What if Iama one-trick pony and the whole world sees me for what I am? An emotionally stunted guy, only capable of stepping into other emotionally stunted roles?
No.
That thing sparks in my chest again.
The first flame of a fire that’s going to burn bright.
I’m going to pull this off if it’s the last thing I do.
Because if I don’t, it really will be the last thing I do. My professional reputation will be the same as my relationship status. OVER.
‘My PA cancelled the accommodation she booked, but I’ll get her to re-book it right now. And Nate, I probably don’t need to tell you this, but as your agent, try to keep a low profile for a few weeks until this Celeste thing blows over. We don’t want the press assuming you’re spiralling out of control.’ Jayden doesn’t say ‘again’ but the word lingers between us, nevertheless.
‘Sure. Low profile. I can do that.’ I drain the rest of my drink and pray I’m right.
ChapterThree
HOLLY
21st November
The watery winter sunshine streams into the enormous, overheated classroom. It’s either freezing in this old Victorian building or sweltering. There’s never any middle ground. But it’s great to be back in a routine after spending yesterday consumed with ‘The Fear’ –drink-related anxiety that no amount of fresh air, meditation, or Hail Mary’s will absolve.
Savannah and Ashley spent their Sunday reassuring me that I probably imagined Dan snapping a photo of the most embarrassing night of my life.
Maybe I did.
A lot of wine was consumed. And so what? Even if he did snap a picture of my boobs, he’s seen it all before, anyway.
‘One for the wank bank,’ Savannah had sniggered. ‘What’s the worst he could do with it?’
Dan’s warning leaps to the forefront of my mind.‘I will ruin you, Holly Hazelwood.’
Shuddering through the ripple of unease tiptoeing across my neck, I turn my attention back to the twenty-two thirteen-year-old girls gazing back at me. Or at least pretending to, while I attempt to educate them on Post-Impressionist art.
My block-heeled ankle boots click across the lino flooring as I pace the front of the bright airy classroom. ‘Van Gogh was often called the father of Expressionism. Almost single-handedly, he brought a greater sense of emotional depth to painting with his bold, dramatic brushstrokes.’
My hand sweeps towards the image projected onto the white board: Vase with Twelve Sunflowers.
A girl called Eloise lets out a bored sigh. Her father is the Dutch ambassador. You’d think she’d show a tad more interest.
My phone vibrates on the oakwood desk.
Probably Savannah sending on some hilarious meme. Ashley’s tied up with headmistress duties until school is out at three-thirty, though we did manage to grab a quick coffee together in the staffroom this morning.
‘What do you think, girls? What do the sunflowers represent?’ My eyes roam the room, silently willing one of them to engage with me.
Emily, a fair-haired, angelic girl, who also happens to be the daughter of the captain of the Irish rugby team, launches her hand high into the air with a suggestion. If only the rest of the class had an ounce of her enthusiasm.
‘Sunshine? Happiness? Positivity?’ Her passion for art shines through her bright eyes. She reminds me of a younger version of myself. The girl who naively envisioned making a living at being anactualartist instead of being pressured by her well-meaning parents to get a respectable, reliable job and becoming a teacher.
‘Excellent, Emily.’ My phone vibrates again.
And again.
And again.
A frown flickers across my face. I should have switched the damn thing off. Savannah knows I’m in class. Her twin girls are in the same building, for goodness sake.
