Chapter 10. Ophelia
OPHELIA
I doubt any man has ever felt the relief that Eike feels as we pull up outside a posh hotel on the busy streets of central London.
He cuts the engine, and with that, his twenty-four-hour nightmare of two twenty-something-year-old women screeching the Mamma Mia soundtrack has come to a close.
For the millionth time, I wonder why he stays in this job.
He can’t be older than thirty-five, he’s smart, good-looking, could probably get a job anywhere he wanted.
And yet, he’s spending his early thirties in a cold, damp castle with no social life, no family nearby, guarding the estranged daughter of some Luxembourgish billionaire.
But here I am, lingering at the very same castle for no real reason, so who am I to judge?
The hotel looks nice. The kind with smartly dressed men in earpieces stood on the steps and double doors that look straight out of a fairy tale.
Eike rounds the car to open Colette’s door, and a hotel employee clutching an umbrella opens mine, shielding me from the London drizzle.
I go to grab my duffel bag out of the trunk, but Eike already has it, along with Colette’s suitcase—large enough to fit a small elephant inside.
Eike ushers us into the lobby, all polished marble floors and soft velvet furnishings.
I vaguely hear him tell us to stay put while he checks us in, but I’m distracted by my lavish surroundings.
If there’s one thing my lonely life has made me, it’s nosy, and a hotel lobby is a feast for the senses.
A couple argue at the check-in desk. An influencer is setting up a tripod in front of the lobby’s water feature.
A man with three bodyguards exits the lift.
Who are they all, and how do they have enough money to drop several thousand on a hotel night stay?
Colette comes from old money, Alex informs me.
Like that matters. Everyone at Sorrowsong is preoccupied with exactly how old someone’s money is.
What they’re not worried about is how someone’s money came about.
It’s fine if you did something heinous to earn your mansion, as long as you did it before color television was around, seems to be the rule.
Eike materializes in front of us, his gruff voice drowning out the couple’s argument I was straining so hard to hear. “Room is ready.”
The journey to the hotel room is an adventure in itself, past not one, not two, but three restaurants, and the entrance to a huge gym, furnished in garish shades of gold.
Colette doesn’t seem fussed, typing on her phone as the click-clack of her heels comes to a stop outside four elevators.
I take a leaf out of her book, snapping my mouth shut and giving my best nonchalant face.
I’m not in the right tax bracket to understand why we need an immaculately dressed man to press the elevator buttons for us, but it’s a nice touch.
Our bags are already in our room when Colette swipes her key card and pushes the door open, kicking off her heels and diving onto the enormous bed.
“Ooh, champagne in the mini fridge!” she cheers, starfishing over the crisp white duvet.
“Shall we eat out? Or get room service? I haven’t had a girls’ weekend in so long. ”
I’m busy exploring the ridiculous suite, sniffing all the free toiletries. There are two rainfall showerheads, and my traitorous mind wanders to what it might be like to share a room like this with Alex.
I squash my errant thoughts down and step back into the bedroom, where Colette is pouring two flights of champagne. “Is Eike staying here, too?”
“Yeah, he has a room somewhere.”
“How long has he worked for your stepfather?”
She takes a long sip and exhales like she’s in heaven. “Umm … a year and a half. He used to do more … high-stakes stuff. I think he wanted something quieter.”
I don’t pry further. I don’t think Eike is the sort of person to share much of his past with anyone, even Colette. I swipe the other champagne glass from the side table and join her in bed, taking a sip.
It’s nice. Not as nice as orange juice or hot chocolate, but it’s nice.
“We could get a pedicure?” she says, reeling off an endless list of details from the hotel’s website while I switch on the TV to some trashy reality show that Vincenzo probably loves.
“What’s going on with you and Vincenzo?” I blurt out.
“We’re just friends,” she says, easily.
“Right,” I say, doubtfully. Her and Vincenzo seem to have some kind of agreement going on where he comes over and fucks her seven ways to Sunday most nights, and then they both pretend it didn’t happen the next day.
I know for a fact it’s her who’s holding it back, because Vincenzo is obsessed with her.
Her expression turns scandalous. “Like you can talk. What about you and Alex?”
“Umm … friends also.”
Friends who do unspeakable things on FaceTime.
She nods slowly, tone sarcastic. “Yeah, sure.”
“If you and Vin are just friends, Alex and I are, too.”
She shakes her head at me as she finishes her first glass of champagne, grabbing the bottle to top us both up. “Nope. Vincenzo and I aren’t in love. You and Alex are soulmates. You can’t be friends with benefits and also soulmates. It doesn’t work.”
I watch the bubbles cling to the edge of my glass, heart sinking. She’s not wrong. Alex and I both know this only ends in disaster, but neither of us has the willpower to stay away. “We can’t be together; we can’t be apart. I don’t know what we’re doing. Maybe in a few years we could work.”
