I forcibly unstick myself from the door and switch on the lights. They illuminate a large postal bag full of PR parcels in the centre of my kitchen. Lulu must have brought them over.
I should go through them. I should get organised. I’ve hidden from work long enough. God knows how behind I am.
Instead, I traipse over to the fridge and scan the inside. There’s not much. I have sparkling water, ketchup, and a few bottles of wine. I pull one out, unscrew the top, and sip from the bottle as I head back to my bedroom.
I feel a tiny bit better as I step inside. My room is the same as ever—pink, warm, and covered in soft, fluffy things. I stepinside my wardrobe to grab some pyjamas and stare blankly at the endless racks of clothes.
I have so many. Half still have the tags on. Half were sponsored or sent to me for free. And almost none of them are things that I would actually choose to wear. The rack closest to me is full of boring neutral clothes in white and cream and beige and black. Behind that, I can see last season’s skimpy bodycon dresses and skintight jeans. Before that, office-chic was very in, so I have rows of neatly pressed skirts and stockings and heels. Every era of my influencer life is neatly lined up on the rails. Every person I tried to be.
I have my dream closet. And I hate almost everything in it.
None of the clothes worked anyway. It didn’t really matter what version of myself I tried on for the world, people always had something to say. I was too frumpy or too sexy or too casual or trying too hard.The Grand Chroniclearticle floats through my head.
Faye has clearly mastered the art of becoming whatever she needs to be to be liked by the masses, with the unfortunate side effect of ironing out anything that was ever admirable or interesting about herself.
I sigh and shove aside the clothes until I get to the very back of my closet, where all my abandoned sewing projects ended up. Hidden in one corner is the handmade pink flapper dress I wore at my first ever brand event. I wince at the streams of sparkles. The other influencers must have thought I was a weirdo for showing up in this.
I touch one of the tassels. I spent weeks sewing these onto the fabric. I was so proud of it.
I shake myself and emerge to the front of my closet to grab some pyjamas. As I get changed, my phone falls out of my pocket and bounces on the carpeted floor. It’s been silenced all day. I’vebeen too scared to look at it. But I think I’m getting sick of being scared.
I head back into my room, plop down on my bed, and unsilence it. It immediately blows up. I have calls from acquaintances, friends, and unknown numbers. About a million from Lulu. And a string of notifications from Fraser and Cameron.
Taking another gulp of wine, I tap on Lulu’s messages first. She’s sent me updates about the party she’s planning for me. I skim through them. Her last messages are from a couple hours ago.
LULU:
Ok I don’t know why you’re IGNORING ME but I can see that you’re coming home so YAY
I will be over tomorrow a.m. with guest-list recs and coffee
I am so excited for you I love you
Well, at least I don’t have to do anything about that. I take my time weeding through the rest of my notifications.
Hey there, Summer. We at Marie are in love with this “sad girl glam” trend you’ve started. Would you have any interest in shouting out our latest mascara collection on social media?
SUMMER BABE it’s been so long! I know we haven’t spoken in forever, but I’m actually in London this weekend. How do I get on the list for your 5 mil party?
Okay this #SadGirlSummer thing is genius and we have to collab. Call me x
To my surprise, I even have a missed call from my mum. I listen to the voicemail.
Hi, Summer, I’m just checking in to remind you to take your meds. If you can’t handle it yourself, I’ll have my assistant send you a daily reminder?—
I hang up.
Eventually, I’m just left with the messages I’ve been avoiding most. I have twenty missed calls from Fraser, and a few from Cameron. Nothing from Alec.
Guilt twists me. I feel terrible for leaving Fraser and Cameron without saying goodbye, but what else was I supposed to do? Alec wanted me gone. I couldn’t stay. I can’t be where someone doesn’t want me.
I start scrolling through Fraser’s text thread. My heart hurts more with every message I read.
FRASER:
Oh sweetheart
Alec told me what happened. I’m going to kill him
