10. DIANA
DIANA
My life has turned to shit. Not only did Dad kick me out, but he cancelled my allowance.
All I had left was the money in my bank account, which was just enough to cover the rental deposit on a one-bedroom attic flat in Uxbridge.
The end of the Picadilly Line. I went as far west as I could to maximise my cash without falling off the tube map entirely.
I thought about calling Sylvie and begging her to let me stay, but she’s living with her arse of a boyfriend, Dave, who once told his mates she was nothing but a dumb blonde who gave great head. I hate him, but Sylvie still won’t walk.
I mean, Dad crushed our self-worth, so I get it.
It’s hard to hold on to the belief that you’re worth more when no one has ever shown you that.
And it’s really hard to believe in love when you’ve never had it and don’t know what it feels like.
I can only assume Sylvie thinks that being treated like crap is what being loved is supposed to feel like.
If I hadn’t read so many romance books, I’d probably feel the same. I’d probably be shacked up with some guy who holds me by the wrist so hard it bruises, and call it love.
I’d rather be cuffed to a bed in Delirium and fucked in the mouth by a handsome stranger, thank you very much.
But realistically, if I’d done what Dad wanted, I’d be married to Seb Hawkston, and although he’s obscenely rich and would never have raised a hand against me, he’d never have loved me, either.
As it is, I’m in this tiny attic flat with no central heating, shovelling reheated pasta into my mouth as I perch at a plastic kitchen table with a leg so wobbly I had to stabilise it with a wedge of tissues.
My laptop is open but pushed to one side as I eat lunch and take a break from trying to piece together a business plan when everything has fallen apart.
I have no idea what I’m doing, or how to move forwards, but I’m really trying to make something decent of this situation.
And there, propped up on the side of my laptop, is the tiny Delirium card.
Just in case you change your mind.
I’ve thought about contacting him, but what with the state of my life at the moment, I can’t even begin to think about dating.
Not that I think he’d definitely want to date me.
He’d probably just want more sex, but not anonymous sex, and really, how far is that from dating?
I’ve just escaped an arranged marriage; I’m not ready to commit to someone else, not even for regular, casual sex.
But if I were to commit to someone, it would be him, and that’s why I haven’t thrown the stupid card away.
It was a good night. A fantastic night. I’ve replayed it many times. Worked myself into a frenzy thinking about it, if I’m honest. Living here would have been a hell of a lot lonelier if I hadn’t had the memory of that night to get me through.
It’s a million times better than the memory of Dad wrecking my flat and yelling, “You’re a bad investment” at me, that’s for sure.
I’m going to show him. I am not a bad investment. I am fucking gold. I’m going to make so much money, I won’t know what to do with it. Dad will be tormented by my success, and I won’t give him a penny.
I scratch my eyebrow, wincing at the attempt to ‘think positive’ while I chow down this chewy, three-day-old penne and the nearly-broken washing machine shrieks and shudders so hard on its final cycle that the creaky old floor threatens to collapse beneath me.
Manifesting my way out of this shithole is going to be harder than I thought.
The buzzer goes, and I’m alert, spine upright. Who is it? The only person who knows where I am is Sylvie, and she’s unlikely to pay me a visit.
I get up and press the buzzer. “Hello?”
“Diana? Is that you?”
“Lizzie?” I ask, instantly recognising my friend’s voice.
“Oh, my God, Diana. Let me up. Why haven’t you answered any of my messages?”
I hang my head as I buzz the intercom button to let her up, guilt pulsing through me.
Over the last year, Lizzie’s become my closest confidant and best friend.
We met at a hot yoga class in Chelsea when we both had to leave because we were close to fainting.
We bonded in our sweat-slicked gym kit and never looked back.
I love her to pieces, but I’m not ready to see anyone.
I check myself in the mirror near the door; I’m swamped in an oversized t-shirt, not a scrap of make-up on my face, my hair slung up in a messy bun. I’m a mess.
Peering through the peephole, I see Lizzie appear at the top of the stairs. She looks about, wrinkles her nose, and wraps her cashmere coat tighter around her like she thinks it might shield her from whatever contagion she imagines is lurking in the hallway.
