Chapter 9
9
I feel good. I probably don’t look it, with my unwashed hair and my quickly thrown-together outfit, but better to be a bit scruffy than late, surely?
It’s freezing out today, so I’m wearing a super-thick pair of black tights underneath my shirt dress, along with a thigh-high pair of black boots and my black coat with the faux-fur collar – something Tom hilariously (hilarious to him, at least) calls my Jon Snow coat.
My make-up is carrying me today. I’ve gone heavy on the eyes, heavy on the lips – something I often do when I’m overcompensating. Well, if you have either really good hair or really good make-up, they will pick up the slack.
The streets of London are festively frantic. It’s taking all of my effort to navigate the pavement, dodging frantic shoppers as I hurry along to make my meeting on time. I often wonder why it is that everyone loses their marbles at Christmastime?
My mum is the worst for it and now, if these flowers from Jen really do mean I’m no longer being forced to France, then the only downside is that I’ll have to help her with the Christmas food shop, as promised. It’s not that I don’t want to help, it’s just that Mum is as guilty as anyone when it comes to overdoing it. It’s not like it used to be, when the shops would close, so you needed to make sure you were stocked up. These days they’re only really closed on Christmas Day, so there’s no need to panickingly stock up on absolutely everything. Mum is the kind of person who will buy things that no one eats the rest of the year. Things like nuts in their shells, bags and bags of oranges, and enough cheese to make at least twenty cheeseboards. But this is the special Christmas cheese, so no one is allowed to eat it until the main event (or the days that follow). Honestly, one year Dad broke into the cranberry Wensleydale to make a sandwich on 21 December, and I’m surprised Mum didn’t divorce him then.
As I arrive at the Cactus, I notice the same security guard from yesterday. Great, just great. This could go either way. On one hand, he should recognise me and know I’m not a threat. On the other hand, he might hold a grudge and be more likely to give me a hard time.
Deciding to kill him with kindness, I flash him my friendliest smile – as though we’re old friends, bumping into one another in the street – and walk up to him.
‘Hello, you!’ I start – perhaps I need to tone it down a bit. ‘I’m back – again. Here to see Jen Brooks – again.’
Lord, I’m being so awkward. Even I’m suspicious of me.
He squints at me, clearly either trying to remember who I am or pretending he doesn’t recognise me at all. Who could blame him either way?
After a moment, he picks up the phone and dials. He exchanges a few words with someone, in suspiciously hushed tones, before turning back to me.
‘They say Jen isn’t in today,’ he announces with a hint of satisfaction, happy he gets to turn me away, smirking like he’s just won a small battle.
‘She must be,’ I insist, my smile starting to strain. ‘I have a meeting with her.’
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ he says, already looking bored of me, clearly ready to move on to the next person whose day he can ruin.
‘Can I maybe pop up and check?’ I plead, my voice edging into desperation. ‘I really do have a meeting with her – and she only invited me to it today, so it’s not like she’s forgotten already. It’s only bloody midday.’
‘No can do,’ he says, crossing his arms and looking like he’s enjoying this a little too much. His biceps twitch, almost like they’re powering up, as though he’s gearing up to forcibly remove me. I think he’s just waiting for me to give him probable cause.
‘Please,’ I start to beg him, feeling utterly defeated, but sticking with a tone that doesn’t incite violence.
‘It’s okay, she’s with me,’ a male voice interrupts us.
I turn around to see none other than Caleb Carney standing there, looking handsome and confident – and it works.
‘Mr Carney, of course, I didn’t realise she was with you,’ the security guard babbles, practically falling over himself to open the security gate for us.
‘No problem,’ Caleb tells him. ‘Have a great day.’
‘Thanks,’ I mutter, feeling my cheeks flush. Caleb is the last person I expected to be my knight in shining armour – well, in black jeans and a Valentino T-shirt, but you take my point.
‘You’re welcome,’ Caleb says with a grin as we head for the lift. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
Yesterday he was feeling me up, and today he’s offering to buy me a drink. What’s next? I don’t know what he’s up to, but it’s something, and it’s weird.
‘I’m okay, thanks,’ I say plainly.
‘Ah, come on,’ he replies.
‘Look, I don’t know what your game is, but I didn’t appreciate you touching me yesterday, I didn’t need you to save me today, and I don’t need you to buy me a drink, okay? You’re not the main character here, not everything is about you, is it?’
I cringe – inwardly, so he can’t see – at my out-of-character outburst. It reminds me of when I was in Year 6, at a school disco, and a boy that I really fancied asked me to dance with him, and in my panic, I told him to piss off… only for it to turn out that he was asking my friend, not me. I clearly have no idea how to act around seriously attractive men (or boys in my class who, looking back, were awful creatures).
