Somewhere in the chaos, I realize my earpiece has gone silent. Either Simon ripped it out in a fit of sweaty rage, or he’s collapsed behind the control panel.
Either way, the silence is deafening.
CHAPTER 2
Daisy
“Do you think I’mfired?” I ask Lizzie as I wriggle into my skin-tight jeans.
I hate the ridiculous pleated Union Jack skirts they make us wear on set. And don’t even get me started on the tights. Every pair I own slowly slides south during broadcasts, sagging around my knees by the end so I look like I’ve got oversized, sagging labia dragging me down with every step.
My fifteen-year-old self would be horrified to discover I’m still dealing with pleated skirts and tights in my twenties.
Lizzie shuts her locker with a gentle click. “No, babe. But you might be back to selling hedge trimmers to perverts for a while.”
She pauses, clearly rummaging for something—anything—positive to say. “It’s not your fault there were plumbing issues. Honestly, you were good! The water spraying everywhere added a certainje ne sais quoito the demonstration. Like . . . performance art.”
I laugh, the sound sharp, as I yank my hair into a messy bun. “More likeje ne sais what-the-fuck-was-that.I cried, Lizzie. Over a bidet. If there exists a career cliff, I swan-dived right off it.”
“Maybe no one clocked it?” she tries, though her voice wobbles with the lie even she can’t sell, before tilting her head and asking, “What actually went down out there, anyway?”
“That stupid bidet reminded me of Charlie. And I got angry. Seeing his smug engagement photos all over social media last night . . . It boiled over.”
Lizzie blinks. “Abidetreminded you of your ex?”
“Long story,” I mutter, shoving the BritShop skirt into my locker. “Probably one for a therapist’s couch someday, but they’ve got one in every bathroom at the Cavendish estate.”
“Weird.” She scrunches her nose. “I’ve never even used a bidet. Don’t know anyone who owns one, either.”
“Yeah, well, I saw plenty of weird things growing up. I once watched Mrs. Cavendish eat a banana with a knife and fork. Toffs might have two eyes and a nose like the rest of us, but they’re a completely different species. Trust me, bidets are the least bizarre thing about them.”
“Yeah, I got that impression from Edward.”
I stiffen, my spine going ramrod straight at the mention of Charlie’s older brother.
Lizzie clocks my reaction and smirks. “I feel like a complete numpty just trying to string a sentence together around him, so I just nod and let out these pathetic little giggles, hoping to god he doesn’t expect me to say anything that proves I’ve got a functioning brain.”
“Tell me about it. God fucking forbid anyone be anything less than perfect in his presence. The man probably corrects the nurses’ grammar while he’s performing surgery.”
London’s meant to be this sprawling, chaotic beast of a city where you can vanish into the masses, isn’t it?
Like fuck it is.
Somehow, no matter where I go, I’m ambushed by reminders of Charles—the golden child of the Cavendish dynasty. “Charlie” to his friends. Not that I know any other Charlies unless you count the king, and I don’t exactly have him on speed dial.
The family’s proper old money—£2.9 billion, landed gentry, minor nobility—the kind of posh just shy of absurd.
And in a spectacularly cruel twist of fate, my best mate at BritShop—down-to-earth Lizzie—just happens to be tight with the girlfriend of Edward Cavendish’s best mate.
Some big-shot finance bloke named Liam McLaren, private equity mogul, billionaire, probably a wanker.
And Edward? He won’t even look at me without making it painfully clear he disapproves of everything I am—the walking disaster who had the audacity to date his precious baby brother.
“Still,” Lizzie says.
“Still what?”
“He’s handsome, isn’t he?”
