Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
EMILY
It’s just after eleven, and so far, this day is proving that old adage that things can always get worse.
And worse and worse…
“Okay, so two more florists blacklisted you,” Maya calculates on the other end of the line, her voice surprisingly calm for someone doing catastrophic math. “That only makes five total. That’s not so bad! There are dozens of amazing florists in London.”
“Six,” I correct, pacing the length of my hotel room in bare feet, while I wait for my new shoes to be delivered. “The Rose Tattoo sent a ‘take your dumb face and go home,’ email while you were refilling your wine.”
“Oh, God,” she says, with another gulping noise. “I’m so glad it’s still night my time. If I couldn’t wine the pain away, I’d be having a panic attack right now. How are you holding up? I can’t imagine Earl Grey is taking the edge off.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her, wincing as I stub my toe on the desk leg.
My room is “very chic” as promised by the online reviews, but my standard is barely big enough for a proper panic pace.
Every lap, I have to dodge the room service tray I ordered an hour ago—stress-eating scrambled eggs and blood sausage seemed like a good idea at the time, but now the congealing grease is making me nauseous—the desk, and a plush chair I refuse to sit in.
I don’t deserve comfort, not after the mess I’ve made.
“Seriously, this doesn’t make any sense,” Maya says. “You said the whole thing was an accident, right?”
“Yes, but I destroyed baby Jesus.” I spin at the window, turning away from the normal people living normal lives on the street below.
People who aren’t watching their careers implode in real-time…
“A floral baby Jesus constructed of outrageously expensive orchids that took twenty-something hours to make.”
“Sounds creepy if you ask me.”
“It was kind of creepy,” I admit, “but it was clearly very important to her. And I’m clearly now the devil who crushed the Messiah in his manger and must be vanquished at all costs.”
“And you apologized profusely?”
“Profusely,” I assure her. “I did everything but get down on the floor and beg, and that’s only because I was already on the floor when I started apologizing.”
Maya sighs. Curses. Then sighs again. “All right, well… We’ll just have to hope there are a few solid florists in London who don’t bend the knee to Queen Belinda. Looks like the Rousseau wedding is off the table for this summer, too, so we need to lock Fletchers down more than ever.”
“What?” I stop mid-pace, nearly tripping over my exploded roller bag. Apparently, stress brings out my messy side. “But we’ve been courting them for months! I sent them a custom proposal with hand-painted watercolors!”
“I know, they suck. I hate them. Whatever, though. Moving on.”
Smelling a rat, I demand, “What really happened, Maya? Tell me.”
She heaves a tortured sigh. “Fine. They just texted. Said they’re going with someone with a ‘more refined social media presence.’ Apparently, having a planner who’s trending for being a sexy minx whose milkshake brings all the English lords to the yard isn’t the vibe they want for their ‘elegant Southampton soirée.’ Which is ridiculous.
Those pictures were hot. You were hot! And have they been alive lately?
The gossip cycle moves so fast, you’ll be old news months before they send the final invitations.
By January, no one will remember you were ever in London. ”
“I hope you’re right,” I mutter, fighting to swallow past the lump forming in my throat.
My laptop pings with a new email, making me flinch.
I shouldn’t look. I really shouldn’t.
But hell, I’m already spiraling, might as well keep swirling down the despair drain.
Ms. Darling: After careful consideration, we’ve decided our firm wouldn’t be a good match for what you have in mind for the Fletchers’ event. But we wish you the best in your future endeavors. Nathan Smythe, Chelsea Botanicals
“Make that seven florists,” I mutter, sinking onto the bed with my laptop on my trembling knees.
“Seven? How is that even possible? It’s not even noon!”
“Belinda Moore rides at dawn.” I refresh my email, watching two more rejections pop up in real-time.
“Eight. Nine.” I scroll, throat growing tighter as I scan the messages.
“The last one includes a personal note advising me to leave the country as soon as possible. Apparently, once the British tabloids have someone in their crosshairs, they’re like a dog with a bone. ”
“Well, at least that’s kind? Sort of?”
“Sort of,” I agree. “But they also included a link to a meme of me crushing the manger. Apparently, one of the parents was filming when I fell.” I click over to Instagram, unable to stop myself from looking.
