CHAPTER 2
Daisy
“Do you think I’m fired?” I ask Lizzie as I wriggle into my skin-tight jeans.
I hate the ridiculous pleated Union Jack skirts they make us wear on set. And don’t even get me started on the tights. Every pair I own slowly slides south during broadcasts, sagging around my knees by the end so I look like I’ve got oversized, sagging labia dragging me down with every step.
My fifteen-year-old self would be horrified to discover I’m still dealing with pleated skirts and tights in my twenties.
Lizzie shuts her locker with a gentle click. “No, babe. But you might be back to selling hedge trimmers to perverts for a while.”
She pauses, clearly rummaging for something—anything—positive to say. “It’s not your fault there were plumbing issues. Honestly, you were good! The water spraying everywhere added a certain je ne sais quoi to the demonstration. Like . . . performance art.”
I laugh, the sound sharp, as I yank my hair into a messy bun. “More like je ne sais what-the-fuck-was-that. I cried, Lizzie. Over a bidet. If there exists a career cliff, I swan-dived right off it.”
“Maybe no one clocked it?” she tries, though her voice wobbles with the lie even she can’t sell, before tilting her head and asking, “What actually went down out there, anyway?”
“That stupid bidet reminded me of Charlie. And I got angry. Seeing his smug engagement photos all over social media last night . . . It boiled over.”
Lizzie blinks. “A bidet reminded you of your ex?”
“Long story,” I mutter, shoving the BritShop skirt into my locker. “Probably one for a therapist’s couch someday, but they’ve got one in every bathroom at the Cavendish estate.”
“Weird.” She scrunches her nose. “I’ve never even used a bidet. Don’t know anyone who owns one, either.”
“Yeah, well, I saw plenty of weird things growing up. I once watched Mrs. Cavendish eat a banana with a knife and fork. Toffs might have two eyes and a nose like the rest of us, but they’re a completely different species. Trust me, bidets are the least bizarre thing about them.”
“Yeah, I got that impression from Edward.”
I stiffen, my spine going ramrod straight at the mention of Charlie’s older brother.
Lizzie clocks my reaction and smirks. “I feel like a complete numpty just trying to string a sentence together around him, so I just nod and let out these pathetic little giggles, hoping to god he doesn’t expect me to say anything that proves I’ve got a functioning brain.”
“Tell me about it. God fucking forbid anyone be anything less than perfect in his presence. The man probably corrects the nurses’ grammar while he’s performing surgery.”
London’s meant to be this sprawling, chaotic beast of a city where you can vanish into the masses, isn’t it?
Like fuck it is.
Somehow, no matter where I go, I’m ambushed by reminders of Charles—the golden child of the Cavendish dynasty. “Charlie” to his friends. Not that I know any other Charlies unless you count the king, and I don’t exactly have him on speed dial.
The family’s proper old money—￡2.9 billion, landed gentry, minor nobility—the kind of posh just shy of absurd.
And in a spectacularly cruel twist of fate, my best mate at BritShop—down-to-earth Lizzie—just happens to be tight with the girlfriend of Edward Cavendish’s best mate.
Some big-shot finance bloke named Liam McLaren, private equity mogul, billionaire, probably a wanker.
And Edward? He won’t even look at me without making it painfully clear he disapproves of everything I am—the walking disaster who had the audacity to date his precious baby brother.
“Still,” Lizzie says.
“Still what?”
“He’s handsome, isn’t he?”
I roll my eyes. “If you’re into that sort of thing.”
“That sort of thing? You mean tall, dark, and handsome? Sure, fine, whatever you say, love.”
I let out a grunt. “Fuck them all. The whole lot of them.”
Lizzie squeezes my hand, her teasing melting into something softer. “Hey, it’s only raw because he’s just got engaged. But you don’t still like Charlie, do you? Like, really—could you ever have seen yourself settling down with him?”
Here’s the thing: I absolutely could.
Years ago, I spun entire daydreams around it, scribbling Mrs. Charles Cavendish in the margins of my school notebooks, hearts and all. Like I was auditioning for the role of a Victorian romance heroine—the kind of woman who keeps her elbows off the table and arranges flowers for fun.
