CHAPTER 8
NATHAN
It doesn’t feel like morning.
The sun hasn’t defeated the night sky, and the stars are still out and about doing their thing. So, if it’s not morning yet, why on Earth is my phone ringing? And why on earth is the person making it ring, my mother?
“If I don’t answer, she’ll just keep calling,” I remind myself after my phone goes blissfully silent, only to start back up again a few seconds later.
“Mother,” I say after several blind attempts at swiping my phone. My voice is rough with sleep, and I screw my eyes shut to trick my brain into thinking this isn’t really happening. If I can get this call over and done with quickly, there’s still a chance I can fall back asleep.
“Nathan.” She’s only said one word and already sounds disappointed. How is that possible? “Are you still in bed?”
Giving in, I squint at my phone. It’s 6.13 a.m. Of course I’m still in bed!
“What’s up?” I ask, throwing my arm over my eyes. “Is everything okay?”
“No, Nathan. Everything is not okay.”
My body tenses, on alert. “Is it Rosie? Dad? What’s happened?”
She huffs. “Did you go on a date last night?”
What?
“What?”
“Nathan, you know I can’t abide by that word. If you must be confused, use the word ‘pardon’.”
I’m too tired and too twenty-eight years old for this.
“Pardon?” I squeeze through my clenched teeth.
“A date. Did you go on one last night? Are you seeing someone?”
My mind scrambles to play catch up. Last night I was with Katie, and as much as I’d like to think differently, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a date. But how can my mother know about any of this?
“Not that it’s anyone’s business, but I met a friend for dinner last night. Why? What’s going on?”
The phone next to my ear vibrates. “This is what I woke up to,” she says in that snooty tone of hers. The same one that made me long to be sent to boarding school as a kid. “I had to hear about my son’s love life from the internet.”
She says the word ‘internet’ the same way she’d say the word ‘pornography’. Like it's something dirty and beneath her.
I take in a deep breath and peel one eyelid open.
Moving the phone away from my ear, I open the attachment she’d just sent.
It’s an article from a gossip magazine, with the headline “F1 star moves on.” Underneath this is a photo taken last night.
In it, I’m in clear view, looking enamoured by the woman sitting across from me.
A woman with an unmistakable waterfall of chestnut waves down her back and an ugly winter coat over her chair.
Thank goodness, Katie is unrecognisable in this photo.
I blow out the breath I’ve been holding. “I was out for dinner with a friend, Mother. You should know better than to trust anything you read in a magazine.”
Especially this magazine. Last month, it published an article about me in a supposed arranged marriage with a Saudi Arabian princess. It may as well be published under the fiction category at this rate.
“So, it’s not true?” Her voice wavers, screaming her disappointment. “Because, if you were seeing someone, that would make things easier for everyone.”
And that’s the crux of every conversation I’ve had with her since my brother started dating my ex-girlfriend.
There wasn’t even a moment where she was concerned about me, about my feelings.
She had not one ounce of recrimination for my brother, who committed this act of betrayal.
Instead, she dived straight into damage control.
For the family name and the family image.
And she’s been putting pressure on me to do my part ever since.
“Funnily enough, I’m not really interested in making things easier for anyone right now.”
“Nathan,” she chides, like I’m being an unruly child throwing a tantrum to get a later bedtime. “Hasn’t this gone on long enough? Your brother has said he’s sorry; can’t we all just move on?”
George, my older brother, has, in fact, not said he was sorry. The man has barely said two words to me since this all happened. He hasn’t looked me in the eye. And yet, I’m the one who’s supposed to make nice; make it better for the sake of the family.
Never going to happen.
“You can all move on without me.” I throw off my duvet, too annoyed now to remain lying down. “It’s not me causing the trouble; I’m staying out of George’s way.”
“That’s the problem,” she screeches. “You are refusing to attend your own brother’s wedding.”
“Because he’s bloody marrying my ex!” I explode. “How do you not understand this?”
My chest heaves, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. This woman is my mother; how can she be so heartless?
“You didn’t love Victoria. You’re just being difficult. If you could move on, date someone else, it would work out for everyone. You could attend your brother’s wedding, and we can all move past all this unpleasantness.”
If one were to look up the embodiment of ‘head in the sand’, my mother’s picture would be there.
“I have to go, Mother.”
