you could not run and listen to what he has to say,’ she proposed, her voice gentle yet persuasive. Sounding, dare I say it, motherly?
‘And why would I do that?’ Scepticism laced my words as I finally spared her a glance.
‘Because he left a message begging you to not run and to listen to what he had to say. It’s almost like he knows you well.’
I hesitated, thinking over the situation. We’d been friends, Jon and I. Sure, he’d worked me to the bone during training. But we’d joke around, he’d listen to me if I was complaining, and would take my aches and pains seriously, an ice pack and some aspirin at the ready.
‘You never said he left a message.’
‘You didn’t let me get very far before you stormed up here and started stealing—’ she let out a sharp dramatic gasp ‘—the black Chanel dress from ’93. Pass it here.’ She pointed a thin finger at my bag. I turned, the dress falling out.
Damn, I’d been hoping to get that one past her.
Reluctantly, I pulled the dress out and handed it to her. She clutched the delicate material to her chest before her gaze softened once again, voice tangled with concern. ‘I think you should hear what he has to say.’
‘Why? You know what they did to me.’
‘Wasn’t it your father—’ I cut her off with a scowl before she corrected herself, ‘Matteo?’
I shook my head, glancing around the messy room, clothes thrown all over the floor. ‘I can’t be sure,’ I admitted, a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach at the mere thought. The memory of finding out someone who claimed to love me had drugged and violated me for months was still vivid in my mind. My autonomy stripped away, my body no longer my own. I had spent countless hours in therapy trying to heal from the trauma, but I was still grappling with the aftermath. I was still unsure if I wanted all the details. Sometimes, ignorance was safest.
Silently, Mum moved further inside the room, settling herself on my bed. With a tender gesture, she patted the spot next to her, and I surrendered, easing myself down onto the mattress. A wave of weariness washed over me as I leaned against her on instinct, breathing in her expensive perfume. Chanel, no doubt.
‘You don’t need to run, you know,’ she said. ‘Your dad isn’t chasing you.’
I lifted my head, shooting her the ‘we don’t call him that’ look, but she brushed it off nonchalantly before continuing. ‘It’s been almost two years. I think you’ve made it clear by now with all your gallivanting around Europe and throwing your career into the fire that you want nothing to do with him.’
‘I feel like I’m waiting for him to show up on the doorstep and order me back into a cage.’ The words were barely louder than a whisper, but they hurt all the same. I hadn’t realized how restrictive my life had been until I’d left. How much there was of the world to enjoy. What it was like to have more than one glass of wine and eat both the burger and chips and not feel guilty after. Now I was free, the thought of going back was an enormous monster hiding in the dark, taunting me with only its presence.
‘He doesn’t make the rules anymore, Scottie. You call the shots, you make the decisions.’ She raised a hand and gave my blonde hair a gentle, comforting stroke before wrapping her arm around me and pulling me close. ‘If you want to run to Paris, give me five minutes and I’ll pack a bag. Girls’ weekend in the City of Lights. The two of us together? We’ll tear it to pieces.’
I laughed lightly, thinking somebody better pre-warn France. ‘What about your lunch at Bellamy’s?’
She waved a hand, dismissing the thought. ‘My friends are used to my last-minute cancellations. And besides, who wants to lunch with a group of former models? They hardly touch the food they order.’
‘We should discuss your eating habits sometime. I’m amazed at how you manage.’
She smirked, a mischievous glint in her blue eyes. Deep ocean blue, lined with black. The same as mine. ‘Oh, I do eat. I just ensure it’s worth every single calorie.’
Before I could roll my eyes at her playful remark, the sound of the doorbell pierced the air, and my heart skipped a beat. I inhaled deeply, remembering my mother’s words.
I was done running.