Chapter 13
Elle
The offensive sound of my doorbell ringing in one long, continuous buzz has me ripping off my eye mask and padding through my hallway, half blind from the head rush I got from getting out of bed so quickly. I’ve only been back from the US seventy-two hours, and I’m still a bit jet lagged.
I crank open the bolts on the front door. It’s Mara, looking immaculate, her biker helmet under one arm and a cup carrier with two Starbucks cups in the other.
‘It’s seven in the morning. This had better be good.’
I turn grumpily and lead her back down the hall.
‘Have you checked your phone yet?’ Her voice has an unusually nervous edge to it.
‘Uh, no, because you just woke me up.’
‘Good.’ I think she means sorry.
I flop on the sofa and cross my arms as huffily as I can over my camisole. Mara’s not the hysterical type, so a crack-of-dawn visit from her is very out of character.
‘Where’s your phone?’
‘On my bedside table. Why?’
She exhales. ‘Leave it there. And listen to me. I don’t want you to jump to any conclusions. But there’s something you need to see. Here. Have a coffee.’
‘Okay…’ I take the cup she offers.
‘It’s’—she clears her throat—‘following on from the T-shirt stuff.’
Of course it is. To say the press has gone crazy over Josh’s Instagram photos of us wearing I [heart] JL T-shirts is an understatement.
The speculation that an engagement announcement is imminent has reached fever-pitch, as has the heated debate over whether it’s anti-feminist of me to wear my heart on my sleeve (or my boobs) so openly without Josh reciprocating. It’s frankly ridiculous.
I roll my eyes. ‘I can’t imagine what they’re saying that could warrant you showing up here at 7am.’
‘It’s something Josh said.’ Mara takes a slug of her coffee and looks straight at me. ‘In response to Gordon Kay.’
Gordon Kay is the British version of Jimmy Kimmel or Jimmy Fallon.
He’s the biggest, longest-standing chat show host on this side of the Atlantic.
He’s Scottish, and irreverent, and very funny.
It’s no wonder he gets the biggest names on his sofa.
I’ve been trying to avoid T-shirt-gate, but I’m aware he’s been ribbing both of us on Twitter.
‘What’s he said?’
She picks up her phone and scrolls. ‘This. Remember, babe, we have no context, okay? But you need to get hold of Josh ASAP.’
I take her phone. Gordon has retweeted some stupid meme of Josh and me in our T-shirts and tagged Josh in it.
No big deal.
But Josh’s response is a big deal.
I blink.
I look up at Mara, because I can’t take it in.
Is this a joke?
He’s written: Dude. Elle and I aren’t together anymore.
My peripheral vision goes black.
My world narrows to pin-points.
I’m vaguely aware of Mara kneeling in front of me and taking my coffee cup out of my hand.
And then I have a lightbulb moment. ‘He’s been hacked. He must have been. Hasn’t he?’
‘Could be,’ she says carefully. ‘It’s one explanation.’
‘Josh would never write that!’
‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’
I think. ‘He WhatsApped me yesterday lunchtime. Morning, his time.’
‘Did he seem okay?’
‘Yeah—he said he was fine. Hungover. He stayed on at his parent’s house for a few days with his friends. I think they’ve been partying hard. But he was normal. Sweet.’
I look through the activity on Josh’s account, my heart sinking and twisting as I do.
He sent some tweets before the reply to Gordon Kay that all seemed genuine.
The reply is the most recent tweet on his timeline.
Since then, nothing, even though the Twittersphere has blown up over it while I’ve been asleep.
Mara pulls her phone out of my hand.
‘Don’t look at it. But go get your phone. See if he messaged you overnight.’
I stumble to my room. I leave my phone on overnight because occasionally Josh drunk-dials me to tell me how much he misses me, and even if he wakes me up, I never want to miss those calls.
There’s nothing from him. I check WhatsApp. He was last seen around six o’clock yesterday evening. That would be lunchtime Eastern time.
Where the hell has he got to?
And what in God’s name does that tweet mean?
Because I know Josh. I know how he feels; I know he’s in as deep as I am. And I believe, with every fibre of my being, that not only is he nowhere close to ending our relationship, but he would never do it on Twitter. Ever.
Mara’s looking at me with far more compassion and worry than is ever comfortable for her.
‘Nothing.’
‘No.’ My voice is tiny.
‘Call him.’
‘But it’s 2am there!’
‘I don’t give a flying fuck. Call. Him.’
I don’t have to be told twice. My stomach is flip-flopping like mad.
I need to hear Josh’s voice. I don’t care what Twitter thinks; I don’t care about damage control on social media—I just want to hear him tell me he was hacked, or that one of his idiot friends thought it would be funny to grab his phone and stir up trouble. This has Brandon written all over it.
I cling to this thought as the call tries to connect. But it goes straight to voicemail. At the sound of Josh’s gorgeous, sexy, warm voice, my doubts kick in. There’s no way he could be ending it. Could he?
‘Hi.’ My voice sounds so trembly. I clear my throat. ‘It’s me. I just… well, I just saw that tweet from you to Gordon Kay and I was wondering, maybe, if you’ve been hacked, or something? It’s freaked me out a bit, that’s all. Call me when you get this. I—bye.’
‘I’m calling Mike.’ Mara picks up her phone. Mike Schultz is Josh’s publicist. He and Mara exchanged numbers in Cannes so they could coordinate on messaging around my and Josh’s relationship. He’s based on the West Coast, so hopefully he hasn’t gone to bed yet.
She gives me a thumbs-up. ‘Mike. It’s Mara. What the fuck is going on over there?’
‘Put him on speaker.’
‘Hang on. I’m putting you on speaker. I have Elle here with me—she’s losing her mind.’
I must be losing my mind, because I don’t even cringe at how uncool she makes me sound.
‘Talk. What do you know?’
‘I have no fucking clue.’ His voice comes through, gravelly but clear. ‘I haven’t been able to get hold of him since the tweet went live.’
‘What? Do you have access to his Twitter account—can you delete the tweet?’
A sigh. ‘No. He does it all himself. And even if I could, the damage is done. I have no clue why he wrote that. He certainly hasn’t mentioned anything to me, Elle, if that makes you feel better.’
‘When did you last speak to him?’ I venture.
‘We’ve exchanged a few messages over the past couple days, mainly about your… cutesy shirt situation and how to field incomings on it, but I haven’t spoken to him properly since before the holiday weekend. We’ve both been taking some time to be with family.’
‘Can you get hold of Greer?’ Mara barks. ‘Do you have a landline for them, even?’
‘I’ve tried. She’s not answering and their landline is disconnected.’
‘Holy fuck. This is a fucking nightmare.’ Mara swipes her hand over her face and pinches the bridge of her nose. ‘Call me as soon as you get hold of one of them. Any time. Just call.’
She disconnects without letting Mike say goodbye and throws her phone on the sofa in frustration.
I stand, slumped, the reality of my situation kicking in.
I feel helpless—so helpless I’m tempted to get a cab straight to Heathrow and jump on the first flight to Maryland.
Go bang on his door and beg him to tell me what the heck is going on.
Because if I think about Occam’s Razor right now—the theory that the most obvious solution is likely to be the correct one—then Josh Lander has just dumped me. On Twitter.