Caleb just laughs at me, his eyes dancing with genuine amusement. I feel like there’s a joke I’m not in on here.
‘I know not everything is about me, but today it is,’ he says, his grin widening. ‘It was me who sent you the flowers, calling you in for a meeting. A meeting with me.’
I’m stunned into silence for a moment. It’s him who wants to see me? Surely not.
‘You sent me the flowers?’ I check – not that it isn’t totally fucking obvious, but I don’t know what else to say.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Sorry if I wasn’t clear when, er, I just said that I did.’
‘How did you find out my address?’ I ask, frowning.
‘I asked around upstairs,’ he explains. ‘My editor asked your editor, I think.’
‘Don’t you think that’s kind of creepy?’ I clap back.
‘Oh, absolutely,’ he replies with a grin. ‘And kind of sexy.’
I’m not sure about it. It’s a GDPR nightmare, if it’s anything.
‘So, why did you send them?’ I ask, cutting to the chase.
‘To meet you,’ he says simply. ‘So, can I buy you that drink?’
I might be rushing to the point but Caleb is still taking a leisurely stroll.
‘They have a really nice café here – I think it’s only supposed to be for people who work in the building, but they let me use it,’ he explains. ‘Everyone here is working, so they tend to be professional, and leave me to my lunch in peace.’
‘Erm, okay, yeah, why not,’ I reply, bemused. I’d be lying if I said my curiosity wasn’t getting the better of me. What on earth could Caleb Carney want with me?
Caleb and I step into the lift together. I can’t believe I just said that. Caleb Carney, and me, getting into a lift, together. What the fuck?
‘I promise I won’t get handsy today,’ he jokes, raising his hands in mock surrender.
‘Thanks,’ I reply dryly, trying to hide a smile.
It’s not that I’m opposed to it, in concept, because I’m only human, but something strange is going on here.
The Cactus cafeteria is far from your average work canteen. It’s more like an upmarket café with prices to match – bloody hell, imagine working somewhere like this. Even the pastries look like they have great pensions.
The pièce de résistance, though, has to be the gorgeous roof terrace attached, which must be like a dream in the summer. Unfortunately, it’s too cold to venture out there today (although I am tempted), but through the big windows, I can see practically every notable landmark in London, from the Shard to the London Eye.
Caleb turns to me with that infuriatingly charming smile.
‘What would you like to drink?’ he asks.
‘Coffee, please,’ I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. ‘A caramel latte, if they do them, if not then just anything sweet.’
‘Anything to eat?’ he asks, eyeing the pastry counter.
I hesitate for a split second before saying, ‘No, I’m good.’
He smiles knowingly.
‘I’ll bring something, just in case you fancy it,’ he tells me. ‘Back in a sec.’
I sit at a table, watching him as he goes to order our drinks. It’s like watching a celebrity on the red carpet. Everyone in here is staring at him because everyone knows who he is, whether they watched Welcome to Singledom or not. The crowd parts around him as he strolls by, casually throwing charming smiles at the ladies and nods at the fellas, making sure that every single one of them feels seen and acknowledged by him. That’s nice, I guess, because there is nothing worse than meeting a celebrity you like, only to find out they’re a dick who doesn’t care about their fans. It’s cute, that he gives them that special encounter, one that they can go and tell their friends and family about. Cynically, I suppose it’s good for business too.
At the counter, the female barista looks like she’s about to faint, her eyes turning into love hearts as she practically drools into the cups. Yum!
Watching their body language, their movements, and their expressions, I can’t help but imagine their dialogue:
‘Oh my God, you’re Caleb Carney!’ she squeals.
‘Guilty as charged,’ Caleb replies with a wink – or something to that effect.
‘This is on the house,’ she insists – I can see that she’s refusing to take his money.
Caleb thanks her, picking up the tray and carrying it over to our table.
Oh, now I’m really intrigued. What on earth could this man want with me?
He sets down my coffee and a selection of sweet treats.
‘I wasn’t sure what you’d like the most, so I got a few options,’ he tells me. ‘A brownie, a blueberry muffin, and a big cookie.’
My God, look at that big cookie – it’s the size of a dinner plate and I want to take it down whole.
‘Wow. How much did all this cost?’ I ask, slowly moving the plate with the cookie in my direction. I’m curious what a selection like this would have set him back. Caleb smiles as he notices.
‘Nothing – they gave it to me,’ he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal.
‘Why would they do that?’ I can’t help but ask.
‘Since I was on TV, this sort of thing just happens,’ he explains casually.
