I can still feel the plug. It’s becoming very distracting, and Alec is not helping matters. As the men eat and talk over my head, he keeps one hand under the blanket, stroking my arse possessively. Every so often, the heel of his palm nudges the flared base of the plug, and I quiver all over, my insides turning to goo. The third time it happens, I notice Fraser look at me narrowly.
“You feeling better, petal?” he asks as I dig into my slice of strawberry cake.
“Better?”
“Aye, you’re being very quiet. You’re not upset about what happened in the store, are you?”
I set my bowl down. My mouth is suddenly too dry to eat. “No. I just feel a bit silly about getting upset. When I go back to London, I’ll be confronted like that all the time. I need to grow a thicker skin.”
“Why do you do this job?” Cameron demands. “It makes you miserable.”
“It doesn’t make memiserable.”
“It does,” he argues. “It makes you tired. Upset. More than a job should.”
I mean to lie. I open my mouth to tell him that this job is perfect for me—I get free clothes, I get paid well, I get to play with fashion all day. But for some reason, under the stars with the loch lapping a few feet away, I tell the truth.
“It’s all I’ve ever been good at,” I admit.
Fraser frowns. “What?”
I fiddle with the corner of the blanket. “I’ve never been good at anything before.”
“That can’t be true,” Alec says. I dimly feel him pull his hand from under the blanket and wrap his arm around me in a hug.
I smile wanly. I guess he thinks this isn’t an arseplay conversation. Shame. “No, it is true, actually. My whole life, I’vebeen chronically below average at everything. No matter how hard I tried. And it’s okay!” I say quickly when Fraser looks like he wants to argue. “Like, some children are naturally talented, and some stay up all night studying to get a C. My mum used to get me all of these extra tutors to try and help me with exams, and I’d still do badly. Even when I got into fashion school…” I trail off, embarrassment twisting in me.
“You never said why you dropped out,” Alec says softly. “Did something happen?”
I laugh. The sound is hollow. “No, nothing happened. I just…couldn’t keep up.”
It’s funny, really. After I got my ADHD diagnosis at the end of secondary school, I was sure that university would be better. I finally had a reason for why everything always felt so hard for me. I was medicated. And I’d be studyingfashion.The one thing I loved more than anything else.
Mum was furious, of course. She wanted me to do law. But I was so sure I’d prove her wrong. I’d finally be able to show her I was good at something. I genuinely didn’t see how I could fail.
I was wrong.
“It was just too hard for me,” I admit. “The uni gave me so much help. They assigned me a support worker. I got counselling and extra time in exams. I was always studying. I workedso hard,and I still just…couldn’t do it. In fashion school, the skills build on each other every week. If you fall behind, you get avalanched. In the end, I was in so over my head that my tutor said I’d never make it up.”
The memory makes me feel cold. I remember her patronising tone as she told meIt’s not your fault you’re so behind. You’re clearly trying as hard as you can. I just think it’s best you cut your losses.She was probably thrilled to get rid of me so she could stop being blinded by glitter every week.
I look out across the loch, at the shadows of the mountains. “The one thing I thought I would be good at,” I say, “and I still failed. Catastrophically.” None of the men says anything. I take a deep breath and pick up my bowl.
“But,” I say. “I am good at being an influencer. I’m good at recognising patterns in what’s trending. I’m good at posting popular content. I’m good at showing people what they want to see. Major brands want to work with me. People like me. So.” I stab my fork into a strawberry. “That’s why I keep doing this job.” I take a bite.
“But they don’t like you,” Cameron says quietly.
“Well. No,” I admit. “Not right now. But hopefully, when Lulu has done a bit more PR magic?—”
“No one likes you,” Cameron says. “No one even knows you.”
I meet his eyes. He’s watching me steadily from across the blanket. “No one likes you,” he repeats. “Because you’re a liar.”
My heart beats harder, and I put down the cake. “Excuse me?”
FIFTY-FOUR
SUMMER