“Nearly a million views, Maya! Already.” My stomach pitches as I realize it’s set to ‘All I Want for Christmas,’ and that they’ve timed it so I land on baby Jesus right when Mariah hits the high note.
My breath comes faster, and my ribs squeeze tight.
Tighter. Tightest. “I’m a meme. A horrible, embarrassing meme.
And once you’re a meme, there’s no escape, Maya.
Once you’re a meme, the internet will haunt you forever.
This is now my own personal, hellish Ghost of Christmas Present! And Future! And—”
“Emily, breathe,” she cuts in. “This isn’t helping. We have to calm down and strategize.”
“I think we’re beyond strategy, Maya.” I scroll through other social feeds, each one bringing fresh horror.
“This is it. I’m over. Finished. I’ll have to change careers.
Move away from people who have access to the internet.
Maybe I can get work on an insect farm in rural Kenya.
They speak English and Swahili, so maybe I could—”
“Stop it, woman. Right now. And listen to me.” Maya’s voice takes on her no-nonsense boss babe tone, the one that usually means she’s locked in on a solution against all odds. “I’ve been scrolling, too, and a pattern has emerged.”
I frown. “A pattern that I am a hideous, klutzy sow with a leg that does weird things when I’m kissing?”
“A pattern of assumption,” Maya counters. “The pictures actually aren’t that steamy, Em. And you don’t look silly at all.”
“The comment section would beg to differ.”
“Well, I beg to differ with the trolls, and so should you. You look like a cute woman, fresh off a long flight, having a steamy night with a hot guy,” she says.
“The problem is that the tabloids and the gossip accounts and everyone else are assuming you’re some rumpled nobody who threw herself at a drunk aristocrat who kicked you to the curb as soon as he sobered up. ”
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re making me feel so much better.”
“Let me finish. You’re only a scandal because you’re an outsider. A nobody. Some spicy stranger who popped up in connection with this usually well-behaved guy they’re assuming you led astray with your big American boobs.”
“Don’t remind me.” I squeeze my eyes shut, but the shot of Olly cupping my breast through my shirt is burned into my brain.
“What I’m saying is they’re assuming you’re fair game. But what if you weren’t? What if you weren’t a stranger or a nobody? What if you were something far more banal?”
I exhale, my eyes flying open. “I don’t understand.”
“Emily, what’s the most boring story in the world?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Watching paint dry? British parliamentary procedure? My love life before last night?”
“An established couple getting drunk and handsy after date night,” Maya says, victory in her voice.
I don’t understand. “Nobody cares about a man kissing his girlfriend outside a pub. I’m sure it happens literally every night.
It’s normal. It’s boring. The press would move on in forty-eight hours, guaranteed. ”
My stomach drops as I realize where she’s going. “Maya, no.”
“Listen, you said he apologized this morning and wanted to see you again. I’m sure he’d be open to bending the truth a bit in the name of making this up to you.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on. All you have to do is pretend you’ve been dating for a while, and this whole thing becomes a non-story. You’re not some random hookup. You’re his girlfriend who missed him so much she couldn’t help making out with him in the snow.”
“I can’t fake date a Viscount’s little brother!” I stand up too fast, laptop sliding dangerously. I catch it, setting it back on the bureau, before I add, “He’s fifth in line to the throne. That’s like being a Kennedy. But with actual crowns and probably a castle or giant manor home somewhere.”
“And he clearly likes you, so stop inventing problems,” she says.
“We’re in the problem-solving business here.
You could even say you guys were celebrating something special last night.
Something that would explain why you both got carried away.
The point is, you’re legitimate. You belong in his world.
And as someone who belongs, you are granted a certain amount of protection from the worst of this.
Not to mention the fact that more people will be inclined to stick up for you if you aren’t a one-night stand.
Slut-shaming is real, Em. As much as we’d like to believe that we’ve left all that nonsense behind and a woman can get her bang on as freely as a man, we both know that’s not true.
Women still face consequences for embracing their sexuality that men don’t. ”
“I understand what you’re trying to do, but it’s too late for a reframe, Maya,” I say as I resume my pacing. “I’m already a meme.”
“Which is exactly why you need to act now, before it gets any worse. Change the narrative and you’ll stop the social media bleeding. Then, you spend a few weeks playing the boring, dutiful girlfriend. Go for lunch at a stuffy restaurant, buy a Christmas tree, do some holiday shopping for his—”