Chapter 12. Ophelia
OPHELIA
Colette’s commitment to an iced latte knows no bounds.
She sips hers through a lipstick-stained paper straw while I cup my giant mug of tea, watching the rain trickle down the windows of a quiet café in Covent Garden.
The temperature in London may be flirting with single digits, and the UV index might’ve somehow worked its way into the negatives, but Colette is sporting a miniskirt and sunglasses.
She’s got those narrow-framed ones that only someone like her could pull off, balanced precariously on top of her head as she sighs happily into her drink.
Eike sits quietly on the table behind us, reading a thriller with his earphones in.
The idea of a shopping day had filled me with dread, but when Colette said she could work with any budget, she really meant it.
A morning spent traipsing along the racks of London’s dustiest charity shops has left me with two pretty dresses, a new skirt, jeans that actually fit me, and two new knitted jumpers, all for less than the single cocktail I bought at the bar last night.
Colette’s phone pings on the table in front of us, prompting us both to lean over to look at it. It’s morbid curiosity on my part; the texts Vincenzo sends her are beyond filthy. I have to google half the things I see in them. But it’s not Vincenzo. It’s an address, sent from an unsaved number.
She looks at me warily, and worry trickles down my spine. I turn around and scan the café, just in case. I’ve had such a busy couple of days, I almost forgot about my stalker. “Don’t open it.”
“You think it’s from … oh my god. How did they get my number? What if they know what hotel we’re at?”
Eike pulls out both earphones and is at our side in a split second. “What is it?”
“Someone sent Colette an address.”
“We’re too scared to open it.”
Just as I finish speaking, a second text pings through. We stare at the phone like it might be about to blow up.
Here’s the address for today. Thanks soooo much for this, cannot tell you how much we appreciate it! It’s a sold out event and it’d be so sad to cancel! Clemmie x
Colette picks up the phone, frowning. “Did I book us in for something? Volunteering?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
Her pink nails tap at the screen, expression pensive. Eike is stressing me out, pumping out tension like a radiator where he hovers over us. Colette’s pink flush drains away, her face pale.
“What is it?”
“Okay, Ophelia,” she says, like someone trying to talk down a wolf.
“What is it?”
“I need you to not freak out.”
Obviously, I’m going to freak out. I’ve never successfully not freaked out. “Tell me.”
“Oh God,” she says, dragging both hands down her face in a way that is so unlike her. She’s smudged her makeup, so I know it must be bad.
“I’m freaking out.”
“Oh God,” she repeats. “Oh God.”
“Eike, hit her reset button, she’s malfunctioning.”
“Shit, Ophelia,” she mutters, and now I really am worried, because she never swears. If it’s skydiving, I’ll lose my shit. “It’s all coming back to me.”
I place my clammy palms on her narrow shoulders and give her a gentle shake. “What is it?”
“We signed you up to be the model for a one of those naked drawing classes.”
Skydiving would’ve been alright, actually.
And just like that, little fragments of Thursday night come back to me. Three mimosas at the spa, a bottle of champagne from the hotel room minibar, a cocktail from room service. The pizza. The life drawing.
Eike heads to the counter to fill a glass of water and sets it in front of me.
Colette is staring at me, worried. “Say something, Ophelia.”
My voice sounds far away. “Eike, if you could just … run me over with the car …”
“Okay, I’m sure we can cancel.”
I snatch her phone from her hand and dial the number. If I have to conquer my introvert fear of rejecting people to conquer my other introvert fear of literally baring my asshole to a room full of artsy Londoners, so be it.
A bright, airy voice chimes through the speaker. “Hello, Clementine speaking.”
Bloody hell. Of course her name is Clementine. “Uhh, hi, Clementine. It’s Ophelia, the model for today.”
“Hi, darling! It’s so good of you to volunteer. Every single ticket sold!” she squeaks, delighted.
“Yeah … about that … I’m so sorry.”
“Are you having second thoughts? That’s totally normal.”
I’m way beyond second thoughts. I’m in double-digit number of thoughts. “I was drunk when I signed up, and I am really not the right person for the job.”