Oh, crap. She’s going to hate my flat—nowhere safe to set down her Birkin. The place is cramped and damp. I haven’t tidied up, and the sink is full of dishes. Everything is tattered and worn. I was desperate when I paid for this place, and it couldn’t be more obvious that I was in dire straits.
Before Lizzie can knock, I pull the door open.
Her eyes go wide as she gives me a once over.
“Oh, shit,” she mutters, stepping inside and putting her arms around me.
“What happened? Why haven’t you called me?
I’d have thought you were dead if it weren’t for my messages showing up as read.
But then they started bouncing, and I got really worried. ”
“I changed my number.” I feel terrible admitting it like that with no explanation, but I’m not ready to confess that I destroyed my SIM card and bought a cheap pay as you go one as soon as I had a chance so Dad couldn’t find me.
“You could have told me,” she reprimands, and I deserve it.
“Sorry.” I fidget, uncomfortable at having disappointed her. “How did you know I was here?”
She pulls back, glancing around the entrance and pulling the door closed behind her. The space is tight, and it feels like she’s breathing down my neck, so I turn and lead her through to the main room.
“I called your sister.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I had to look up where she worked and call her office. She gave me your address, but wouldn’t tell me anything. Wouldn’t give me any details, but I pieced a bit together from the Daily Mail Online.” She winces, then offers me a sympathetic pout. “Seb looks really happy with Erica.”
My heart twinges at the mention of my ex-fiancé and his famous girlfriend, Erica Lefroy.
But it’s not because she’s a world-famous supermodel and soon-to-be Hollywood movie star, and I’m a penniless failure that my heart hurts.
And it’s not because I miss Seb or ever wanted him for myself.
It’s because what he and Erica have is real.
Real love. Dad might not believe in it, but I saw it.
And while I’m happy for them, I can’t help feeling a little sorry for myself that they ended up there, together, and I ended up here, alone.
No career, no job, and definitely no one who loves me. A fucking mess all round.
“I know,” I tell Lizzie. “It’s great that they got their happy ending.”
It is great, and I mean it. I like Seb, he was always good to me; he deserved to find love. I hope Lizzie understands that and doesn’t think I’m sitting here resenting him.
But she’s not paying attention to me anymore. She’s scanning the flat, her gaze lingering on the used coffee cups I’ve left out and the crumpled clothes I’ve draped over the radiators to dry. At least the place smells like clean washing; that’s got to be in my favour. Not a total slob.
She pulls her handbag tighter to her side. “Your social media. And your website. They’re gone.”
My breathing speeds up, and I blow out a slow breath to control it. “I know.”
Lizzie’s eyes look almost watery, and she steps closer, placing a hand on my upper arm. “What’s going on? Why didn’t you call me? I’ve been really worried about you.”
A wave of emotion sweeps through me as I think of all the missed calls I never responded to and the messages that streamed in from her before I changed my phone number.
I might have been having a shitty time, but I’ve also been a shitty friend.
Sighing, I embark on recounting the story of what happened with my dad.
“Fucking hell, that sounds awful,” Lizzie says once I’ve told her everything. “He wiped you off the internet.”
“Yeah. Not great. I mean, it’s my fault. I gave him access to everything because he demanded it.”
A furrow appears between her eyebrows. “Couldn’t you just have said no?”
I let out a wry laugh. “I’m guessing your dad isn’t very… controlling.”
Lizzie shrugs, which I take to mean ‘not at all’ and also ‘I’m so sorry that I don’t understand’, and rubs my shoulder. “Can’t you start over? Your followers will find you.”
I shake off her touch. “I will. I am. But it’s hard without…” I glance around at the bare walls of the dingy flat. “I don’t have any of my books anymore, or any decent clothes. My dad destroyed everything.”
My brain aches. I’ve barely slept. I haven’t thought about the things Dad destroyed for weeks. It’s easier to shut out the memory than dwell on it. At least that way, I can focus on moving forwards.
I’m good at that. I’m good at solving problems. I am.
But this particular one is flummoxing me. Even recalling what happened makes my skull feel like it’s splitting open.
I drag my hands down my face. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to damage my brand.”
“Oh, honey. There is no brand now. It’s gone. How can you ruin it?”
“I just… I want to do it right. I have to do it right. I have to prove—”
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” Lizzie says, but I shake my head.