But what cuts deepest isn’t that I was deluded—it’s that no one else believed in it, like the notion of me fitting into Charlie’s world was so laughable, it bordered on absurdity.
I exhale sharply. “Why does everyone act like it’s impossible? Like I’m not good enough?”
Lizzie’s eyes widen in horror. “Oh my god, no! You’re too good for him.”
“My whole life people have warned me. Be careful, Daisy. Don’t get your hopes up, Daisy. Like I’m some naive idiot who needs protecting from her own stupidity.”
She winces, biting her lip. “It’s not that—” She hesitates. “It’s just . . . they’re not like us, are they? You’re better off with a normal bloke. Someone who can have a laugh, go down the pub, who doesn’t”—she waves a hand vaguely—“use bidets and all that posh nonsense.”
“Would’ve been nice if someone clued me in before I spent years being his dirty little secret,” I mutter, yanking my compact from my bag.
I swipe mascara onto my lashes like war paint, because apparently, some part of me still thinks if I just get my eyelashes right, the Cavendishes might finally accept me.
Like another coat of MAC is all it takes to upgrade me from “staff cottage” to “stately home.”
Yes, I know how pathetic this is.
But logic doesn’t erase years of trying to be good enough.
I’ve met the woman of my dreams , Charlie had crowed on Instagram, posing in the Cavendish manor gardens with that smug grin plastered on, and guess what’s peeking out in the corner of the shot—yep, the gardener’s shed where we used to shag like rabbits. A woman who stands shoulder-to-shoulder with me in every regard. Someone who brings honor to the Cavendish name.
Translation: Not the cleaning lady’s daughter who grew up knowing which products get red wine out of rugs.
The worst part? There’s no escaping him.
Mum still works for the Cavendishes. And I’m the maid of honor at his sister’s wedding—despite Mrs. C’s barely concealed horror at the idea.
Which means I get a front-row seat to him parading his new fiancée around at every single wedding-related event.
And no, I don’t still like him. It’s been years. But that fucker humiliated me, and I will never forgive him for it.
“Fancy a trip to the pub?” Lizzie offers. “Quick one to drown your sorrows?”
I snap my compact shut. “Can’t. Meeting Hot Doc. Third date, and he hasn’t revealed himself to be an absolute twat yet, so that’s progress.”
Lizzie nods approvingly. “That doctor is fit. Go for it.”
“Oh, I fully intend to,” I reply, injecting my voice with a boldness I don’t quite feel. Because beneath the bravado, I’m wondering how long it’ll take for him to figure out I’m barely held together by a push-up bra, sarcasm, the cheapest mascara Tesco sells, and a fragile sense of self-worth.
And yes, I know using sex as a coping mechanism isn’t healthy. But it helps.
There’s something about getting absolutely railed that clears the mind, making all the other bullshit fade—if only for a sweaty, panting half hour or so.
And I really, really love sex. Like, a possibly inappropriate amount, if I’m honest. My brain’s always drifting off to the dirtiest corners at the worst possible times.
Like when I’m hovering over the reduced section at Tesco, wondering if the fish fingers are still good while simultaneously picturing someone pinning me against the freezer aisle.
Or when I’m soaking in a bubble bath, staring at my own knees poking out of the foam, running mental maths on how many bidets I’d have to sell to scrape together a deposit for a shitty one-bed London flat, only to land on the bleak realization that it’s every bidet. All the fucking bidets in the world.
Or when I’m demonstrating garden tools to insomniacs at three a.m., my lizard brain is always there, nagging me in its most obnoxious tone: But when was the last time someone properly, thoroughly, ruined you?
Lizzie hugs me goodbye, and I can practically feel the pity radiating off her.
I turn to the mirror and meet my own gaze, those sad, hazel-brown eyes staring right back at me, searching for answers I’ll never find. Begging to understand why we weren’t enough. Why we’ll never be enough for men like the Cavendishes.
Because you’re common as muck, Daisy. Because you’re the girl they fuck before they marry the girl their mother picked out.
I inhale sharply, forcing my expression into something harder.
“Right then,” I tell my reflection. “Time to let a doctor perform a thorough examination.”