Chapter 27 #2
She says it like a joke, but there’s something in her face, a flicker of wanting things to be different, and for a second I want to fix that for her. “How about I get Ellie the unicorn, too? From both of us.”
“Both of us?”
“If you’re still around at Christmas. If you want to be.”
She goes very still. Around us, the toy department chaos continues—kids shrieking, parents negotiating, the relentless jingle of Christmas music. But in this moment, it feels like we’re in a bubble.
“You’re asking me to spend Christmas with your family?”
“I’m asking if you want to wake up with me on Christmas morning.” The words come out without thinking. I’ve gone way further than I intended—far enough that I might frighten her off. But Rachel’s not easily scared.
She holds my gaze, like she’s trying to decide if I mean it. Then she picks up both the horse and the unicorn, cradling them against her chest.
“Ask me again when you’ve finished the list,” she says.
It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either. And right now, in the middle of Harrods’ toy department, with my arms full of shopping bags and my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s doing its own drum solo, that feels like everything.
“Shall we go up to the cafe on the fifth floor?” she suggests. “Not as public as the food courts.”
“How are you coping?” I ask as we step onto the escalator. “Being publicly outed as my girlfriend?” I know Instagram went nuts after my post on Tuesday night.
“A case of ‘be careful what you wish for’, I suppose.” She tries to look nonchalant, but I can see hurt in her eyes. “Some of the comments nice. Most of them not.”
“I told you not to read them, Rache. Fuck, social media can be brutal even for people like me who are used to it. Why did you do that to yourself?”
She gives a bitter laugh.
“Suppose I was delusional enough to think we might have some people wishing us well.”
She steps off the escalator and marches up to the host station at the cafe entrance. We’re shown to a table and given menus, and it’s not until the server is gone that I pick up our conversation.
“The comments, Rachel?” I say. “What kind of not so nice?” I ask, even though I’ve got a pretty good idea.
I saw some of them myself before I turned off commenting.
How fucking stupid of me. I was so caught up in the magic of it all—Rachel with me, laughing and joking, stealing kisses in the backseat of the car—that I forgot one of the most basic survival skills of social media. Now the bastards have had a go at her.
“Oh, you know, the usual charming observations,” she says, staring hard at the menu but her eyes not focusing. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” I say. “But neither is keeping it to yourself. Believe me, talking about it does help. I know.”
She pulls out her phone and scrolls down.
“Let’s see… ‘She’s so basic compared to the models you usually date.
’ That’s a popular one. ‘Give it three months before she’s posting sponsored content’.
Lots think it’s all about money. Oh, and this one’s extra good.
‘How many guys before you do you think?’”
“Christ, Rachel. I should have turned off the comments from the start. That’s on me.”
“There are several saying you’ll dump me before the tour starts, but they’re not so bad—just going off old news. My personal favourite from my account before I deleted it: ‘You’re just another blonde wannabe’. Nice, huh?”
“Rachel, I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. I knew what I was signing up for when I added ‘go public’ to your list.” She slaps her phone on the table. “I just didn’t expect quite so many people to weigh in on my ‘dead eyes’ and crown me public enemy number one for ‘stealing’ you from your fans.”
She tosses me a brittle smile and then turns to the server, who’s approached with tablet in hand.
“The nastier they are, the more threatened they feel,” I say, stretching out my hand to cover hers. Her eyes flicker up to mine, and I see the glint of a tear. “They can see I care about you, and they don’t like it. And it’s not fine. But I don’t know how to fix it.”
“A hot chocolate always works wonders, don’t you think?” She forces a smile. “How about you buy me one and we don’t give those arseholes any more of our time?”
Rachel’s right. A hot chocolate for her, a coffee for me and some lunch and I feel like we’ve managed to put all talk of the social media scum behind us. At least for now.
After one last stop at the first-floor Christmas shop, where Rachel spends an eye-watering amount on decorations, we step out onto the street, my arms loaded with bags.
“How the hell are you going to get this all home? Did you bring your car?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not so stupid to think I’d find a park anywhere near here.”
“Well, I don’t think I’d get you and this lot onto the back of my bike.
Let me call you a cab.” I step to the edge of the kerb, scanning for one of the familiar black cabs, but there’s nothing in sight.
The pre-Christmas crowds are thick on the pavement.
“Perhaps we should walk down a bit,” I suggest.
I place my hand on Rachel’s waist as we try to navigate the streams of shoppers. We’re maybe fifty yards from Harrods when I hear it.
“Teddy!”
I search for the voice somewhere ahead of me, and there’s the familiar whirring of a motor drive and the telltale clicks of a camera. A fucking photographer.
“Rachel, this way,” I say, trying to change direction, but it’s too late. The bastard’s already snapped half a dozen shots. Worse still, there’s another next to him.
I grab Rachel by the elbow and guide her back towards Harrods. Forgetting all manners, I drag her past those waiting their turn at the revolving doors, and we tumble into a compartment together.
“What the fuck, Teddy?” she says as we’re spat out inside.
“Paparazzi.” My heart rate’s up and my breath’s quickening. The bastards don’t worry me, but if I can protect her from them a bit longer, I will. Especially right now, when the hurt from all those comments is so raw.
I scan the area and, spotting the signs for the food courts, haul Rachel onto the crowded escalator, which takes us down to the basement level.
From there, we duck and dive between people like we’re in a Bond movie.
I spot an exit sign marked Hans Crescent.
I pull Rachel close against a wall, out of the flow of people, before dialling Gavin’s number.
“He’ll be here in ten,” I say. “If we just stay quietly over here, I think we’ll be okay.”
“It’s okay, Teddy,” she says. “They got our picture. Besides what more could they say than’s already been said? ”
“I just hoped I could keep you out of the papers a bit longer.” It’s the truth, but not the whole truth.
Rachel’s tough, but she doesn’t understand what’s coming.
Social media comments are playground taunts compared to what the tabloids will do—they’ll dig up her entire history and twist it into something ugly.
“How much longer were you thinking?” she asks quietly. “Because this feels pretty inevitable.”
Before I can answer, Gavin appears at the exit, scanning the crowd until he spots us. Relief rushes through me.
“There’s our ride.”
We slip out through Hans Crescent into the waiting car. As we pull away, I catch sight of two photographers still lurking near the main entrance, cameras ready.
Rachel settles back against the leather seat, her shopping bags piled between us like a barrier. “So what happens now?”
“Now they’ll probably run some photos of us looking domestic and couple-y,” I say, trying to keep it light. “Could be worse.”
“And after that?”
I meet her eyes in the reflection of the window. This is the moment I should probably prepare her for what’s coming—the background checks, the digging, the inevitable character assassination. But she looks fragile enough already.
“After that, we see if you still want to wake up with me on Christmas morning.”
She reaches across the bags and takes my hand. “Ask me again after you’ve done the list,” she says, echoing her words from the toy department. But this time, there’s something different in her voice. Not quite certainty, but maybe the beginning of it.
As London streams past the windows, I find myself hoping the tasks on that list are enough to prove that whatever they throw at us, we’re worth fighting for.