I try to act unimpressed, but inside I’m seething with jealousy. Free cookies? Imagine.
‘So, it was you who sent me the flowers?’ I say, getting the conversation back on track.
‘Yes, it was,’ Caleb admits. ‘We’ve definitely established that. Did you like them?’
‘Obviously, I liked them. Anyone would,’ I reply. ‘They probably cost as much as my rent.’
‘I’m glad,’ he replies. ‘That you like them. Not the rent thing.’
I pull a face at him, bemused.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks. ‘Don’t you like your cookie?’
‘It’s the best fucking cookie I’ve ever had in my life,’ I reply instantly. ‘I’m just wondering what’s going on, why I’m here, what you want from me. Because right now this seems really weird.’
‘Well, that’s probably because it is weird,’ Caleb admits. ‘I have a job offer for you.’
I recall the card that came with the flowers:
Let’s work together.
‘You want me to work with you?’ I ask. ‘How on earth can I do that? Oh, God, don’t tell me you want me to ghostwrite your book because no way, not a chance, I’ve got my own to write, thanks.’
‘Oh, no, it’s nothing like that,’ Caleb replies quickly, and I’m slightly offended that he doesn’t want me to be his ghostwriter – even though I don’t want to do it anyway. ‘Yesterday, when I grabbed you in the lift, I really did think you were my girlfriend – my ex-girlfriend, to be more specific,’ he explains.
I blink at him, on the edge of my seat, waiting to hear more. Even my cookie has lost my attention briefly.
‘Annabelle and I have broken up, but it isn’t public knowledge yet,’ he continues. ‘She dumped me, seemingly out of nowhere, so it was a bit of a shock.’
I hate to admit it but, before I fell asleep last night, I had a look at Annabelle Harvey-Whitaker’s Instagram, and there were no signs that she and Caleb had broken up, although she hasn’t posted anything about him recently.
‘I told Annabelle that I would be here yesterday, and I asked her to meet me – to resolve our unfinished business – so when I saw you in the lift I just assumed that you were here, that she had turned up, and that she wanted to get back together. It’s so strange, how alike the two of you look. Your figure, your body language – even your hands are the same.’
Caleb takes my hand in his, examining it, holding it like a specimen as he marvels at the fact I’m apparently his ex-girlfriend’s hand twin. I never thought a man would only want me for my body but, if he did, this is definitely not what I had in mind. I can’t help but glance around, feeling a few pairs of eyes on us.
‘Facially you look nothing like her, though,’ he’s quick to add. ‘You definitely have your own face.’
I frown. Annabelle is absolutely stunning so, if I were in that sort of mood, I could definitely interpret that as a reminder that I’m not as attractive. Maybe I’m reaching, though.
‘Okay, I get it, I don’t actually look anything like her,’ I say, taking my hand back. But then I soften because it’s not nice when a relationship comes to an end. ‘I’m sorry to hear that you broke up.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ he replies. ‘Because it’s going to cost me a fortune.’
‘Eh?’ I blurt, confused.
‘I make most of my money from brand collaborations – we both do – and I have all these products that I need to post on my socials, so the plan was that the two of us would go on a trip, take a bunch of photos, and then the money would come rolling in,’ he explains. ‘The plan was to take all of the products on a romantic trip away, because it’s the two of us as an “it” couple or whatever that makes us more valuable to brands. I don’t get paid until I post the content they want, and I can’t post the content they want without Annabelle,’ he explains.
‘You can’t take them without her?’ I reply.
‘A lot of them are for couples, or just for women,’ he tells me. ‘So, I can’t do it without her, or without someone who looks just like her, so I was thinking, why don’t you come with me?’
I fall about laughing – but then I quickly realise that he isn’t joking.
‘Is this like a Pretty Woman kind of deal?’ I blurt.
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ he quickly insists. ‘I’m thinking because you look like Annabelle, from the right angles, that you could come with me, and be strategically placed in the photos, and that way I can get paid – and I would pay you, of course, fifty-fifty.’
‘You want to pay me half of what you’re getting just to be a prop in your photos?’ I ask, raising an eyebrow. ‘How much are we talking?’
‘ Thousands ,’ he admits, widening his eyes for effect. ‘Plus, you get a free holiday – anywhere you want, really. Annabelle booked the place we were headed, so I need to arrange somewhere.’
‘But if it’s supposed to be you and Annabelle in the photos, you can’t just have someone pretend to be her, surely she’ll expect the money?’ I point out.