“Will you at least think about what I’ve said? About moving on? It would be good for you, too…”
I swipe at my phone, disconnecting the call before slumping back onto my bed. It’s not even 7.00 a.m. and my Saturday has gone to crap. This is what I get for answering my phone: an argument with the woman who walks through life oblivious to who she’s hurting, as long as she keeps up appearances.
Propping myself up on one elbow, I pull up the article my mother had sent me and study the image of me and Katie together.
In the photo, her hair is lush and heavy down her back, and with the tip of my finger, I trace over it.
Ever since running into her a week ago, I’ve found myself somewhat obsessed with her hair.
Whenever I’m near her, I have to hold myself back from reaching out and touching it, to see if it feels as soft as it looks.
The rich colour, the way it waves around her face and over her shoulders.
It’s something I’m dreaming about. One of the many things about Katie that has found their way into my dreams.
“Tea,” I mutter under my breath, scrubbing my face and turning off my phone. “I need a cup of tea.”
Stalking to the kitchen, my energy off-kilter, I find Rosie slumped against the marble bench top, her head propped up sleepily on one hand.
“Rough night?” I ask. My sister sometimes crashes here after a night out with her friends, so happening upon her like this, panda eyes and dishevelled, is not uncommon.
“Hmmhmm,” she mumbles, her eyes glued shut. “Need tea.”
I look around. She may need tea, but she’d done nothing to make it happen.
“Shall I get that for you, Your Highness?”
She smiles and nods, her eyes still closed. “That would be fine.”
Grumbling under my breath about needing a new family, I get to work boiling the water and assembling the teapot.
Once done, I pop two crumpets in the toaster and grab a pot of Rosie’s favourite organic honey out of the pantry.
If it’s one thing I learnt from many, many years of hangovers, it’s that there’s nothing better than tea and crumpets to settle a woozy stomach.
“Bless you,” she moans into her teacup several minutes later.
I smile at her. She may be a bit of a spoilt princess, but she’s the only member of my family who really cares for me. In this great George divide, she’s one hundred per cent on my side.
“So, I heard from Mother this morning,” I tell her once the green has faded from her complexion, leaving a mere pale white colour in its wake. “That was fun.”
She blanches further. “What did she want?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. A reminder of my familial obligation to play nice with George, mixed with a big helping of guilt for making her life difficult. She saw a photo in a gossip mag of me and Katie at dinner last night and was thrilled that I’ve, and I quote, ‘finally moved on.’”
This gets my sister’s attention. “You went out on a date with Katie last night?”
I take in her now beaming face, her hangover forgotten.
“No, I went out to dinner last night with Katie. As friends, I guess.”
Her pout matches my mental one. It’s never been hard for me to get women to date me.
That sounds conceited, but it’s a fact. I grew up rich and conventionally good-looking; add in the famous athlete title, and women swarm to be with me.
Every woman, except for Katie, who is happy to have me around while she eats.
Ouch.
“What are you doing? You should totally date Katie!”
I know.
“I think she gets a say in this, Rosie Posey.”
Her pale blonde brows arch. “Are you saying she doesn’t want to date you?”
I shift in my chair. “It’s not that cut and dry.
I’ve not come out and asked her to go on a date.
Not really, at least. I’ve been texting her all week and suggested we get dinner together last night, and she agreed.
I thought perhaps it was a date, but then when she got there, she said something about a girl needing to eat. ”
Silence rings between us before Rosie throws her head back and laughs. Not a little giggle, mind you, but a full-body, shoulders-shaking, knee-slapping chortle. My turncoat sister is loving this situation a little too much.
“Oh my gosh, I’m too hungover for this sort of comedy, Nate,” she says when she’s run out of puff, wiping the tears from her eyes with a breathless huff. “I can’t believe she said that. And I kinda love her for it.”
Quietly, I do, too. I love how the words seem to fall out of her mouth unfiltered. It’s like she’s physically incapable of saying something she doesn’t mean. And after dating someone who I know now is a confirmed liar, it’s both refreshing and deeply comforting.
“Great. Trust you to take her side.”
Unbothered, she shrugs. “Katie is awesome. I followed her on Insta and DM’d her as well. She messaged back and was so sweet about her memories of me at school. That she’s not falling all over you is just another plus in an already stacked pros column.”