51. 51
In the hours since Ben and Harry had arrived at my hotel room, I cycled through phases of denial, disbelief, anger, and finally, complete and utter despair.
I was currently in the latter as I sat in front of the hotel TV and watched my reputation get blown to pieces, broadcast on what seemed like every television channel in the country.
The media coverage of the story had grown rapidly, and it felt so large and insurmountable that I wasn’t sure which way was up.
Ben advised me to turn off my phone, which provided at least a sliver of relief.
He told me it was so that we could try and contain the story, but I was selfishly glad as it saved me from having to talk to anyone.
I had been one half of the whole scheme, and yet I didn’t know what to say.
I didn’t have the energy to explain how it was a setup that became so much more.
There was one call I did make: to Blair. She was the closest thing to family I had on this side of the world, and while I was embarrassed that I had to call her in a desperate time of need for the second time in a matter of months, I knew she would know what to do.
She asked no questions, made no comments or condemnations. She simply sprang into action and called a car to pick me up at my hotel. It would bring me to Hunter’s family’s country house outside the city.
Harry helped me pack my bags as Ben rolled calls on his phone, taking over coordinating my departure from the hotel. They were quite the dynamic duo, shuffling me along and keeping me moving, especially in the moments when the walls pressed in, and I felt on the cusp of completely breaking down.
And then, just as quickly as they had arrived, it was time to leave.
I stood in the middle of the hotel room and took a moment to be still.
I knew that once I left this room, I would be on the run.
I was now essentially a reality television fugitive.
I would have found it quite funny if I hadn’t felt so sad.
My breath caught in my throat as a wave of emotion threatened to crash in on me.
Exhaling slowly, I swallowed it all down.
I’d have to defer my break down just a bit longer. Right now, I had to keep moving.
It had only been a matter of hours since the story broke but already a throng of photographers were camped in front of the hotel, so we went down the elevator to the service entrance and out the back to the waiting car.
Once upon a time, I might have thought this was all so exciting, running from paparazzi and sneaking out back doors.
Now that it was my stark reality, it was decidedly less amusing.
The alleyway behind the hotel was mercifully empty but I didn’t want to push it by lingering for too long, so we all hurried to the car, Ben tossing my suitcase in the trunk and Harry throwing open the door for me. Looking between the two of them, I paused before getting in.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I turned to Harry, tears in my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
The full force of what I had done, of the deception Callum and I partook in, hit me as I stood there. Harry had been kind to me, had helped me out time and time again, and was a beacon of support from the moment I met him.
I lied to the public, yes, but worse, I had lied to my friends.
“For what it’s worth, I didn’t think it was fake,” he said, giving me a knowing raise of his eyebrow.
All I could do was shake my head. I was feeling too raw and something about the way Harry was speaking in the past tense threatened to send me over the edge I was already precariously teetering on.
“We’ll talk soon,” Harry said, pulling away to tuck me into the car.
I nodded and climbed in, leaning my head back against the dark leather headrest. He shut the door and then I was alone, enveloped in the quiet of the car.
The driver nodded at me before pulling out of the alleyway and snaking into London traffic, unnoticed.
As we wove through the city, I finally let my mind drift to the one thing I had tried so hard to shut out since the news broke: Callum. I wondered what he was thinking, how he felt about our secret being out there for the world to know. If he were as upset as I was.
I couldn’t reach out to him even if I wanted to, I realized with a jolt. Despite everything we had gone through, I didn’t even have his number.
***
I arrived in the country and proceeded to spend the next few days alternating between crying, sleeping, and turning my phone on, only to turn it right back off.
My parents were the only people I talked to. They were confused as to why British journalists had been calling at all hours of the night when the show had already finished filming. They were even more confused when I told them what I had done.
“But the way you two looked at each other,” my mom cooed over the phone. “I don’t think that was fake.”
“It was, Mom.”
Despite my denials, every time I talked to her, she found some way to tell me she thought Callum and I belonged together.