‘I won’t get into it, about how we have different managers, and accountants, and the tax reasons behind it, but basically we make deals individually, and separately,’ he explains. ‘Some are mine, some are hers, but my contracts are mine alone, and they don’t specify that it has to be Annabelle in the photos, it’s just assumed it will be, as she’s my girlfriend. I can have any girl I want, in the photos, but with our break-up not being public knowledge yet, and me needing to get these photos online ASAP, it wouldn’t look good, to have some new, random girl with me, it would look like I was cheating, or moving on too quickly, and brands don’t want associating with that.’
I guess that makes sense, as bleak as it is.
‘This is the money I live on, and it’s thousands, Amber, and I can’t afford to lose it, not until my author career takes off,’ he explains. ‘Do you think I would ask you, if I wasn’t desperate?’
Hopefully he doesn’t mean that the way it sounds. But I see where he’s coming from, he hasn’t just lost his relationship, he’s lost his income, and when you look at it like that, who wouldn’t approach a random girl who could be the answer to all of their problems?
I’m tempted, for a moment, but then I remember that with the flowers being from Caleb and not Jen, it means I’m still going to France.
‘I’d love to,’ I say, which isn’t strictly true, but I’m letting him down anyway. ‘But I’ve already got a free holiday lined up. I’m going tomorrow.’
‘Where to?’ he asks, looking genuinely interested.
‘A ski resort in France,’ I say. ‘La Coq… Coq… Coq…’
Lord have mercy, why can’t I stop stuttering the word cock at this man?
‘La Coquelicot Blanche?’ Caleb says, letting me off the hook. ‘That place is super exclusive. I’ve been invited before, but I’ve never been. Do you know how impossible it is to book in there? It books up so far in advance, it takes money, and influence – anyway, that would be a great place to do it, so I could meet you there?’
‘You could meet me there?’ I reply plainly. After everything he just said? Is he serious? ‘I’m staying in a chateau, in the grounds, with some other authors.’
‘I could create my content there, for sure,’ he says, as though that answers my question.
Wow, he really is desperate.
‘Yeah, sure, I’ll just meet you there,’ I say sarcastically.
If it’s impossible to get in, he won’t meet me there at this short notice, will he?
Before Caleb can reply, my phone starts ringing. It’s Jen, my editor. I hold up a finger to Caleb, mouthing: ‘I need to take this.’
‘Of course,’ he says, leaning back in his chair. ‘I’ll eat this muffin while you’re gone.’
I answer the call as I wander towards the exit.
‘Hey, Jen!’ I say brightly.
‘Amber! Someone at the office mentioned you turned up to see me,’ Jen says. ‘I’m not in today.’
I scramble for a believable excuse.
‘Oh, yes, I was just checking the details about the France trip,’ I lie. ‘You said you were going to send things through…’
‘Great to see you’re so keen!’ Jen chirps. ‘Everything you need for the trip has been emailed to you – it should be in your inbox now. Just bring your passport, your laptop, and pack your bag.’
‘Great,’ I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. It feels far from great, though. I force a smile, even though she can’t see me. ‘Thanks, Jen. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘And I’m looking forward to hearing all about it! Safe travels, Amber,’ she says before hanging up.
I stand there for a moment, my phone still pressed to my ear, processing what this means. When I turn back to look at Caleb, he’s surrounded by a group of women, because of course he is. They’re giggling and fluttering around him like moths around the big light.
Ohhh, suddenly it makes sense, the real reason he’s brought me up here for a drink, and not taken me to a nearby bar or café – he doesn’t want to be seen with me. If he was, and we were photographed together, then it would be instantly obvious that I wasn’t Annabelle, as soon as someone saw my face. That must be why he wants me to go away to take photos with him too – somewhere he’s less likely to be chased by paparazzi, so that he could keep my identity a secret.
Imagine if I could accept his offer – getting paid thousands of pounds just to hold a bottle here, wear a necklace there, or whatever it is influencers flog. It sounds like a dream. But dreams don’t pay the bills forever, do they? Whatever I would make from this one-time secret influencer gig wouldn’t last a lifetime, and it certainly wouldn’t help build the career I’ve worked so hard on for years. I can’t give up on it now. I have to go to France, and I have to make something work that Jen will accept. And, whether I can live with it, well, that would be nice, but it might not be possible.
I take a deep breath and decide not to return to Caleb. He looks busy anyway, and I have a bag to pack. Me? Avoiding an awkward conversation? Oh, you bet. Well, I’m not exactly used to rejecting men (in any format) so I can’t imagine I’m all that good at it.
As I walk away, I can’t help but feel a pang of regret. It would have been nice to live like an influencer, even it was just for a holiday, but I need to think about my future, and how I can make sure it’s a good one.
I’m sure future Amber will thank me later.