One
Briar
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“Now, don’t be dramatic, darling,” my PR manager drawls, examining her nail beds. “It’s not like the man was trying tokillyou.”
I close my eyes, rubbing my temples. It’s just turned four AM, and my head is still spinning from last night’s rosé. Red and blue lights flash through the window of my little pink-tiled kitchen, shining in from the police car parked in my drive. Over my head, I can hear the heavy footsteps and low voices of the police officers investigating upstairs.
I am tired.
“A stranger climbed the side of my house, broke my bedroom window, and jerked off in my bed,” I say slowly. “I’m not being dramatic.”
Julie shrugs from her position at the marble breakfast bar, fishing her compact out of her designer purse. “He didn’t even touch you, babe,” she mumbles, patting powder over her pert nose. “This hardly seems like a reason to fire poor Rodriguez.”
My eyes slide to Rodriguez, my home security guard. He refuses to look at me, shifting uncomfortably in his spot next to Julie. His hair is ruffled, his fly is undone, and his shirt is unbuttoned. Julie’s red lipstick is all over his neck.
It’s not too difficult to work out how the intruder managed to get past my gate.
“Yes,” I say flatly. “It is. Rodriguez, do up your trousers and go.”
His eyes widen. “But, ma’am—”
“Don’tma’amme. You don’t work for me anymore.” I wave at the front door. “Go.”
He stands, puffing his chest out. “Ma’am, really, that’s not fair—”
“Of course it’sfair,” I snap. “You were too busy shagging my staff to notice the strange manbreaking into my bedroom.I pay you six figures, and you still can’t get through an eight-hour shift without getting your rocks off. You’re fired. Now get out of my house, before I call your wife and tell her why you no longer have a job.”
I turn on my heel and leave the kitchen, ignoring the muttered ‘bitch’behind my back.
Right. That’s me. I’m not the one who screwed around on the job and cheated on my pregnant wife. But as per usual,I’mthe bitch.
Of course, most people would agree with him. I’m a well-renowned cow. I even have titles: you are talking to the proud three-time winner ofGossmagazine’s ‘Biggest Celebrity Diva’ award. A major UK newspaper crowned me ‘Britain’s Biggest Bitch’ just a couple of weeks ago. I don’t think they’re actuallysupposedto be awards, but I’ll take them all the same.
I suppose it is kind of my fault. As I step into the corridor, I catch a glimpse of myself in the diamond-studded hallway mirror. Highlighted blonde hair. Veneers. Fake nails. I’m the kind of woman peopleloveto call a bitch.
There’s footsteps on the stairs, and I look up to see a policeman stepping onto the landing, holding a clear evidence bag.
“You got a sample?” I ask, leaning heavily against the wall.
He nods. “Doesn’t guarantee we’ll find the guy, though. If he’s not a repeat UK offender, we won’t have his DNA to match with.”
“Don’t you have databases? Hospital records, or something?”
He rolls his eyes. “We might do that for a more high-profile case, ma’am. Nothin’ as minor as a break-in.” He pulls his phone out of the back pocket of his pants and wiggles his thick black eyebrows. “By the way, my daughter was a massive fan of that TV show you were in, back in the day. You don’t mind snapping me a quick pic, do you?”
I look down at myself. I’m wearing a stained Minnie Mouse pyjama set. Last night’s makeup is smeared around my eyes, which are red, because I’ve been crying. Because I was just the victim of a home invasion.
“Yes,” I tell him, trying to keep my anger under control. “I do mind, actually.”
His face hardens. He turns towards the door, then pauses like he’s remembered something. “Oh. I think this is yours.” He hands me the clear plastic baggie.
I frown, taking it. There’s a Polaroid inside. “What is it?”
“It was under your pillow. Very dramatic.” He presses his lips together. “I have to wonder exactlyhowsomeone would manage to lift up your pillow and put something under it whilst you were sleeping. Unless the intruder was the tooth fairy, it doesn’t seem very likely, does it?”
I don’t respond, taking out the photograph.