I resolutely ignored it.
Instead, I told her everything was fine, and that it really was no big deal. That Callum and I were only ever friends and that it was just an act. I lied and lied and lied, hoping that maybe, at some point, I would believe it myself.
The unavoidable truth was that Callum hurt me; the words he said in the green room crushing the pieces of myself I had only just put back together.
The disappointment of losing him, of him choosing to walk away from something that had been so good, was overwhelming, and despite my best efforts to ignore it all and bury it deep down inside of me, it lingered, weighing heavy on my heart.
I had a moment of weakness, just once, a few days into my self-imposed exile.
There had been a lovely bottle of Cabernet in the back of the pantry that I cracked open, and after just one glass I turned on my phone, messaged Ben, and was sent Callum’s number in a matter of seconds.
I stared at it, nervous to call yet desperate to talk to him.
Despite our ending, I still cared for him.
I hit send, waited a moment, and then listened as the call immediately went to voicemail.
Setting the phone down, I let out a breath.
That’s enough.
If he didn’t want to talk to me, especially in the middle of this shit storm, then I had to let it go.
I had to move on.
Hunter’s family home was a quaint cottage in the very charming town of Chipping Campden, where the average age hovered around seventy years old.
The house was well-stocked with books and old magazines left behind on previous trips, but I was too fidgety to sit still and read or focus on anything for more than a few seconds, so I spent most of my time lying on the couch, trying to make sense of England’s daytime soap operas.
It did not help me feel better.
By day four of my time in the country, I had finally grown sick of being holed up inside. The idea of another day dozing off on the couch sounded too sad even for me, so I stepped outside and did the only there was to do in a remote village.
I went on a walk.
I walked along roads and through fields, across the large swaths of green, rolling land that stretched out and away from the town.
I went all over and then, on the third day of walking, I ventured into the village.
I was hesitant to encounter anyone, as I didn’t want to burst the bubble of peace I was currently living in, but the kind lady working at the small, local coffee shop didn’t bat an eye at me when I walked up to the counter and ordered a latte.
Whether she really didn’t recognize me or she was just too polite to say anything, I didn’t care.
I went back to the cafe every day after that, sometimes even twice a day.
***
It had been just over a week’s time since the news of my fake relationship broke.
Nine days, to be exact, that had felt like both an eternity and a few seconds.
I had managed to hide myself away from the network and the press and the prying eyes of the British public and was finally starting to feel some semblance of better.
I should have known that soon enough my time hiding would be up.
On Friday morning, there was a knock at the door of the cottage. It scared the daylights out of me, as I hadn’t been expecting anyone. No one except for Blair, Ben, and Harry even knew where I was.
Maybe it was just a neighbor saying “hello” or wanting to borrow a cup of sugar or something cute and domestic that happened in little villages like this one.
Cracking the door open, I was not met with a neighbor.
Instead, standing on the doorstep, clad in all black with large, round-framed sunglasses covering her eyes was Cecilia. Executive Producer of Bella Amore, Cecilia.
I stared at her without saying anything, without moving to open the door farther or invite her in. I couldn’t quite believe she was actually here. That she had found me.
“Not expecting anyone, were you?” she said, a faint smile pulling at her lips.
“I . . . ” But I didn’t know what to say. What was there when I had essentially defrauded the entire show she had built from the ground up?
She seemed to be enjoying just how stumped I was because she laughed and pushed her glasses up on her head, looking me in the eyes.
“Let’s go get a coffee, shall we?” she asked.
I was still trying to make sense of how she was even here, so I let instinct guide me and nodded my head. I pulled on the shoes I had left by the door and stepped outside to meet her.
We were silent as we walked down the country lane and toward the main road that led into town. A black Range Rover was parked on the side of the street, clearly Cecilia’s, but except for that we encountered no one.
I wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure why she would have made the trip all the way out here. Was I going to be in trouble? Everything was done; all the information was out there. What could they do? Sue me?