10. DIANA #2
I do. I absolutely have to succeed. I have to show my father I can survive without him and whatever rich man he wants me to marry.
I have to earn my own money so I can be financially independent.
Everything I’ve put myself through recently has to be worth it.
It has to be. But I can’t explain that to Lizzie because, as far as I can tell, she’s never had a money worry in her life.
“Maybe not,” I agree to placate her, “but I do need money.”
Her lips form a tight line, but her next question is gentle. “Do you have any savings?”
“I… I…”
Pity bleeds into her expression. “How much did you save?”
I glance up at the ceiling, blinking and trying to ignore the sting of approaching tears. “Nothing.”
If it weren’t for the twitch in her lower left eye, I’d think Lizzie had no judgmental thoughts about what I’ve just said.
My chin quivers. “I didn’t foresee this scenario.
” I gesture with both hands at the room around me.
“I should have. As soon as I knew I was going to refuse to do what Dad wanted, I should have made plans for afterwards, but I didn’t.
I was too focused on getting through it and making sure I wasn’t going to end up married to a man I didn’t love.
I barely thought beyond that.” I rub the back of my neck, unable to look my friend in the eye as I confess it all.
“I only had what money Dad gave me. I kept meaning to monetise the whole influencer thing, but I hadn’t got round to it.
And what little I had, I used to buy books.
Special editions. And clothes. I bought things I needed to make content and furnish the flat just how I wanted it.
I had lighting installed to make the bookshelves look… ” I wince. “Special.”
Oh, God. I sound like a fucking idiot. I know it. She knows it.
Thankfully, she doesn’t launch into a full blown tirade about how stupid I am.
Not that I’d expect her to, but it’s what Dad would do in this scenario, and has done many times in the past. It’s hard not to expect it from other people too.
God knows, I’ve been telling myself enough recently that I’m a fucking idiot.
I don’t think I could cope if Lizzie chimed in too.
She bites her lower lip, tugs down the sleeves on her coat to cover up the gold Hermes bracelet on her right arm and the Cartier watch on her left, and paces back and forth across the tiny room, careful not to stand on any debris that’s scattered across the threadbare carpet.
She pauses, and for a moment, I think she might have had an idea that will solve all my issues, but then she says, “God, this place stinks. Someone downstairs is frying onions.” She waves her hand in front of her nose. “And it smells damp in here. Like mildew. It’s probably making you sick.”
I sniff, but I must be used to the stench because I can’t smell it. So much for the hope that the place smelled like clean washing.
She stalks across to the kitchen table, where my laptop is set up. The screen is cracked—another victim of Dad’s tantrum—but it’s still usable. “This is where you’re working?”
An uncomfortable heat is burning through my body, making my skin feel tight. “Yes.”
She sinks into a chair, throwing me a look that’s more exasperation than pity this time. “Diana—”
“Don’t say it,” I mutter.
Her lips purse. “Say what?”
“Don’t tell me I could be married to Seb Hawkston and living in luxury right now. Please don’t say it. That’s what Dad said.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not what I was going to say.” But she doesn’t explain, and the pressure of our mutual silence is almost too much. I’m on the verge of tears when she says, “Come and live with me.”
I blink. “Live with you? No. I can’t. I paid the rent for—”
“I can’t leave you here. Who even knows this is where you’re living? Who did you tell?”
“Sylvie.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “That’s it? Your sister? No one else?”
I gesture helplessly to my surroundings, and it hits me that I’m ashamed of what’s happened. That I chose this. That I refused to marry the man my father picked, and this is where I’ve ended up. I don’t want Dad to be right. I don’t want to have done everything wrong.
I don’t want marrying a man who’d never love me to look like the no-brainer decision. I don’t want to look like an idiot for not choosing that option. So I didn’t tell anyone. “No one,” I admit.
Lizzie shivers and pulls her coat tighter. “Do you even have heating?”
“It’s only October,” I say weakly.
