Chapter 5
BETRAYAL. Also drinks with James et al.
Stefanos. Corfu.
The diary helps me keep tab on what’s coming up, my work plans, and also a record of what’s happened.
And remembering Stefanos, dancing around the raw feelings about Aidan, is an infinitely happier daydream than my reality.
Yet it feels important to remember meeting Stefanos.
James can do something right, too, after all, by intending to make the introduction.
If there’s hope for James, maybe there’s hope for me too.
I settle into an afternoon of editing content for my social media platforms, including photos, videos, and captions for the days ahead.
No matter that some people think I’m a layabout and party boy.
I’ll take the latter, but I’m actually quite busy with work as well as frolic, which doesn’t get nearly as much coverage in the press.
When I lift my head, I’ve made a checklist for Monday for upcoming styling gigs, such as Earl MacBride’s fiftieth birthday party later this month and decorating Kelsey Sinclair’s new Belgravia flat this spring.
A luxury brand has reached out to me to quote on an upcoming in-store event and campaign styling for that too.
Most of my income comes through my work, though I receive a modest family stipend too.
I cap my fountain pen and lean back in my chair with a sigh.
By this point, I’ve been through the pot of tea and a pitcher of water with lemon slices to rehydrate.
Given there’re nights out with drinks more often than not, the hangover’s familiar and feasible.
Being out and seen is partly how I land my work, and hosting parties.
Although my twenty-seventh birthday last year was a nonevent after Father died in July.
And personal parties have been thin on the ground since then.
The only silver lining to everything last year was meeting Aidan, who helped me through the height of my grief.
And then there’s the present.
I wince at the earful Freja’s bound to give me, both as my sister and our new Queen. Our English mother married into the Royal Family, and she remains a queen herself, but not ruling like my father. Between Mamma’s influence and boarding school in the UK, I sound far more English than Danish.
When I head out to meet Ethan, I’m in a wool shirt and coordinating trousers, Chelsea boots, and my overcoat with a mohair scarf in blue, white, and yellow tartan.
His studio is in a mews house, tucked away in a secret nook of London that once used to be stables and is now the center of our design business.
I rap on the door, and he unlocks it a couple of moments later.
Ethan brightens when he sees me, giving me a hug and a sympathetic tut too. We straighten. He’s wearing a gray pullover with black jeans, about my height, a solid six feet tall. “Too bad about Aidan.”
I hold up my hand. “Save that for drinks. Show me the swatches.”
On the broad island in the middle of the showroom, wool fabric swatches and paint samples are laid out in pairings. We look over them together, sorting through our favorites and deciding which fabrics would work best together. Together, we look at our mood board and make notes.
Once we’re done, we move upstairs to Ethan’s flat, where he pours us sparkling wine, and we sit. “Okay. What’s happened now?”
I groan. “Must we?”
“We must,” Ethan declares with certainty, clinking his glass with mine. Then he starts setting out some nibbles, cheese and crackers, and grapes. “Because last I heard, you were mooning over Aidan.”
I’m quiet for a moment, debating my approach. “He cancelled me.”
“Evidently.” Ethan waits, peering at me beneath chestnut-brown hair. He tilts his head, leaning back against a kitchen counter as I sit perched on one of the barstools at his small table at the end of the kitchen. “The press, you might’ve noticed, is lapping this up.”
I groan again, raking a hand through my hair. “Yeah. Shame.”
“You know what they say. Bad publicity is good publicity.”
“Not when your sister’s the new Queen. If this gets out back home, she’ll murder me.”
“We’ll figure out damage control. But what I want to know is what got you here.”
“A cascade of miserable life choices and regrets?”
He gives me a level look, sipping his wine. “Go on.”
I sigh, shoulders slumping, leaning back into the wall. “I thought things were going well. You know, six-month-anniversary date night and all that.”
“Yeah. I remember. And?”
“And… I don’t know, he got cold feet?” I tug at my collar, unfastening a button. Better. “Commitment-phobe.”
“Could be.”
“You have the old, what did you do this time, Theodor face on. I know it. Apparently, I took my relationship out back and shot it in cold blood.”
“How? He must have said something before this.”
“I don’t know. He thought I was out too much, flirting with other men. That he didn’t think I was serious enough. I mean, I can’t have a personality transplant, as helpful as that might be,” I complain vigorously.
The truth is, I loved Aidan. If only I had told Aidan I loved him, this probably wouldn’t have happened. Maybe.
Ethan nods, watching me. “And what happened last night? I saw you on Instagram, nose to nose with Prince Stefanos of Greece on a sticky club floor.”
“I don’t know if it was sticky…” I try, squirming.
It’s hard to dispute the nose-to-nose bit, which evidently has been immortalized on social media too.
Just wait till the pap dig their teeth into that one and gnaw that down to the bone.
“Date night was cancelled yesterday since Aidan dumped me by text. So, I went out with friends instead.”
“Right.” Ethan looks startled, downing some more wine. He reaches for the cheese, cutting a few more slices. He puts an olive wood cutting board between us, laden with charcuterie offerings. “So the breakup was before Prince Stefanos. Not because of.”
“No! God no!” Alarmed, I straighten fully. “Is that what you think? Give me some credit.”
“It matters less what I think and more like what the press and socials think. And popular media with footage from your club night is not going with your narrative, but that you had an affair with Stefanos.”
“What? Fuck me.” I groan, running a hand through my hair again. “I’m done for. How did they spin that bullshit so quickly?”
“Cheer up, mate. At least you weren’t caught shagging sheep.” Ethan’s grin is irrepressible.
“They’ll deepfake that for next week’s episode,” I say darkly as he laughs.
We set into demolishing the spread of food, sharing the bottle of wine. His golden retriever pads into the room and flops on the floor between us on the tiles.
“It’ll pass, Theo. But maybe you need to think more on what happened.”
“Yeah, and I can give myself a lobotomy, too, while I’m at it.”
“Seriously.”
“What part of me doesn’t seem serious about the lobotomy?”
He shifts the board closer to me. “Eat something. And we can order in a curry.”
We do. And I’ll leave further reflections about Aidan and our relationship for the dead of night when I can’t sleep.