Chapter 71 Summer
SEVENTY-ONE
SUMMER
“Oh God,” Lulu says as she pushes into my messy bedroom on Saturday night. “This is worse than I thought.”
“Wha,” I mumble around a mouthful of pearl-tipped pins. I’m hunched on my floor in my dressing gown, surrounded by piles of clothes and half-empty energy drinks. In my lap is my latest creation.
It’s a dress. You could call it an 18+ princess dress. Sleeping Beauty in her clubbing era. The skirt is a scandalously short burst of pink tulle, and the tight silk bodice is laced down the back with pink ribbons. The whole thing glimmers under my bedroom lights. I absolutely adore it.
And it’s finally finished.
“Can you pass my scissors?” I ask.
Lulu removes my dress from my lap, carefully laying it on my armchair, then hauls me to my feet.
“No. Listen, you know I support your random bouts of hyperfixation, and that dress is gorge—but you need to move. We’re going to be late to your own party.
” She leans in and sniffs me. “Good. You’re showered, at least.”
I blink a lot. “Oh. Yeah. The party.” I glance at the clock.
Tonight is my five-million-follower party. Lulu was right, as per usual. I’m due to hit the milestone at about midnight. I was halfway through getting ready for the club when I got distracted by my almost-finished dress. I sat down to make one little adjustment and lost track of time. Oops.
“Sit, sit, I can do it.” Lulu shoves me over to my dressing table and picks up my concealer. “Are you okay? You’re all pale.”
“Haven’t been sleeping much,” I mutter as she starts applying my makeup at lightning speed. It’s hard to sleep alone these days. I’m so used to sharing a bed with multiple warm bodies.
I’ve been back in London for four days now. I miss the guys so much it physically hurts.
I miss Fraser’s massive bear hugs. Cameron’s grumpy grunts. Alec’s cool voice. I miss feeling warm and safe and happy and wanted. It’s more than a broken heart. I feel homesick. I miss open skies and fresh air and swimming in lochs and food from the earth.
But this is my home. This is where I belong. Not Lochview. Not with them. Ever since I got back, my phone has been constantly ringing with offers and messages. I’ve been inundated with PR packages. Everyone wants to hop on the #SadGirlGlam trend.
I’ve ignored it all and spent almost every minute sewing. Making my dress is the only thing that’s kept me sane. I’m too scared to post right now, so I’ve buried my head in fabric samples instead.
Lulu finishes my mascara and leans back, assessing my face. She looks as gorgeous as ever in a gold minidress, bangles jangling up her arms and mini jhumkas tinkling at her earlobes.
“Good enough,” she declares. “Dress time. You’re going to die.” She hops over the piles of mess on the floor and picks up the garment bag she’s laid on the bed, unzipping it. “Do you love?”
I stare at it. It’s a tiny black dress. Strapless. Skintight. And completely translucent. People will be able to see everything.
“Er,” I try. “It’s not really my style? I’m really into, um, opaque clothes at the moment.”
“It’s your new style,” she says cheerily.
“I’ve done your eyes all dramatic and smudgy, and paired with this, it will be very sad girl glam.
Silver Louboutins, please.” She considers me, tilting her head.
“Okay. We don’t have a lot of time, but before we leave—do you want to tell me why you look like a tragic little ghost girl? ”
“What?”
She narrows her eyes. “You’ve been miserable ever since you got back.
You’re refusing to let me post for you. You’re hiding in your room eating exclusively chicken nuggets.
I’ve been trying to give you space, I know you sometimes need a few days locked up alone, but it’s been long enough.
You are eventually going to have to talk to me.
” Her glossed lips turn down. “It’s those men, isn’t it? You miss them.”
I examine my reflection in the mirror. The day after I got home, I gave Lulu a brief summary of my time up at Lochview while she helped me unpack.
She was utterly unfazed that I slept with three men simultaneously.
Just nodded understandingly and said, “Holiday foursome. Yeah. Of course. We’ve all done it. ”
I may have skimmed over some details. I didn’t go into just how deeply I ended up caring for the men. I don’t have the energy. And what is there to say, really? It’s over. I’m back in London, and I’ll never see them again. So.
