Chapter 59 Summer
FIFTY-NINE
SUMMER
With Fraser and Cameron gone, the farmhouse feels weirdly shadowy and empty. Alec is outside, busy making sure everything is secured for the storm later tonight, so I wander the house like a lonely ghost. Left alone for the first time in weeks, my thoughts keep going down the same sad track.
In one week, this will all be gone. I’m going back to London, away from warm fires and fresh air and cute animals and…them.
My mind keeps going back to last night. I remember being laid out on the picnic blanket by the loch, being kissed and cherished under the stars.
I remember Alec calling me beautiful. Fraser holding me close.
Cameron kissing me. The moments play over and over in my head, a shining ribbon of memory on constant repeat.
In true Summer Faye fashion, it is possible that I have let myself become too attached.
I spend the morning trying to work on a corset top I’ve been sewing from a pair of old tweed trousers, but I’m so distracted I keep messing up the seams. Eventually, I give up and play with Crumpet instead.
She’s fully recovered from her scare in the lambing barn and has gained a ton of weight.
The men say that she should be able to join the other sheep in pasture soon, but for now, she seems content to follow me everywhere like a woolly duckling.
I hope she’ll fit in with the herd when she eventually makes it to the field.
At lunchtime, Alec joins me for reheated chilli.
It’s immediately obvious he’s not doing well.
He’s trying to hide it, but his face is pale, and he’s so distracted he can barely keep up a conversation.
He doesn’t eat at all, and he spends most of the meal checking the weather app on his phone, his jaw clenched.
When rain starts hitting the windowpane, he flinches.
Eventually, I set down my spoon and go to stand over him, nudging his knee with my bum. “Can I?”
He parts his thighs, letting me perch on his knee. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, letting his head fall onto my chest. “I know I’m a bit…”
I run my fingers through his hair. “It’s okay.”
He takes off his glasses and scrubs at his eyes. He looks so stressed it hurts me. “I shouldn’t have sent them off,” he mutters.
“They’ll be okay,” I assure him. “The storm’s not going to hit Inverness, right? And they’re already in the city.” We got a text about an hour ago from Cameron and Fraser, confirming they’d arrived safely.
Alec doesn’t answer. When I cup his cheek, his eyes have nothing behind them at all.
“I need to get back to work,” he says emotionlessly, sliding me off his knee. I sit and watch him head back outside into the storm.
With nothing else to do, I wind up curled in front of the fire with my sketchbook and a mug of tea. Emotions tangle inside me as I swipe through all of my old dress designs. I can’t stop thinking about Fraser’s suggestion last night.
I couldn’t really start my own line, right? I haven’t designed in forever. And having your own label is about more than just drawing pretty clothes. The pieces have to be marketable. Likeable.
I pick up my pencil. Crumpet lays her head on my knee and watches as I sketch out a beige latex pencil skirt. Not something I’d choose, but it would probably go viral on Picturegram. When I’m done, I squint at it.
It’s cute, I guess. But it’s boring, and it will make anyone with sensory issues actively want to die. Besides, fashion moves so fast. If I tried to produce something like this, neutrals would be out of style by the time it was done.
Crumpet bleats.
“What’s that?” I ask her. “You think it looks like a condom too?”
She sneezes on the page.
I sigh and flip the paper, starting from scratch. This time, I make the skirt softer. I scallop the hem and can’t resist adding a sweet little bow in the back. The result is a Frankensteined mishmash of styles.
Crumpet side-eyes me. “You’re very judgmental for someone who’s literally always naked,” I inform her, starting again.
I lose time as I work. As the sky darkens outside, I slowly let my imagination get wilder.
The drawings morph from bland fashion pieces to girlier, softer designs.
I draw a lace-edged corset top tied with ribbons.
A velvet summer dress embroidered with jasmine flowers.
A pink sleep set, the matching boxers and top cut out of pointelle fabric.
As I scribble, the rest of the world fades away.
I don’t think about London. I don’t think about what I’m going to do next. I feel completely, utterly myself.
I’m jolted out of my deep focus by the first roll of thunder overhead.
I stretch out my aching hand, looking around me.
Hours have passed. The fire has died down to a few embers, and Crumpet has her nose stuck in my mug of cold green tea and is licking it up loudly.
