Chapter 29
My phone shrieks beside my head. I jerk upright, heart pounding, sunlight already sliding across the covers. Monday? Miranda will skin me alive. The ring stops. I spot the tower of Harrod’s bags from yesterday’s spree and let out a shaky breath. Sunday—thank god.
The phone lights again. Dad glows on the screen, and my stomach lurches. Last time he called me was over a year ago, only because Mum was in hospital.
“Dad? Is Mum all right?”
“She’s perfectly fine.” His clipped tone could slice glass. “You’d know if you came home occasionally instead of running around London with rock stars.”
There it is—the guilt-trip opener.
“What the fuck do you want, Dad?” I drop the word like a stone, because he hates that I swear.
“I walked down to the Co-op for my Sunday Times and ended up buying the Mirror, the Mail, and even the Star. Couldn’t believe my eyes—there you are on every front page, holding hands with some boy and kissing him like you wanted it on record.”
“He’s twenty-six, Dad, and he’s a drummer.”
“Drummer, singer—doesn’t matter. He looks like he dresses in the dark. Honestly, Rachel, first you throw Pierre over and now this. Pierre wore a proper suit, spoke three languages, treated you with respect—”
“Pierre dumped me, remember? He wanted to shag his twenty-three-year-old assistant and decided I was optional.”
“I’m sure you pushed him,” Dad mutters. “A man like that doesn’t walk away unless he’s driven.”
Heat claws up my neck. “Believe what you like, but Pierre’s ancient history.”
He grumbles down the phone. “Well, your career might be too, if you keep on with this sort of thing. What will your boss think?”
“Miranda only cares about watertight contracts and billable hours. She isn’t going to sack me because I went ice-skating with a drummer.”
Dad’s voice hardens. “You really think the partners at that flashy city firm will ignore this? One front-page photo with a toy-boy drummer and they’ll strike your name off the partner list before you can draft your next contract.”
The picture flashes through my head—my name scrubbed from the list, all because of Teddy—and I nearly laugh. Absurd. They’d care more about a stray comma than us holding hands on the ice.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “They don’t give a toss, Dad. My target numbers are sky high, every file I touch is spotless, and the partnership vote’s locked in for the week before Christmas. I’m exactly where I need to be.”
Dad exhales, all disappointment and threat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I hang up before he can. His disapproval lingers in the silence, but I refuse to let it stick.
I shove off the covers and pad across the carpet.
Treasure gleams inside the Harrods bags—glass baubles, tartan ribbons, a ridiculous pug in felt antlers.
My mouth tugs up at the sight. I can’t wait to show Haley my tree dressed in this lot.
I tug a dressing gown over my lacy pyjamas and head for the kitchen. After jabbing the coffee machine awake, I crank a Stellar Riot playlist loud enough to shake off my father’s voice.
I’ve only placed three ornaments when the phone rings again.
“Sam? Thought you’d be face-down by now.”
“Wish. Hey—have you seen the papers?”
“No, but Dad has. Already been on at me.” I spear a candy-cane ornament onto a branch. “Teddy warned me it’d happen. I’m choosing ignorance.”
“I feel bad. If I hadn’t slipped you his address—”
“I’d still be pining, and you’d be on my naughty list.” I grin at my cracked reflection in a bauble. “Zero regrets, love. When’s your next stretch off?”
“One more zombie shift, then three glorious nights of actual darkness.”
“Perfect. What about wine o’clock at Vintage and Vine on Tuesday, yeah?”
“Text me a time. Sleep now?”
“Go. I’m fine.”
I’m debating where to place a hand-painted glass globe when the next call comes—Jenna.
“Tell me you haven’t googled yourself yet?”
“Resisting,” I say. “Coffee in one hand, Christmas bauble in the other. No thumbs spare for doom-scrolling.”
“Good girl. I’ve already done a sweep.” Her voice softens. “Headline noise, the usual lazy cougar cracks. Some cheap side-by-sides with his exes. But no new reporting. I’ve muted three phrases and set an alert on my phone, so if anything real shifts, I’ll see it, not you.”
The knot under my collarbone eases a notch. Instagram was the worst, and I’m still standing. Maybe I can survive this too. I slide the globe onto a branch and steady it with a fingertip until it stops trembling—until I do. I’d told myself I wasn’t worried, but my body says otherwise.
“Cougar?” I say, grabbing at a tartan bow, annoyance flaring. “What the fuck? I’m thirty-five, not drawing a pension.”
“Tabloids don’t do maths,” Jenna says, kind but matter-of-fact.
“And hey—your job isn’t to fact-check clickbait.
Your job is to keep your head clear; mine’s the headlines.
I’ll text you a green dot if it’s quiet, amber if you should skim my summary, red if you need to call me. Otherwise, forget them. Deal?”
