I turn grumpily and lead her back down the hall.
‘Have you checked your phone yet?’ Her voice has an unusually nervous edge to it.
‘Uh, no, becauseyou just woke me up.’
‘Good.’ I think she meanssorry.
I flop on the sofa and cross my arms as huffily as I can over my camisole. Mara’s not the hysterical type, so a crack-of-dawn visit from her is very out of character.
‘Where’s your phone?’
‘On my bedside table. Why?’
She exhales. ‘Leave it there. And listen to me. I don’t want you to jump to any conclusions. But there’s something you need to see. Here. Have a coffee.’
‘Okay…’ I take the cup she offers.
‘It’s’—she clears her throat—‘following on from the T-shirt stuff.’
Of course it is. To say the press has gone crazy over Josh’s Instagram photos of us wearingI [heart] JLT-shirts is an understatement. The speculation that an engagement announcement is imminent has reached fever-pitch, as has the heated debate over whether it’s anti-feminist of me to wear my heart on my sleeve (or my boobs) so openly without Josh reciprocating. It’s frankly ridiculous.
I roll my eyes. ‘I can’t imagine what they’re saying that could warrant you showing up here at 7am.’
‘It’s something Josh said.’ Mara takes a slug of her coffee and looks straight at me. ‘In response to Gordon Kay.’
Gordon Kay is the British version of Jimmy Kimmel or Jimmy Fallon. He’s the biggest, longest-standing chat show host on this side of the Atlantic. He’s Scottish, and irreverent, and very funny. It’s no wonder he gets the biggest names on his sofa. I’ve been trying to avoid T-shirt-gate, but I’m aware he’s been ribbing both of us on Twitter.
‘What’s he said?’
She picks up her phone and scrolls. ‘This. Remember, babe, we have no context, okay? But you need to get hold of Josh ASAP.’
I take her phone. Gordon has retweeted some stupid meme of Josh and me in our T-shirts and tagged Josh in it.
No big deal.
But Josh’s response is a big deal.
I blink.
I look up at Mara, because I can’t take it in.
Is this a joke?
He’s written:Dude. Elle and I aren’t together anymore.
My peripheral vision goes black.
My world narrows to pin-points.
I’m vaguely aware of Mara kneeling in front of me and taking my coffee cup out of my hand.
And then I have a lightbulb moment. ‘He’s been hacked. He must have been. Hasn’t he?’
‘Could be,’ she says carefully. ‘It’s one explanation.’
‘Josh would never write that!’
‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’
