I don’t want to lose you.
“No. Night-time. When you’re just exhausted and your game is down.”
I spluttered out a weak protest.
“I have no game.”
“You have game,” he whispered.
I didn’t know why that triggered me. His stupid insinuation that I was something I definitely wasn’t. I was small. Not built. Not a muscle visible anywhere on my weird body. My glasses were…
And then all of a sudden, he was too close. Far too close. Right there in my face, his nose touching the side of mine. His breath on my skin. My stupid glasses riding up my face as his nose pushed them aside.
I met him halfway on the last centimetre. Where our lips crashed together and he kissed me.
It wasn’t just a kiss. Not a soft brush of lips. It was hard and wet and disgustingly full of bodily fluid. His and mine. My cheek caught the cool breeze from the open window, coldness against skin that then burned with the brush of his tongue.
A kiss. A kiss that seemed to go on forever.
Then it didn’t, and he got himself sat up. As quickly as it had started. Shrugged his shoulders in that hoodie he was wearing. Stood himself up before I could react.
“Don’t you dare.” My voice was a mere growl.
He said nothing.
“Don’t you fucking dare!” I shouted.
He still left. And I didn’t know what was more devastating. The fact that he’d kissed me? Or the fact that the door slammed shut behind him and I did nothing to stop it.
Chapter 3
Peter
“We’ve decided on a modern mullet-style haircut, something that will lift those cheekbones.” The hairdresser was male, yet he wore more greasepaint than a circus clown. Now that wasn’t me being ignorantly flippant or rude, but having spent the past decades in Mary’s world? I knew the backstage dressing rooms in London’s theatres like the back of my hand, dusty places full of musty smells and human sweat manned by true professionals and artists. The ghosts of former occupants etched into the floorboards as the productions moved in and out. Mary had fitted into that world like a perfect piece of a puzzle and, as such, had loved it all. Adored the costumes and the heavy make-up and the way she could turn herself into anyone in the blink of an eye. She’d had a reputation, and she had played on it. But she’d also had people around her to make her life easy, and she had made their lives easy in return.
Which is what I’d loved about her. That strength and conviction wrapped in a sometimes stern smile, when I knew full well behind the mask was a soft-hearted young girl. She’d been the kindest person I’d ever met,and once again, my heart was filled with that overwhelming loneliness. I missed her terribly, and nothing could make me feel better about that.
“You have a good face,” the hairdresser said cheerily, the same repertoire of comments they all flung around, these costume people. A subtle mix of compliments and horrified excitement as they moulded my battered old face into something they deemed presentable. A flick of a brush against my cheek. A stray hair removed from my forehead. “There,” they continued. “Hot as fuck.”
Okay, this was a supposedly professional set-up but felt miles away from that. The room was messy and full of people; someone nervously screamed not to let anyone out in the corridor andwhere the hell was Justine?The noise level made me shiver, and, I had to admit, made me feel out of my depth. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t cut out for this. This wasn’t me. At all.
I had no idea who Justine was or what was even going on, apart from that these were apparently the official photographs being curated to launchmy new career in reality television. That’s what it was being called today then. Yesterday, over the phone, it had been sold asthe last day of singledom and the first day of my new life.
I wasn’t sure which part of that was worse. The fact that I wanted neither of those lifestyle adjustments seemed to be completely ignored here, and instead? I was now being dragged out into a photo studio under the watchful eye of not only one but two security guards.
“There are other contestants in the building. We have to make sure you don’t set eyes on anyone else until the cameras are rolling. George will have a fit if you do,” one of them whispered, as if they were trying to reassure me that this was normal. It felt anything but.
In my real life? I was a calm professional. I dealt mostly with paediatric dentistry, some nervous patient referrals and spent one day a week at StThomas Hospital dealing with patients needing anaesthetics for their procedures. I was, and I had to reluctantly admit to that part, fairly successful in my field, but that didn’t in any shape or form make me cut out for things like this.
My professional image on our practice website, and on my practice ID, was a quick snapshot taken by a colleague. My NHS profile was a candid shot from a convention. I didn’t care much for it, but the boys had said it was a brilliant shot, so I’d used it.
Yet here I was, squeezed into a suit I was sure was three sizes too small, sporting a new haircut that looked anything but fresh.
Fresh. What on earth was that supposed to mean anyway? But apparently I looked it, standing here like an idiot holding a bunch of heavily styled flowers in my hands, pretending to reach out to an imaginary friend who would accept them with a graceful smile…or something. The photographer was almost aggressive in his instructions, where the production assistant of some kind, a lady with an overflowing clipboard and a tablet hanging from her utility belt, was half bullying him into submission…half shouting at someone else down the phone whilst I was expected to smile and look excited about the way she was talking to me. I thought she was talking to me.
I couldn’t even remember what I was supposed to look excited about, standing here like a plonker in brand-new shoes that already hurt my feet. I was used to rubber sandals for work and slippers for home. Well-constructed trainers for sports, and that was my entire wardrobe in a nutshell.
Scrubs. I missed my lovely, colourful, well-worn scrubs.