“I’m fine,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Nice try. Try again.” She crosses her arms. “It was a big deal, wasn’t it? Those guys weren’t just a holiday thing. You really liked them.”
“If I talk about this before the party, I might cry in public again,” I admit.
Lulu nods, business-like. “Fair enough. But we’re talking about it tomorrow.
You’re my friend, Summer. Let me help you.
” She glances at her phone and pulls a face.
“Ugh, the Uber driver’s texting me to hurry up.
I’m going to go flirt with him before he gives up on us and leaves.
Get dressed and meet me in the car, yeah?
” She jangles out of the room, letting the door click shut behind her.
I sigh, picking up the dress. The fabric is shiny and stretchy. I already know it will feel disgusting to wear, clinging to my stomach and riding up all night.
I lift my gaze, looking at the pink dress spread across my armchair.
Ten minutes later, Lulu blinks at me as I slip into the back of the Uber next to her. “Err,” she says. “Hi, Glinda the Good Witch? What’s going on?”
I smooth down the fluffy skirt of my dress. The silky slip is soft against my skin. I feel pretty. “Do you like it?”
“I mean, it’s gorgeous,” she says, reaching over to play with my skirt. “You’re like a hot ballerina fairy.”
“Thank you, that’s what I was going for!”
She frowns. “But I don’t think it really matches the theme, babe. Hardly sad girl glam. Bit too pink for that.”
“I don’t care,” I decide. “I want to wear it.”
Her red lips purse. “Seriously,” she says. “I know what I’m doing. You should wear the dress I got you.”
“Thank you,” I say honestly. “But I really want to wear this.”
“But—”
“Am I contracted to wear the other dress?”
“No, but—”
“Then I’m wearing this. I don’t care if it doesn’t match the theme. Shall we go?”
Lulu stares at me for a few seconds, her gold-rimmed brown eyes wide. “You know what? Fair enough.” She turns to the Uber driver. “Have your fairy princess moment. Let’s hit it, Ned!”
An hour later, I stand frozen in the club, my hands fisted in my skirt.
This was a bad idea.
Lulu has outdone herself. The underground club she booked is massive.
The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors that reflect the white strobes flickering from the ceiling.
Giant balloons full of confetti bounce over the crowd.
Champagne towers stand precariously in the crowd.
Above the DJ booth, a live feed of my follower count is currently being projected across the wall.
And the place is rammed. It seems like every major influencer in the city is here, dancing and drinking. I recognise beauty gurus. Lifestyle vloggers. Socialites. I don’t think there’s a single person in the club who doesn’t have their phone out.
And I. Can’t. Stand. It.
I hate it. I hate it.
The music is too loud. The strobing lights are too bright as they reflect off the walls and scatter. The air is so thick with dry ice that I can’t breathe.
Worst of all: people won’t leave me alone. I stand awkwardly in the corner, people crowding around me, jabbering, taking pictures.
“Summer, remember me? We met at Adam’s drinks last year—”
“Summer, I love the dress, where is it from!”
“Summer, take a pic with me!”
“Let’s take a selfie!”
“Say hi to my followers!”
I know I should mingle. I should smile and take pictures and make people like me. I try and try and try to dig deep inside me, to bring out that old sparkle that I used to be able to turn on on demand. But I just can’t. I don’t have the energy.
“Summer!” Suddenly Lulu is at my side, shoving a shot glass at me. “Here, have a drink.” She unlocks her phone and snaps a pic of us.
I push the shot back at her. “I shouldn’t.” Drinking would be a bad idea right now.
“Fair enough.” Lulu slams the shot, then loops her arm through mine.
A phone camera flashes, and she points at it.
“Tag me, I’m @BengaliBarbie!” She yells, tugging at me.
“Okay, come with meeee, I have someone you need to meet.” She drags me to a corner of the club, where a woman in a blazer is standing next to a champagne tower.
“Stephanie!” Lulu sings. “I have her for you.”
The woman turns, and my stomach drops as I realise who she is.
Stephanie Song, the owner of Icons Only.
Shit.