My loneliness has a life of its own. Surfacing when I least expect it, dragging me back to my childhood kitchen, watching my mumcook. Wishing she’d ask me something. Vent to me about work. Talk to me at all.
I yank my vape from my pocket and take the biggest possible drag. I need a therapist more than anyone on earth—except Thrasher—but that will have to wait until I leave this godforsaken place. Unless I want to chat to a counselling bot that’ll probably tell me to eat rocks, I’m alone out here. Just for something completely different.
I’m not going to see my parents. I lied to Cece. I couldn’t handle the crushed disappointment on her face if I had to explain how, once again, I’d been barred from my childhood house.
Turns out it’s not just the men of Pukekohe who’ve seen me acting all Puke-hoe-y online. Mum called last night to tell me she and Dad didn’t want to meet up this weekend. She was a few wines in and asked if I knew how embarrassing it was to have me as a daughter. I told her I could imagine. She told me to get a job. I would have told her that being a clownisa job, but she’d already hung up. Then she texted to say she and Dad were spending a fortnight in Queenstown, skiing with their colleagues, and there was no need for me to come by the house.
… So now I’m going to scope out Thompson Farms instead.
I can’t go through their weird Stasi gates, obviously. I wouldn’t put it over Thrasher to have me shot from a high tower. But dirt roads cobweb the outskirts of the farm, and I’m going to drive down as many as I can. Fuck knows what I’ll find, besides kiwifruit, but it’s better than sitting around feeling sorry for myself.Moresorry for myself.
I wind down the window and let the cool country air dry my tears. I want to be saved so badly. But since I can’t do that myself, I don’t know why anyone else would bother. I knew my mum would crack the shits about my sexy posts if she saw them, just like I knew Jake Graves-Holland was a fuckboy of old and alcohol is a depressant in a can.
My problems, my life, my bullshit.
But what isn’t my bullshit iswhatever fucked up things Thrasher’s doing to his workers, and if I’m the only person who cares about it, fine. It wouldn’t be the first time.
My phone pings, a message popping up over Google Maps.
Hey Ada, it’s Tristan. Glad to hear you’re back in town this weekend. I am too. Grab a drink at the cocktail party tonight? We can go somewhere else if you want.
My chest squeezes, and I grip the wheel until my knuckles go white.
My history with Cece’s brother isn’t a long story, nor a particularly original one. It does suck, though. I first saw Tristan Taylor when he picked Cece up in his Range Rover after one of our newsagency shifts, and he damn near spun my head around. Eighteen, with a man’s body and gold-streaked hair. He looked like he’d taken a wrong turn off Sunset Boulevard and ended up in Pukekohe. My crush was instant. I wrote a dozen sonatas about him, and if Tristan had heard any, I’m sure he would have ignored them like he ignored everything else about me.
I don’t blame the guy. I was the dork friend of his kid sister, after all. A pimply virgin who wore her hair as badly as she wore the sack jumpers her mum forced over her head to hide her too-big tits. In hindsight, I don’t think I even wanted him to notice me. As a stranger, Tristan Taylor could be anything I wanted him to be, and I never had to risk a thing.
Which was why it was weird he started messaging me when I was at Juilliard. Grown-up Ada would have instantly clocked his ‘Got a boyfriend yet?’ texts as flirting, but 18-year-old me thought he was just being nice. I replied. Tristan replied, and we started chatting every few weeks without anything ever coming of it. When I moved to London to become the Second Chair with the LSO, the messages picked up. Tristan asked if he could visit me. He was in Munich doing law-boy bullshit and had a girlfriend. I pointed that out, and he said he meant both of themwould visit me. I thought that sounded fucking horrible, so I said I was too busy. The conversations stopped,and I thought we were done. Then one day, I got a message out of the clear blue sky.
Hey Addy, I’m staying near Hyde Park this weekend. Your show is all sold out tonight. Any chance I can get a ticket? I’ll pay double to see the famous Ada Renaldo, all grown up xx
I was twenty-two, flattered, and dumber than a sack of rocks. I asked if he wanted two tickets, and he informed me he was single again and would only need one. He added a sad face emoji.
I’d have been better off sending the ticket to a Nigerian email scammer, but again, I was twenty-two, flattered, and dumber than a sack of rocks.
Tristan came to my show. Afterwards, he took me to one of his favourite bars in SOHO for a martini. One martini became many martinis. Leaning against a mahogany bar top, bathed in candlelight, he was even hotter than I remembered. I had a few hot-guy scalps hanging off my belt by then, but Tristan Taylor still made me feel like I’d wandered onto the set ofHome and Away.
I thought about texting Cece to tell her we were hanging out, but I knew she was mad that Tristan kept ghosting her calls. I didn’t want her to know he’d made a special effort to come see her little sister’s random mate.
Tristan and I had more martinis. He said I was amazing, so much smarter and more mature than the girls he’d been with before, blah, blah, blah. The same old story told a million different ways. Dumb as I was back then, I knew enough, five martinis in, to grab my bag and say I should get home. Tristan looked me right in the eyes and told me I was beautiful. That he’dalwaysthought I was so beautiful, he justhadn’t known how to say it.
I wish I could say I saw right through what he was doing, but no. I fell for that bullshit like you wouldn’t believe. Next thing, we were back at his Hyde Parkhotel, me fully intending to sleep with him. Instead, fate intervened. After some extremely sloppy kissing and tit-squeezing, Tristan announced he couldn’t get it up.
I suggested he might go down on me, and he made a face. “Sorry, Addy. I’m not really into that.”
No one calls me ‘Addy’ except Cece. Hearing the nickname come from Tristain’s mouth in that moment was like a sword in the stomach. Not only had I failed some cosmic attractiveness test, I’d hooked up with my best friend’s brother for no other reason than he was there and said what I always wanted to hear.“You’re special. You’re beautiful. I like you.”
I tried not to cry as Tristan went to the minibar and cracked open a super expensive beer, and then his phone rang. He ignored it. Then it rang again. And again. Tristan apologised and went to the bathroom. He ran the tap while he talked, but the man was even dumber than I was, because I could still hear every word. He was talking to his girlfriend. “I miss you. I can’t wait till I get home.” Blah, blah, blah. The same old story told a million different ways.
He came out of the bathroom, and I said he obviously still had a girlfriend.
He denied it at first, then gave me the puppy dog eyes. “I’m so sorry, Addy. I’m going to break up with Caroline, but she’s having a hard time right now. I’m worried about what she’ll do if I end it.”
I don’t know what was worse, knowing I’d helped him cheat on his girlfriend or him trying to pin his dirty behaviour on her mental state.
Actually, the worst thing is that Tristan didn’t break up with Caroline.
He married her. They’restillmarried. They have a kid. That kid is Cece’s beloved niece, and every time she mentions Maisie, I want to break something. Not because I’m jealous of Tristan’s wife and family, but because that child’s a living testament to my complicity. To the filthy thing I helped him do without my knowledge.