“Teddy already made me swear.” The lawyer in me wants to red-pen every lie and draft a defamation memo, but fine—I’ll do as they say. Both of them know more about this than I do. “And, Jen—thanks for running interference.”
“Any time for you. Now—how’s our prove-it list?” I can hear her smile down the line.
“He’s smashing it. Number five tonight—he’s cooking me dinner.”
“I’m happy he’s showing up. And the other thing?” she asks, gentler now.
“Still un-consummated, thank you very much.”
“But you sound…toasty.”
“Let’s say the thermostat got to simmer.”
Heat prickles my cheeks, and I’m suddenly glad Jenna can’t see the grin I’m fighting.
“Rachel…”
I wind a strand of tinsel around a branch, buying a second to steady my voice.
“Look, we kissed, fogged things up. Clothes stayed on, mostly.”
“Mostly makes my Spidey senses tingle.”
I snort, nearly dropping the tinsel. “You and your bloody Spidey senses. Relax. He’s all for taking things quietly in that department. It’s kind of reassuring. Like he wants to wait for the full world tour, not rush into some one-night club gig.”
“Good. Then let him set the pace and let me handle the noise.”
I laugh, small and real. Jenna will be all over this. It’s her job. “Copy that.”
“Just enjoy him spoiling you. It’s what you deserve.” After Pierre, maybe I do. Her voice firms. “Final orders: no clicking, no Googling, text me the moment anything rattles you. Are we clear?”
“Bossy.”
“Loving,” she says. “I got you, hun. Always.”
Placing my phone down, I balance on tiptoe and hook the ridiculous felt pug at the very top of the tree.
His bug-eyed grin dares the world to judge him.
Dad can criticise from five hundred miles away; I’ve got Sam’s stubborn heart, Jenna’s steel spine, and a drummer learning to cook just to impress me.
Their belief twinkles brighter than any fairy light.
Family, I decide, isn’t the voice trying to keep me small. It’s the people who show up, even when the tabloids do. And right now, that’s more than enough.
“Hi Gavin.” I slip into the back seat at five on the dot, the car already smelling of coffee and that pine-tree air freshener he loves. We’ve spent so much time together lately, I half-expect a Christmas card from him.
Fifteen minutes later, he lets me out at the top of Pemberton Square. I step out, tug my coat tighter against the crisp air, and inhale a trace of wood-smoke curling from a distant chimney. No paparazzi, just a dog-walker in a puffer jacket and a huddle of carol singers gathered on the corner.
One week ago, walking along here, everything felt wobbly; now the pieces click into place. The partnership vote is edging from possible to probable, and Teddy—reformed playboy, would-be chef—keeps turning up with reasons to believe him.
The door of number thirty-five swings open before I’m even at the bottom of the steps.
“Tip-off from Gavin?”
“Couldn’t leave you shivering out here.” Teddy leans in the doorway, all slouchy hoodie, weathered jeans, beat-up Vans, curls slightly rumpled. After three years with a man who wouldn’t nip to Tesco without a perfect Windsor knot, his casual ease is intoxicating.
I race up, planting a quick kiss on his warm lips while pressing a bottle of Malbec into his hand.
Inside, in the honeyed glow of the foyer lamps, he slips off my coat, nudging a battered skateboard aside to hang it in an alcove already jammed with bomber jackets and beanies.
The kitchen stretches almost the full width of the house. A restored butcher’s block worktop is strewn with bowls and dishes. A mound of vegetables sits to one side; milk, a slab of butter and a loaf of crusty bread on the other.
“Proof I cooked the dinner myself, not just ordered in and shoved it in the cooker,” he says, setting out a stool and pouring my wine.
The sweet smell of roasting meat drifts from a modern matte black range, set into the original hearth. On the wall above it, a sticky note reads ‘Oven 180° 2 hours’ in Teddy’s distinctive chicken-scratch.
“Turkey? For just the two of us?” He’s seen my appetite, but that’s overkill.
“Just a turkey crown,” he says, sliding a knife from a block. “And I made Mum’s chestnut stuffing myself—in a dish, obviously. Took a few help-desk calls, but I managed.”
“How was your day?” I slide onto a high stool.
“Not bad,” he says. “Could’ve done without Briar dumping those on my doorstep on her way to the theatre.”
His eyes flick to the pile of newspapers at the end of the worktop.
“So, you told me not to read them, but you did?”
“I’m used to it. You’re not.”
“Sam and Jen gave me the short version. Dad, the dramatic one. What do you think?”
“As I said yesterday.” His tone is light. “Could be worse.”
“How much worse? Best I know now so I can brace for it.”
He sighs. “No point sugar-coating it. If there’s anything in your background—even something tiny—that can be spun ugly, you’d better hope they don’t find it.”