chapter002
Edie sat up in the pinkish bordello hue of her very single woman taste bedroom. She was wearing a t-shirt that read The Horrors Persist Yet So Do I with a picture of a gerbil in a fez, smoking – a gift from Meg which she wouldn’t have worn in company if in her right mind.
At least the light was low. She’d inherited long voile curtains in a pillar-box red material that made a dramatic partner to her blush-pink Art Deco style bed, chilli fairy lights and tasselled-pendant chinoiserie lampshade.
‘Kind of Amsterdam window meets the feminist Barbie,’ Elliot had said last night. ‘There’s gonna be big fights when we decorate together.’
Edie had liked the assumption but pretend-objected to the description.
Elliot replied: ‘It’s still my favourite room in my favourite house in the world, so keep it in context.’
There didn’t seem to be any amount of drinking that diminished his verbal dexterity.
Speaking of which … Edie noticed her phone on the nightstand, blinking with light. She pulled it out of the charger and inspected an unusually lengthy cascade of notifications.
WOW
Go Edie! xx
Erm – what? AMAZING
OMFG is that who I think it is?! Is this NOW?
This has blown me away NGL! Are you in the States? You can’t be here?? Do you want to get a drink soon? Ages since I’ve seen you xoxo here’s my number in case you don’t have it …
Well, well, LOOK at what you found under your tree. Beats my fucking Lakeland tea urn.
Oh fuck fuck fuck – what HAD she done last night? On social media, that was – the main thing she’d done was sleeping with his face crushed into the left-hand pillow, out like a light due to residual jet lag and their only going to sleep at about three a.m.
Edie clicked onto Instagram and, with a slow turn of her stomach, vaguely recalled being absolutely shitfaced on red wine and high on love at midnight, when they were finally alone in the sitting room.
She had taken a commemorative selfie of Elliot kissing her face, her eyes squeezed shut in boozed-up, cartoon-stars-circling delight. There wasn’t loads of him in it, but there was enough, given they’d been linked in the past. He didn’t look much like other people.
Edie had experienced an out of character moment, the sort only ethanol could supply: the heady sense you were freeing a part of your nature you kept needlessly imprisoned. She’d captioned it with one pink heart, and she recalled thinking it was definitely fine to post it because they were so, so happy and looked so happy. How could anything made of happiness be wrong?
SOBER REASONS,she now thought, furious with herself. Like, you’ve not told anyone beyond this property and its guests yet, and a stupid pissed upload wasn’t how you wanted to do it.
Worse, her Instagram only had a modest 650 followers, but it was set public.
She clicked on story views and scrolled through a long list of friends, relatives, colleagues, and cringed. She impulsively deleted the picture.
Just as the image digitally vaporised, Edie realised this, too, was an error. If it made its way beyond her profile and into the public domain, she’d removed the list of suspects. Plus, its disappearing stank of panic. It rather confirmed any suspicion that she’d been indiscreet. It flagged, yes, that was a Story-story.
Nor, on reflection, could she post a wheedling throwback photo, guys, feeling nostalgic! disclaimer, as when it came out that it was true down the line, people who knew her might be justifiably irritated at being bullshitted.
Oh my God, you absolute tit. You managed what, a grand total of six to eight hours of keeping this to yourself?Edie couldn’t believe she’d gaily broadcasted it. Her boss, Richard, once told her she was her own worst enemy, and though the title of her worst enemy had been a keenly fought competition, he might be right.
She was near-tearful with hungover-dickhead remorse as Elliot stirred, turned over, and rubbed a puffy face worth a fortune. It had recently graced the cover of Empire magazine, strapline: staring into The Void has never felt so good.
He smiled at her. ‘Morning.’ His eyes settled on her expression. ‘Shit. What’s wrong?’