16. ELLY
16
ELLY
D rinking an entire bottle of wine by oneself is never a good idea, even if it is to numb the pain of having crashed and burned at the biggest career opportunity of one's life.
I vow that it will never happen again. Neither the wine nor the running away. I can’t keep fucking things up for myself. I can’t bear to think about the Granville Agency or Robert Lloyd, and I’m almost thankful for the hangover that’s bursting my skull like a thousand tiny men are in there battering sledgehammers against my brain, because it means I can avoid thinking about everything that happened yesterday.
I’d rather throw up my insides than replay that shitshow in my mind.
I have no idea how I got myself to bed, and I have weird blurry memories of Jack making food for me. And him lying in bed with me, but that must have been a dream because I woke up alone. He must have sent the housekeeper into my room at some point too because it was unusually tidy when I sobered up enough to notice.
I apologised about drinking his wine this morning, but he didn’t seem bothered and made some joke about my expensive hangover. He was a little weird and awkward about it though, which is unusual for Jack, so I figure I need to at least try to replace it.
When I googled the wine, I nearly wet myself. It costs over thirty thousand pounds. Crazy . I’m eaten up with guilt over it. I can’t afford to replace it, but I figure I have to do something to pay him back, so I’m at the supermarket, searching for ingredients to cook a feast that says, ‘sorry I helped myself to your extremely fine wine and nearly threw it all back up again’.
When I have everything I need, I head to the wine aisle. Ugh, I don’t even want to think of alcohol today, let alone peruse the offerings, but I’ll stomach it for Jack.
I’m inspecting the bottles, searching for a replacement, when I become aware that someone is approaching me with more direct purpose than is usual in the supermarket.
I look up to find Lydia Archer striding towards me, and my stomach does a nervous flap. What is she doing here?
Blind panic races through me, and in my head I can hear the words red flag red flag red flag over and over again.
Did she follow me in here?
No. That would be weird. A little crazy. It’s got to be a coincidence.
Other shoppers turn to watch her as she passes them in the aisle. She’s tall and beautiful— intimidatingly so —with that long dark hair flowing down her back and heavy eye makeup. She’s wearing a pale silk shirt and loose navy suit trousers beneath a long coat. She has a Kate Middleton look about her.
“I thought that was you,” she says, not sounding entirely friendly. “The waitress.”
“Elly,” I correct. My voice sounds dead.
She stands right next to me, surveying the wines as though they’re what she came in for, but she has neither a trolley nor a basket. Maybe she really did come in here just for me. A shiver trips down my spine at the thought.
“What are you looking for?” Lydia asks.
I don’t really want to talk to her, but I don’t know what else to do. “I drank a bottle of Jack’s red. I want to replace it.”
She picks one off the shelf, inspects the label, and replaces it. “What was it?”
“Domaine Leroy something.”
She barks a laugh, sneering as she turns to me. “You thought you’d find something like that in the supermarket?”
My stomach drops. I might not be a connoisseur, but I have Google and a phone, and I know damn well that I’m not going to find a bottle of Domaine Leroy at Tesco. But I can’t afford to buy one anywhere , so this was the next best thing. It’s the thought that counts, right?
Lydia’s thick eyelashes flutter on an eye roll, and the condescension in her expression makes me grind my teeth. “Clearly, you have no idea what you’re doing.” She runs her finger along the row of red wines before settling on one of the more expensive ones and tapping the label with a perfectly painted crimson nail. “This is the best you’ll get in here.”
She lifts it from the shelf and hands it to me. I take it from her, but I have no intention of buying it. I’m not going to let her make me feel like an idiot.
“No, thanks.” I slot the wine back in its place. “I’m cooking dinner for Jack tonight, so I’m going to choose something to pair with it.”
It’s barely perceptible, but I don’t miss the way her body tightens as she straightens up.
She gives me a look that sinks to my bones, all dark and cold, and before I can wonder what she’s doing, she leans so close that for a second I think she means to kiss me, but she shifts her mouth to the side and presses it against the shell of my ear. Her voice is full of quiet vitriol when she whispers, “Keep your hands off Jack Lansen. Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Him.”
It’s as if someone opened a trapdoor, and my insides tumbled out.
Did she really say that?
My mind spins as I try to work out what’s happening. I freeze, and Lydia steps away, smugness twisting her lips as if she’s pleased by my reaction. Thrilled that she’s shocked me into stillness.
Before I’ve gathered my senses, Lydia turns and strolls towards the exit without picking up a single item to buy.
My heart is beating in every cell of my body, thumping through me, and the shock turns to anger. How dare she lay claim to him like that? Who the hell does she think she is? Just because her face was on one of Mrs Lansen’s cards, it doesn’t give her the right to order me about.
I spring into motion, pacing after her, my basket banging against my hip. “Hey, Lydia.” She turns, surprise etching her face at the sight of me fast-walking in her direction. “You don’t make the rules.” My voice sounds far off, as though the angry tone belongs to someone else.
She casts me that condescending look again. “Maybe not. But I’d advise you to follow them.”
With a final sneer in my direction, she turns and leaves, and I feel remarkably foolish, standing in the middle of the supermarket, breathing heavily as though I’ve just been attacked.
But haven’t I?
I take a few moments to resettle my breathing. It’s okay. I’m okay. What could Lydia possibly do to me?
And how dare she tell me what to do?
She can’t. I will damn well touch Jack Lansen if I want to . The thought brings with it a wave of inspiration, and I decide right then and there what my next move is in this game I’m playing with Jack, and how I’m going to bring him to his knees.