I scoop her away and look out of the windows.
The storm has fully hit. The sky is black and roiling with clouds, and rain is violently pelting the windowpanes.
Worst of all is the wind. I can see trees being bent practically in half by the powerful gusts.
Branches keep clattering loudly against the side of the house.
I can hear Scout padding around Alec’s bedroom.
I shiver. Alec must have come back and started working without me noticing. I’ll give Cameron and Fraser a quick call to let them know we’re okay, and then I’ll make us both some dinner.
Alec left my phone in one of the out-of-reach cupboards in the kitchen. I have to clamber onto the counter to get it down. Holding it in my hand for the first time in two weeks feels…weird. I steel myself and switch it back on.
It immediately starts vibrating incessantly. It buzzes and buzzes and buzzes as notification after notification sweeps across my screen. Most of them are from Lulu. She must have called me over fifty times today. Her last notifications are a string of texts, sent less than an hour ago:
LULU:
SUMMER
CALL
ME
BACK
YOU
WEE
HIGHLAND
COO
Fear throbs in my stomach. Oh God. Something else must have happened. Maybe there’s been another article posted. Maybe they’re talking about me on the BBC. Maybe my inbox is flooded with death threats I didn’t even know about. I return her call, and she picks up on the first ring.
“Hey. Is everything o—”
“Finally,” she cries. “Why have you been ignoring me?”
“Lu, I told you I was going off the grid.”
“I didn’t think you actually meant it! I thought you meant, like, you were trying to cut down your screen time or something. Who is actually, literally off the grid? I was worried about you, you bitch. I didn’t know you were okay.” She pauses. “Wait. Does this mean you don’t know yet?”
Oh God. “I’m fine, sorry. Has something happened?”
“What’s happened,” she says slowly, “is that I am a PR genius.”
“What?”
“I’ve fixed it all, babe. Flipped the narrative. You’re officially uncancelled.”
I can barely believe the words. I drag a chair from under the kitchen table and collapse on it. “Wait, really?”
“Check your Picturegram. Now.”
I do as she says, looking up the site on my browser. Lulu clicks her tongue impatiently.
“Well? What do you think?”
“The webpage is loading.”
“Web…page?”
“I deleted the app.”
Lulu is briefly stunned into silence. “Oh my God,” she whispers. “You poor thing. You’ve been having a full menty b up there, haven’t you? Probably all the country air, I bet it’s addled your brain.”
My Picturegram feed finally loads. I’m expecting the last photo to be my apology post, but there’s a new one. I tap on it, frowning.
The photograph is a still from the video of me crying in the bathroom.
It’s been artfully edited to make me look prettier; there’s a black-and-white filter on it, and my expression has been smoothed so my dripping mascara looks dramatic and soulful.
In my sheath dress and sparkly Louboutins, broken lipstick held aloft, I look almost chic.
Confused, I read the caption.
Anyone else having a sad girl Summer? *Lipstick kiss emoji* #SadGirlGlam
The photo was posted three days ago, and it has almost ten million likes.
“What do you think?” Lulu demands.
I don’t understand. “You…posted on my account without asking?”
“Um, I did ask, babe. You just didn’t answer because you’re ‘off the grid.’ Time was of the essence. I couldn’t wait for you to reemerge.”
“But…I thought we were going to bury the video?” This is, like, the exact opposite of that.
She sighs. “Burying it wasn’t working, it was just making everyone take you way too seriously.
Like, hello, you drunk cried, you didn’t burn down an orphanage.
So we’re reclaiming it. I should have thought of it sooner, to be honest. Everyone’s miserable right now, watching the news feels like you’re getting repeatedly punched in the face.
Of course we’re crying, but we’re crying in style. People are eating it up, look.”
My finger is shaking as I scroll down to the comments.
She’s so real for this tbh
Ok hear me out — having a breakdown in Chanel is actually iconic
I aspire to look this hot the next time I cry in public
INSPIRED. GORGEOUS. PUT IT IN THE LOUVRE
Is being a dramatic bitch cool now? Finally, my time to shine
The words swim in front of my eyes. I think I may be hallucinating. “How?” I croak.