“It’ll be so good for your confidence. It’s really empowering.”
I don’t think me on a table, sucking in my stomach and covered in goose bumps like a raw supermarket chicken is going to be empowering. “I’m not so sure.”
Her breathing sounds a bit stressed now. Like she’s imagining ringing each guest and telling them not to travel to the event. Now I’m overthinking it. What if someone has come from afar? What if this life drawing class is someone’s dream birthday activity? “Do I have to be naked?”
“What if we just covered a few bits with a sheet?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Yay! Thank you so much. You’re going to be so perfect. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
The line goes dead.
Colette holds both her hands out in a well? motion. “Did you cancel?”
“No.”
“No?” they both repeat.
Even Eike looks like he’s worried I’m having some sort of meltdown. “What now?”
“I dig a hole and crawl inside it, obviously.” I fold my arms on the table and drop my forehead onto them, letting out a mangled cry.
“Okay, well, let’s look at the positives.”
“Such as?” I snap.
Colette comes up blank. Eike peers over at the website listing of the event. “Free cocktail on arrival?” he offers, and it does make me laugh, only because Eike says an average of 2.5 words per day.
I push the wooden chair back and stand. “Let’s find a pub. I need something stronger than tea if I’m actually going to do this.”
DESPITE MY DESPERATE pleas for just a tiny little nonserious road traffic accident on the way to the event, Eike’s driving remains as smooth as ever. He pulls up outside what looks like a smart Victorian townhouse, rounding the car to open the door for Colette and me.
“I didn’t even shave my armpits,” I whisper, as Eike heads up the three stone steps to open the door for us.
“Like a goddess,” chirps Colette, cheerfully. She’s offered to do this with me about a hundred times, but I think Colette is famous enough that it somehow might get back to her too-strict stepfather.
“I’ll wait in the car nearby,” grumbles Eike, voice so deep I can barely hear. “Text me when you’re done, Colette.”
“Thank you,” she says, taking my hand as we walk inside.
The small entryway is dimly lit, a giant pinboard to my left with flyers for all the other events that happen here: kids clubs, Pilates classes, food banks, steel drum workshops.
It smells like embarrassment and humiliation and a future viral video entitled “Ginger Life Model Mental Breakdown HD Full Version.”
Okay, it smells like some sort of incense, but still.
I feel sick.
A door at the end of the empty hallway swings open, and wow, Clementine is exactly as I pictured her.
She’s in patchwork floaty pants and a sports bra, and the tote bag slung over her shoulder reads big clit energy.
“Oh my gosh.” She spins me around in delight.
“You’re the perfect model. You’ll be brilliant. ”
She ushers me into a small classroom where seven easels are arranged in a circle around a chaise longue.
Oh God. I can’t do this.
“It’s a very casual event, bring your own drink, play music, that sort of thing. I can stay or leave—whatever makes you comfortable.”
“Um, maybe you could leave?” I say, like eight strangers seeing my weird (still to be determined) nipples is somehow any worse than seven.
“Of course!” She leaves a fluffy dressing gown and a sheet for me, turning up the thermostat just a little and lighting a couple of candles.
“I think I might throw up,” I say, once we’re alone.
Colette folds me into a warm hug. She smells like flowers and clean linen and unwavering belief in me. “I’m so proud of you.”
I don’t want to undress, but the idea of having to do it after everyone has already arrived, each of them awkwardly watching me hop around while trying to get a sock off and fiddling with the sheet is so much worse that I shrug off my cardigan and step out of my boots and dress.
I can hardly even look at Colette, scurrying to grab the sheet as I sit on the chaise and wrap it around my shoulders. “Shall we leave?”
“No. You’re doing this, and then we’re going out to celebrate. We can get fries.”
“Chips. Proper pub chips. Triple-cooked chips.”
“Triple-cooked? Like … burned?”
“Oh my god. You haven’t lived.”
“Okay, deal. I’ll get us triple chips, or whatever.”
I lie back like that girl in the Titanic movie, letting Colette tastefully drape white fabric over my hips and breasts. She bites her lip to suppress a grin. “You look so good.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”