All I need is a costume.
“That bitch does not get to decide what I can and cannot do.” I pick up a bra that has holes where the nipples ought to be. It’s possible I’m taking this thing with Jack a bit far, but seeing as he’s unmoved by pretty pink silk and lace, I’m upping my game. I hold the bra up against my chest. “What do you think?”
I’m standing in the middle of a Soho sex shop with my ex-flatmate, Marie, and because I can’t share what’s going on with me and Jack with Kate, Marie is the next best thing. I reached a tipping point where I could no longer keep all of this inside. I needed to share.
Marie was so surprised by my news that she didn’t ask a single question about my career. I haven’t revealed anything about the way I imploded at the Granville Agency, and Marie, thank goodness, hasn’t asked. Not that I’d tell her anyway; she’s a hard-nosed career woman through and through, and I’d never get any sympathy from her. Do I even want sympathy?
Fuck it. What I want is to forget about it completely.
Marie screws up her face. “Lydia will never know if you dress up for Jack or not.” She waves a limp finger towards the nipple holes in the bra cups. “You don’t need to do this.”
“Yeah, but I’ll know, and I’m not having my actions dictated by a beautiful woman with fake eyelashes.” But the nipple holes are a bit excessive, even for me. I put the bra back and keep searching.
Marie tuts as she flicks through a rack of crotchless panties, then abruptly abandons her perusal and pins me with a pointed stare. “I’m going to put it out there. You need to put an end to this game.” I pull a ‘ how dare you tell me what to do ’ face, but Marie keeps going. “This is Jack Lansen we’re talking about. Slept with half of London. Dreadful flirt. Ego the size of a small planet. Not to mention he’s your best friend’s brother. Don’t get involved. And definitely don’t do it to spite some woman who assaulted you in the supermarket.”
“I’m doing it for the cash,” I say matter-of-factly, although the words don’t have the heft of truth, and I wonder if Marie will pick up on it. “A hundred thousand pounds. It would take years for me to earn that much.”
I hold up a black corset with purple trim and a matching suspender belt. Marie rolls her eyes, but I like it, so I keep hold of it and lead the way to the changing rooms. Marie takes a seat outside my cubicle as I hurriedly undress.
“That man has more money than sense,” Marie muses. “You must’ve really got under his skin.”
God, I hope so, because he’s already so deep under mine that I’m not sure I can get him out. I haul on the corset, striving to keep my voice calm. “Maybe. I guess.”
I check out my reflection. This outfit is hot. I might be in flats and no make-up, but my breasts are falling out of the corset in the best way, making me feel ridiculously sexy for a Friday morning. It’s so much better than Lydia’s underwear and trench coat affair.
The curtain to my cubicle opens and my hands fly to cover me in the scant underwear. “Hey!”
Marie pays my outburst no heed as she stands there with her mouth open, her eyes darting all over my face. “You like him. I can hear it in your voice. Fuck, Elly.” Her hands slap against her cheeks, and I’m desperately trying not to react, even though my heart is rampaging around my chest like Phil Collins on the drums. “You’re into Jack Lansen.”
“I’m not… I don’t… this is just about the money.” I blink like I’m using my eyelashes to fend off a swarm of mosquitos that are set upon draining all the blood from my eyeballs. “I don’t actually want to sleep with him.” A strange tightening sensation corkscrews through my chest. What’s that about?
“You sure about that?”
“Yes. I do not fancy Jack Lansen.” Ugh , that corkscrew sensation again. This time, a brief flicker of illumination comes with it. I’m lying .
I fancy Jack Lansen, and I absolutely want to fuck him.
I’m mildly shocked by the clarity of the realisation, despite having known it for weeks.
“Wow,” Marie says, interrupting my thoughts. Her gaze is fixed on my body for the first time since she pulled back the curtain. “What are you going to do in this getup?”
“Dance in it.” I wiggle my hips. “I used to work as a stripper at uni. Paid a fortune. I was the richest student on campus.”
Marie’s eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t know that. Well, you look great. I’d get on my knees for you in this outfit.”
“Thanks. Could you give me a moment?” I say, and Marie steps back so I can close the curtain again and get changed.
When I come out, Marie has a thoughtful look on her face. “Is Jack sleeping with anyone else?”
The question catches me off-guard. I hadn’t considered it. I’m not sleeping with anyone, so I’d kind of assumed, while we were locked in this bizarre agreement, that Jack wouldn’t be either.
Marie gives me a sympathetic look. “Use a condom. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I’m not going to have sex with Jack.”
But I totally want to .
Marie shakes her head dismissively, like I’m a lost cause. It’s clear she knows I’m lying. “What are you going to tell Kate?”
“Nothing. She was fine with me and Jack living together, but she definitely wouldn’t be okay with this, so I’m not going to mention it.”
Marie looks at me like this is my stupidest idea yet, but thankfully she doesn't call me out on it. Although, to be fair, the look is enough to have ants squirming beneath my skin.
We spend a while longer flicking through the clothes and examining a bizarre array of sex toys. When we’ve finished, I take everything I’ve chosen to the till—a corset that pushes my boobs up so much they might fall out, a suspender belt and stockings, and a pair of platform PVC heels. It’s not tasteful, but it’s certainly a look. The cashier rings it all up.
Marie’s eyebrows shoot up at the total. “Fuck, that’s expensive.”
Holy fuck, it is. “It’s an investment,” I quip. “The return on this is going to be huge.”