I have a grand total of 53 missed calls on my phone, and twice as many message notifications. Or, at least, Ididat the point where I decided just to switch the thing off altogether, to avoid the temptation of actually answering it — which I absolutelycannotdo, on account of the strict non-disclosure agreement I signed last night, promising not to tell a single soul about what’s really going on with me and Jett.
Not even Summer.
Not even Mum.
Mum. She’d called at least half a dozen times before I switched my phone off, and I’m willing to bet she’s probably on her way to the airport right now, desperate to get herself out here and bask in my reflected glory.
Well,Jett’sreflected glory.
I glance nervously around the room, almost as if I’m expecting her to step out from behind the curtains, like a magician.
Honestly, I’d put nothing past that woman. Nothing at all.
The suite, though, is totally empty. And, for just a fraction of a second, I don’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.
Hi, I’m Lexie, and my toxic trait is hoping you’ll call me, then refusing to pick up when you do. Please leave a message after the beep…
Ididlisten to one of the messages, though. The very first one, in fact.
“Lexie, darling, call me when you get this,” she said, sounding slightly breathless — the excitement, I assume — but otherwise normal. As if it hadn’t been almost a year since we last spoke. As if that final conversation hadn’t ended with me deciding that driving to the airport and getting on the first available flight (Thank God it was California, and not that place in Alaska where the sun doesn’t rise for weeks on end, is all I can say…) was my best option under the circumstances.
There’s no trace of that in Mum’s breezy little message, though, and I’m strangely deflated as I listen to it. It’s not that I expected her to apologize or anything like that. I know that’s not her style. But to act likeabsolutely nothing happenedis cold, even for her.
Isn’t it funny how easy it is for some people topretend?
Not that I can talk, mind you. Mum might have her moments — and, trust me, Mum has alotof moments — but she’s not the one who just signed a contract agreeing to a fake relationship with a movie star, is she?
No, that was me. I did that. OfcourseI did. And although I’d love to be able to say I did it because of the whole work visa situation — that my hands were tied and I had absolutely no choice in the matter — the truth is that I did it for her. For Mum. To prove to her that I’m perfectly fine without her in my life; that I’ve moved on and moved up, and that I don’t even care that she hasn’t bothered to call me since the day I left Heather Bay.
So there.
How do you like me now, Samantha Steele?
“Helloooo? Lexie, are you in there?”
I’m so busy mentally squaring up to my mother that it takes a few seconds for me to realize someone’s banging on the door. I jump up and open it, to find Grace standing there, her arms weighed down with expensive-looking shopping bags.
“Here,” she says, tossing them onto the bed. “Take your pick.”
I circle the packages like a vulture, peering into each bag in turn, and finding them filled to the brim with stuff. Clothes. Makeup. Expensive skincare products. A small, fluffy teddy bear with the words “I wuff you” embroidered on its tiny t-shirt.
“Whoops, that’s mine, sorry,” says Grace, turning scarlet as she reaches it. “I must have swept it off my bed along with all the other stuff.”
She nods to the bags on the bed.
“These are all PR samples,” she says. “Asher had them sent over. I wasn’t sure what size you were, or what you’d like, so I just brought a bit of everything.”
“So… I get to keep this stuff?” I ask, amazed. “Like,forever?”
“And ever,” Grace confirms. “Consider it a perk of the job. Like the hotel room.”
She goes over to the window and pulls open the curtains, letting the sunlight stream in, and I smile at her uncertainly. The suite is beautiful, don’t get me wrong; it’s the most luxurious place I’ve ever stayed in my life, and, under normal circumstances, I’d be reveling in its opulence, while emptying the mini bar.
I’m not here for a break, though. I’m here purely because, by the time I was ready to leave Jett’s place yesterday, the paparazzi had already found their way to my front door, and were camped outside it, prompting a flurry of messages from Summer and Amy, all of which I had to ignore, on Asher’s strict instructions. When he wasn’t looking, though, I snuck my phone out of my bag and sent Summer a quick message.
“Sorry,” I wrote, wondering which emoji would be most appropriate for situations where you inadvertently set the paps on your housemates, because of your imaginary boyfriend. “Can’t talk now. Will explain everything soon. Don’t worry. X”
Shewillworry, though. I mean, whowouldn’t?And the fact that I can’t just call her and tell her what’s going on is the worst thing about this whole bizarre setup.