“Mid-October,” she corrects. “Nearly November. There'll be frost on the ground in no time. It’s going to get cold.” She presses her palm to her forehead. “Oh, my God. You’re going to die here. You’re going to die at the end of the tube map.”
“That’s a bit dramatic. It’s not the end of the world. I’m not going to drop off the edge and fall to oblivion.”
She points at me. “Not funny. You’re spiralling. I can see it. You have to come with me. I’ll cover any rent that you owe. I’ll cover everything.”
“God, no. I’d feel so uncomfortable accepting something so generous.
” Even talking about it makes me fidgety.
I lift my pasta bowl from the table, aggressively scrape the half-eaten food into the bin, and put the dish in the sink before turning back to face my friend.
“It’s so kind of you, but I really can’t accept it.
I need to get this business off the ground—”
“You can’t do that here.”
“Of course I can. People set up businesses in worse places.”
“Okay. But do princesses who were engaged to marry a billionaire last month and who’ve lived off Daddy’s money their entire lives do it in places like this?”
I drop into a chair opposite her. It creaks beneath me. “I’m not a princess.”
She laughs, but it’s soft and indulgent. “You are. I bet you’re missing regular manicures.” She tosses a glance at my unpainted, short-trimmed nails.
I slip my hands into my pockets. “I could totally tough it out here. I’m all good. I’m thriving. I’m—”
“How’s the business going?”
My bravado falters. “The internet is shit—it keeps dropping out—the cracked laptop isn’t working properly, and I keep losing work.” I groan. “It’s a fucking nightmare.”
She reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine. “Come and stay with me. It doesn’t have to be permanent, but it’ll be comfortable. It won’t smell of fried onions. And the internet is fast.”
I pause, narrowing my gaze at her. “How fast?”
“The fastest.” She waggles her eyebrows like she knows she’s close to breaking my resistance. I’ve always been a whore for fast broadband.
“Where do you live?” I ask, realising I have no idea, other than she’s somewhere in Knightsbridge.
“The Emblem.”
I quirk my head to the side. “As in that fancy new building overlooking Hyde Park?”
“Yeah.”
I blow out a low whistle. “Nice.”
“I’m in the penthouse,” she says, giving me a coy smile.
“Wow.” I remember Seb once mentioning that he’d looked at the Emblem, where the average flat sells for fifty million. I knew Lizzie was rich, given her clothes and jewellery, but I didn’t know she was Emblem-penthouse-rich. “I really couldn’t—”
“Come on. Where else are you going to go? You don’t have to do everything alone.
You can ask for help. Accept help. And this will let you save money and give you time to think about how you’re going to get your social media stuff back off the ground.
There must be a way to do that without your dad messing it all up again. ”
“Maybe,” I say, but it sounds hopeless.
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Let me help you. It’s not too much, and I don’t mind. I want to help. I want—”
Her phone rings, shrilly playing from her bag, which is still tucked under her arm.
“Shit,” she mutters, pulling her phone out.
“It’s my dad. I’m still interning at his office.
Told him I was only nipping out for lunch, and then told his driver to whizz me over here instead.
” She glances at her watch and stands. “I need to go. You’ll come tomorrow?
Drop call me on your new number, and I’ll message you the details. ”
For a second, I consider saying no, but Lizzie is staring at me so eagerly, smiling so kindly, that I allow the gratitude to flood in.
I’m so lucky to have a friend like this, who won’t take no for an answer until I accept her help.
I can’t hide my relief; my upper body sags and my mouth splits into a wide grin.
“Yes, I’ll come. Thank you. Thank you so, so much. ”
She gives me a one-armed hug, her lips dusting my cheek briefly before she pulls away and answers her father’s call.
“Dad, hey,” she says with what sounds like genuine enthusiasm. My insides cramp at the cheer in her voice, and my smile vanishes.
What must it be like to feel happy when speaking to your father? Not to be filled with such trepidation at the mere idea of hearing his voice on the other end of the line, let alone what he might actually say when he speaks, that you have to change your phone number to avoid it?
I have absolutely no clue.