‘You’re beautiful, Ally.’
‘No, no, no, not that. We’re not doing that,’ I said, waving my hands in front of me. ‘Way too messy. Particularly now. All I need is a second photo to surface – “Ally Novak also spotted with herfirstex-husband!” – and I’mcompletelyfucking fucked. The social-media hounds will eat me alive for being the biggest hypocrite on the planet!’
This was not an exaggeration, even though hyperbolising was a favourite pastime of mine.
‘I should go,’ he said.
‘Yes, you should. I imagine Elsa is wondering where you got to,’ I added – couldn’t resist.
He gave me a lipless smile, his expression pained. There was a lot more for us to discuss, but all that could wait. Or I could use the same tactic I’d had since we split up and avoid him entirely. Avoidance wasdefinitelyone of my superpowers.
He left without another word, and it was only afterwards that I remembered what he’d said about Elsa.It’s not what you think.
WhatdidI think? I didn’t like her. And more to the point, I didn’t like her for Tommy. But then again, I wouldn’t likeanyonefor Tommy besides me.
But I wasnotgoing to wish for something that would inevitably hurt me.
Besides, one catastrophe at a time.
Before I worried about Tommy or the European tech billionaire, I had to see Julian about this bloody Instagram post. But I couldn’t give the mystery photographer more ammunition, so I went into the bedroom and hunted through everything I’d brought with me, coming up with the perfect disguise.
17
Thought of the day…
When life feels overwhelming, start with something small,then move onto the next small thing.
(And, yes, eating a packet of biscuits one by one counts.)
For the second time today, I stood outside Julian’s villa, but before knocking, I listened at the door to see if he was alone. Which I soon realised was silly. IsFortress Chican architectural style?
I knocked loudly, then waited. And waited. Perhaps he’d gone down to his office or had flown somewhere in that on-call helicopter. I was about to go when the door swung open.
Julian cocked his head at me in surprise. ‘Why do you look like a Beastie Boy?’
‘That reference dates you, Jules. And didn’t they wear baseball caps?’
I pushed past him, but paused in the entry – this would be a quick visit.
He closed the door. ‘All right, then why are you dressed like… whatever that is?’
I was wearing baggy trousers, a hoodie, trainers, and giant sunglasses, with my hair piled under a bucket hat – my go-to I-don’t-want-to-be-recognised-at-the-airport outfit.
‘Because of this,’ I said, shoving my phone in his face.
He squinted at the screen; longsightedness gets everyone eventually and Julian was still too vain to wear glasses. Two seconds later, his eyes widened.
‘Oh no.’
‘That’s putting it mildly. Do you know anything about this?’
‘Why don’t you come in?’ he said, heading towards the bar – not a minibar, mind you, but a full-sized, fully stocked bar. ‘Drink?’
‘No. Just an answer, thank you very much.’
I edged into the enormous room and perched on the end of a sofa. Julian poured himself a slug of his favourite whisky – fifty-year-old Highland Park – knocked it back, then poured another finger.
Finally, he faced me. ‘I really am sorry. I got it in my head that?—’
