I roll my eyes. “If you’re into that sort of thing.”
“Thatsortof thing? You mean tall, dark, and handsome? Sure, fine, whatever you say, love.”
I let out a grunt. “Fuck them all. The whole lot of them.”
Lizzie squeezes my hand, her teasing melting into something softer. “Hey, it’s only raw because he’s just got engaged. But you don’t still like Charlie, do you? Like, really—could you ever have seen yourself settling down with him?”
Here’s the thing: I absolutely could.
Years ago, I spun entire daydreams around it, scribblingMrs. Charles Cavendishin the margins of my school notebooks, hearts and all. Like I was auditioning for the role of a Victorianromance heroine—the kind of woman who keeps her elbows off the table and arranges flowers for fun.
But what cuts deepest isn’t that I was deluded—it’s that no one else believed in it, like the notion of me fitting into Charlie’s world was so laughable, it bordered on absurdity.
I exhale sharply. “Why does everyone act like it’s impossible? Like I’m not good enough?”
Lizzie’s eyes widen in horror. “Oh my god, no! You’retoogood for him.”
“My whole life people have warned me.Be careful, Daisy. Don’t get your hopes up, Daisy.Like I’m some naive idiot who needs protecting from her own stupidity.”
She winces, biting her lip. “It’s not that—” She hesitates. “It’s just . . . they’re not like us, are they? You’re better off with a normal bloke. Someone who can have a laugh, go down the pub, who doesn’t”—she waves a hand vaguely—“use bidets and all that posh nonsense.”
“Would’ve been nice if someone clued me in before I spent years being his dirty little secret,” I mutter, yanking my compact from my bag.
I swipe mascara onto my lashes like war paint, because apparently, some part of me still thinks if I just get my eyelashes right, the Cavendishes might finally accept me.
Like another coat of MAC is all it takes to upgrade me from “staff cottage” to “stately home.”
Yes, I know how pathetic this is.
But logic doesn’t erase years of trying to be good enough.
I’ve met the woman of my dreams, Charlie had crowed on Instagram, posing in the Cavendish manor gardens with that smug grin plastered on, and guess what’s peeking out in the corner of the shot—yep, the gardener’s shed where we used to shag like rabbits.A woman who stands shoulder-to-shoulderwith me in every regard. Someone who brings honor to the Cavendish name.
Translation: Not the cleaning lady’s daughter who grew up knowing which products get red wine out of rugs.
The worst part? There’s no escaping him.
Mum still works for the Cavendishes. And I’m the maid of honor at his sister’s wedding—despite Mrs. C’s barely concealed horror at the idea.
Which means I get a front-row seat to him parading his new fiancée around at every single wedding-related event.
And no, I don’t still like him. It’s been years. But that fucker humiliated me, and I willneverforgive him for it.
“Fancy a trip to the pub?” Lizzie offers. “Quick one to drown your sorrows?”
I snap my compact shut. “Can’t. Meeting Hot Doc. Third date, and he hasn’t revealed himself to be an absolute twat yet, so that’s progress.”
Lizzie nods approvingly. “That doctor is fit. Go for it.”
“Oh, I fully intend to,” I reply, injecting my voice with a boldness I don’t quite feel. Because beneath the bravado, I’m wondering how long it’ll take for him to figure out I’m barely held together by a push-up bra, sarcasm, the cheapest mascara Tesco sells, and a fragile sense of self-worth.
And yes, I know using sex as a coping mechanism isn’t healthy. But it helps.
There’s something about getting absolutely railed that clears the mind, making all the other bullshit fade—if only for a sweaty, panting half hour or so.
And I really,reallylove sex. Like, a possibly inappropriate amount, if I’m honest. My brain’s always drifting off to the dirtiest corners at the worst possible times.
Like when I’m hovering over the reduced section at Tesco, wondering if the fish fingers are still good while simultaneously picturing someone pinning me against the freezer aisle.