“You could be together.”
“How?”
I watch the cogs in her brain turn, playing out each scenario.
I pack up my whole life, give up on my degree and my new friendships, get on a plane, and move to New York?
No. He moves his entire family to Scotland?
No. He moves to the UK, leaving his family behind?
No. We do it long distance, only seeing each other occasionally? No.
Her chest deflates. “Look … if there’s no way for you to be together, whatever it is you’re doing now is just going to make life harder on you both.”
“I know. I tried to tell him that,” I grumble, just as a text from Alex pings through on my phone.
Alex
Hey, Twist. How are you feeling? FaceTime?
With Colette’s wisdom still fresh in the air between us, I type out a reply.
Ophelia
Sorry, I can’t.
His reply is immediate, as always.
Alex
You okay? Did you sleep better last night?
I switch my phone to silent, pushing him out of my mind.
I did sleep better last night, as I have every night since he started calling me right before I go to bed, reading aloud until I drift off into some lustful dream.
But Colette is right. Alex’s heart is broken enough, my heart is broken enough, and I’m playing with them.
No strings attached is the stupidest lie I’ve ever told.
I toss my phone across the room, finishing my second glass while Colette books us a pedicure each and orders two mimosas.
IT’S TWO IN the morning, and I am easily drunker than I have ever been in my life. I might throw up in this super luxury room.
My toenails look cute, though, and my feet are so smooth.
Colette slaps my phone out of my hand before I send a photo of my feet to Alex. “Girl, what are you doing?” she slurs, the end of each word melting into the beginning of the next.
“Fishing for compliments,” I say, trying to grab it back. When I bend over, the whole world tilts on its axis. “Was that an earthquake?” I shriek.
“A drunkquake,” she says, changing into her pajama shorts. “You don’t need compliments; you’re so pretty.”
“Not according to everyone at Sorrowsong,” I say, sticking out my bottom lip. The room service guy arrives with two pizzas, and I can’t decide if I want to inhale them or gag.
She opens her box on the bed and folds a slice in half, eating it in one massive bite. “You’re so pretty. They’re just mean.”
Oh no. I think I might be crying. Another text pings through from Alex.
Alex
I saw you last night, in my dream.
Ophelia
What was I doing?
Alex
I’d better not say.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip. Horny and sad has become the baseline for my moods of late. And Alex’s, too, I imagine. I flop back onto the bed and shut my phone off before I can say something equally romantic back.
Alex
Don’t go all quiet on me. If I’ve done something, let’s talk about it.
The sob I let out is watery and embarrassing.
I’ve never given my appearance a second thought, never cared about my eyes, my nose, my hips, my lower stomach.
Not until the last few weeks, where I stand in front of the mirror and pick myself apart in a way I wouldn’t dare to do to anyone else.
“They say I’m bland and boring … I can’t believe how I look in that photo. ”
“People say you’re bland because they don’t know the first thing about you.” She’s scrolling on her phone, pizza crust dangling from her pink lips when her face lights up. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
“You should do this! It’s in two days. It’d be perfect for your confidence!” She claps her hands, looking ten times more alive than she did a minute ago. She leaps out of bed like Charlie Bucket’s grandfather, passing me the phone. I’m so drunk, the Instagram story looks like spaghetti to me.
I blink twice, slowly letting the letters shift back into a line.
Last minute life model needed due to cancellation. Paid opportunity.
“Absolutely not.”
“My friend Jas did it, she said it literally transformed her confidence.”
“I am not standing naked in front of a load of people. I have no idea if my nipples are normal. What if I have weird nipples, and this is how I find out?”
She crosses her arms, eyes dropping to my tank top. “Show me them.”
“No!”
“You would be so good. You have that Aphrodite figure.” Her eyes are so wide they might pop out of her head, nodding like a dashboard figurine. “I’ll go with you!”
Six cocktails have me thinking maybe it’s not the absolute worst idea. Maybe it will be empowering. Maybe my nipples are normal. Maybe they’re particularly good ones.
This is the kind of thing every woman should do once in their life, I tell myself. Be a muse. So what if your nipples aren’t normal, normal nipples are probably boring to draw. Let the good people of London draw your weird nipples!
“It heally relped … no … really helped … your friend?”
“Yeah!” she says, enthusiastically.
I blurt out a giggle of disbelief. “Okay, fine.”
She cheers, dancing round the room like she’s won the lottery. “I’ll come with you! I’ll cheer you on from the back. Maybe I’ll meet a really hot artist!”
“And you can both live in the Loire Valley and run a painters’ retreat!”
“And have cute babies,” she adds, stumbling over.
I take a giant bite of the pizza. It’s incredible.
This is a horrific idea.