“I pulled some strings and had a bunch of other influencers post pictures of themselves in designer gear and smeared makeup. ‘Summer Faye cried so I could sob,’ ‘it’s okay to cry,’ that sort of thing. The hashtag blew up.”
“#SadGirlGlam,” I repeat faintly, tapping on it. A slew of videos pops up on my screen, and I scroll through them.
The first is of a girl applying false eyelashes in her car. “Get ready with me to break down in the Taco Bell parking lot,” she tells the camera. “Because we may be sad, but at least we can look hot.”
Swipe.
A teenager in a school uniform, crying. “I swear, I have a full Summer Faye moment every single math class.” She sniffles, pulling out a mascara wand to touch up.
Swipe.
A beauty influencer I’ve been to drinks with a few times beams at the camera with an eerily white smile. “Want to hop on the new sad girl glam trend? Here’s how you do the perfect smudged-and-sultry eye look.”
“I think you’ve singlehandedly brought non-waterproof mascara back in,” Lulu natters.
“Your DMs are blowing up. Ooh, and a cosmetics brand reached out, they want to do a limited-edition shade with you called Meltdown.” She pauses.
“Which is…a choice. I’ll negotiate the name if you do it. How soon can you get back to London?”
Those words finally snap me out of my haze. “What?”
“We need you here ASAP. Everything is happening, and we have to take advantage.” I hear her nails clacking on her keyboard. “Ugh, it says all of tonight’s flights have been cancelled because of a weather warning. There’s a plane leaving from Inverness tomorrow morning. I’ll send you your ticket.”
“But I can’t come back to London,” I say. “I’m on break for another week.”
There’s a pause. “Babe, I don’t think you realise how big of a deal this is.
It’s massive. It’s career defining. Most people never get a chance like this.
Everyone’s talking about you right now, and you’ll only get a short window to capitalise on it.
I scheduled your five million follower party for Sunday.
We’ll get as many people as possible, really make it splashy. ”
“My what?”
“Oh, God, yeah, you don’t even know about THAT. Check your follower count.”
My heart beating faster, I scroll back up to my account details. And stare.
4.97M shines up at me. I’m almost at five million.
“Turns out going viral has its perks,” Lulu drawls. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure you’ll hit it during the party. We’ll do a live countdown. The engagement will be bananas.”
She’s right. It will be bananas. I read some more comments.
You’re my fave influencer
I LOVE YOU SUMMER!
You guys are all twats. Summer did nothing wrong
I wait for the usual warm glow to hit me, but instead I just feel…weird. Empty. Kind of gross, like I’ve touched something slimy. A week ago, these people despised me for crying. Now they’re celebrating me. “But…I didn’t do anything,” I say slowly. “How can I be forgiven if I didn’t do anything?”
Lulu sighs heavily. “It was never really about you, babe. It was just a viral video that led to a passing fad. Hey, do you need me to book your taxi to the airport too?”
“I’ll…let you know if I can make it,” I say slowly.
“What? No, you need to be here tomorrow so we can get your dress fitted. I got you the most gorgeous little Valentino number.” She pauses.
“Are you still not feeling great, is that it? I’ll handle everything, don’t worry.
You can stay on break back in London, I can take your pics and make your posts and negotiate everything for you.
Hell, I’ll bring you coffee and order all your food, if that’s what you need.
But you do have to be physically here. I can’t have you missing out on this opportunity.
And the party is going to be huge, sponsors are already losing their shit—” I don’t respond as she natters on, her words all blurring together.
This is what I wanted, right? Then why does it feel so hollow?
There’s a sudden crash against the side of the house, and I look out of the window.
The storm is getting worse. The rain is horizontal, and the trees are waving frantically.
As I watch, a tiny beam of light pricks through the dark.
I squint, trying to make it out. Horror slides down my back as a hunched, shadowy figure emerges from the gloom.
It’s Alec. He’s bent against the rain, flashing his torch at the base of a tree. Oh my God. He’s not inside at all. He’s still out there.
He’s going to get killed. I have to get him.
“I’ll let you know,” I tell Lulu again. She starts to argue, but I hang up. Crumpet baas at me as I run to the front door and throw on Cameron’s coat. “Stay here,” I tell her breathlessly, yanking open the front door and stepping out into the screaming storm.