Coupled with that, there’s also Oscar’s temper to deal with. He swore at me last night. Wanted to know if I’d said something out of line about the reviewer that may have got back to them. Oscar believes this particular person is vain enough to take out their revenge via a review. I know I haven’t said anything out of place but I’ve still been awake all night going over every conversation I can remember that could have in any way been misconstrued. And I’ve drawn a blank.
Everything’s a mess and I’m virtually on the other side of the planet from you. And I know, unlike Oscar, you actually care about me. I miss you. Tell me everything’s going to be okay?
Love
C
x
Regan typed a hasty reply:
Everything is going to be okay.
Love
R
X
P.S. Oscar is a twat.
P.P.S. Will write properly later.
Chapter Ten
While Regan tried to drown her hangover in coffee, she studied her lottery wish list with fresh eyes. Charlie had a point about how genuine this list was. It was all the key things she really wanted to change in her life. Could some of them really be possible without winning the lottery? She’d certainly enjoyed herself last night without spending a penny. Although obviously Charlie had and she wasn’t expecting him to pay for everything going forward. It made her think of Charlie and a warm glow lit her up inside – and this time it wasn’t being caused by the wine. He was quite simply perfect. He was the whole deal physically, and also everything she didn’t even know she wanted in a companion and a relationship. At least something good had come out of this disaster. Whether he was entirely worth it … only time would tell.
She’d had another uncomfortable night in the chair and her neck ached. If she wasn’t careful she’d have a permanent disfigurement from sleeping curled up like a cat. What she needed was a bed. She was almost fantasising about having a bed again. And not just because of the fun she and Charlie could have in it … right now a decentnight’s sleep was even more appealing than sex, which was saying something.
A good night’s sleep: that was her goal. It was an odd place to get motivation from, but motivation it was.
Regan pulled her attention back to the list. She decided the island with bare-chested waiters would have to wait, as would the pedigree puppy, but the idea of running her own company was sparking something inside her brain. She had always wanted to be her own boss. At school, her Olympic-level laziness had been much maligned by teachers but practically worshipped by her peers, and so it had been something she was extremely proud of. Now she could see it hadn’t done her any favours over the years. It would be a hard habit to break, but if she was working for herself, all the time and effort she put in would directly benefit her – something that had an even greater appeal than doing nothing.
If she were to set up a company, what sort of thing would she do? She put down the list, hugged her coffee mug and thought. It would have to be something that made money; otherwise what was the point? Her mind was blank. She looked around the studio. Cleo had a gift for painting. Some of the things she’d painted over the years had been stunning, but it was the nipple work that had brought her fame and, most importantly, fortune. She could tell by the tone of Cleo’s email that she was worried about the bad review, but nothing bad ever happened in Cleo’s life so Regan doubted it would be anything more than a bump in the road. Regan’s road was one giant bump, and she had to work out how to overcome it. If she was to work for herself she needed a breakthrough idea. She needed her own nipple, so to speak. But for now, it eluded her.
Regan’s phone sprang into life. A FaceTime from Cleo. Regan panicked and scanned the room quickly. She couldn’t cancel it knowing how worried Cleo had sounded in her email. The toilet door was pretty nondescript. She dashed over to it, pointed the phone at a suitable angle and answered the call.
‘Hiya.’ She beamed at the camera and then realised how manic she looked and tried to calm it down. ‘I’m at my dad’s,’ she volunteered, trying hard to appear normal.
‘Oh, right. Is he all right?’ asked Cleo, her expression one of concern.
‘Yeah, he’s fine.’
Cleo was frowning. Her perfect skin puckered. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work? I thought it was about eleven in the morning at home.’ She seemed quite confused.
Shit, thought Regan. ‘Yes. Yes, it is eleven o’clock on Monday. So that makes it what time where you are?’
‘It’s seven in the evening. But is your da—’
‘And where are you exactly?’ asked Regan, brightly talking over Cleo in an attempt to distract her, because she had absolutely no idea why she would be at her dad’s in the middle of the day barring medical emergency or catastrophic disaster.
‘Japan,’ said Cleo, bluntly. She was still frowning. ‘Why are you at your dad’s?’
She clearly wasn’t going to let it go and the odd camera angle Regan was having to maintain to avoid the bare brick studio wall was making her already achy neck spasm. A thought struck her. ‘Tara! Tarty Tara has …’Come on, brain, what the hell has Tarty Tara done?pleaded Regan. She scanned the studio for inspiration. ‘… got her tits out.’Really? Is that the best you could do?she admonished her brain.
‘She’s done what?’ asked Cleo, looking suitably horrified.
‘She … um … boob-flashed someone. Yes, that’s right,’ said Regan, so far out of her comfort zone it was like rolling naked on a cheese grater. ‘Tara was out with a friend. She’d drunk too much. Mixed red and white wine,’ she said, taking inspiration from last night’s empty bottles. ‘And she flashed her boobs at some guy in the street. Only it wasn’t some guy, it was an off-duty police officer and she got herself arrested.’ Regan gasped for breath. She’d told the whole made-up story on one lungful of air and was now quite exhausted.
