Well, I don’t think so anyway.
I try my best, try to treat folk fairly, and have always been conscious of doing the right thing, but it isn’t always possible. Sometimes, you’ve just got to put yourself first. And if the last few months have taught me anything, it’s that you can’t put your life into neat compartments; good and bad, right and wrong, black or white. Sometimes, despite your best efforts, you have to hurt others to protect yourself, and sometimes, those decisions have a snowball effect.
Or maybe, I consider, sitting in the quiet confines of the car, I really am just an awful bitch, and my ramblings nothing more than a pathetic excuse for the fuck-ups I’ve made.
Chapter Five
Ivy
Fin leavesme at the airport, sliding back into the driver’s side of my tiny Fiat while mumbling something under her breath. Further words about my bullshit, no doubt. At the check-in desk, I’m handed a ticket labelledFirst Class.Though I’ve been upgraded before—to premium economy, and even once, business class—I’ve never travelled first class. Strangely, Ihaveflown in a private jet once. With Dylan, of course.
This is obviously some kind of mistake. A booking cock-up. Not that I’m going to ask. No way. Draw attention to the fact that I’ve paid for cramped and plastic cutlery while experiencing luxury? I’d have to be mad. And I’m not. Mostly.
I don’t entertain the brief, passing thought that this could have anything to do with Dylan. I can’t imagine a reality when he’d be prepared to offer me any kindness. Not these days.
So I fly first class while feeling like a stowaway. And what do you do when you’re on a long-haul flight in first? Drink cocktails and champagne? Watch movies?
Those would be the sensible things to do, but I daren’t switch on the TV. What if, on the menu, is one of Dylan’s movies? I think I’d lose the plot. Probably end up being restrained by an air marshal or cabin crew member. Instead, I opt to sit in my super comfy luxury and silently fume. Because it’s not like I’m going on holiday, and it’s not like he left me any choice. Ignoring his letter—his demands—would have left me in a very precarious position.
Local hairdresser marries movie star and makes porn.
I can just see the headline of theAuchkeld Gazette, quickly followed by the tabloids of the rest of the world. The paps would probably catch me opening my front door to the world’s media while wearing nothing but my underwear and my hair looking like Medusa seven weeks from her last cut and colour. I’d probably write a snitty email to those same newspapers, complaining about being labelled as a mere hairdresser.Local business ownersounds better than even my previous and very rich sounding title ofArt Director.I expect I’d invite the journos to the salon to give them my side of the story. Their photographers could take pictures of me looking fabulous; all fiery and scorned.Hell hath no furywould sell newspapers by the boatload.
Who am I kidding? None of that would happen in a million years. Being outed as married to a movie star would be bad enough, but being known as the woman who was blackmailed by the same man? I’m more likely to develop agoraphobia and never leave the flat again. People wouldn’t be kind.
And they’d be well justified.
It’s supposed to be every little girl’s dream to marry a movie star, isn’t it? I can’t say it was ever mine.
It’s not even like I have a good reason or excuse for getting married—it was just a mad weekend fling in Vegas and a drunken night when things got out of hand. You know that phrase, when in Rome? Well, when in Vegas for a wedding, why not do the deed? Hook up with a stranger then get spliced. Yes, it was completely out of character and a little bit mad, but compared to strangers marrying sight unseen on TV shows, it doesn’t seem that bad.
That fateful weekend, the big affair was held at the MGM Grand, and both grooms looked so handsome. Todd was a senior stylist I worked with at the time, and Dylan was there for Joe, Todd’s intended, who was also my husband-to-be’s employer back then.
It was a beautiful day not only full of love, laughter, and camp but also a day of excess man candy and champagne. And Joe’s best man was man candy extraordinaire. Dark hair and moss green eyes,sonot gay, and thanks to the landscaping business he worked for while attending auditions on the side, cut like a Greek god.
There was something exotic about him; he could’ve been from anywhere with those looks, and he could’ve been from any time. He didn’t strike me as classically handsome that day but more beautiful in the more animal sense. He has a magnetism to him, something irresistible, and his demeanour promises he’ll lead you to no good, but you’ll have such fun getting there.
Like the gods, or maybe the devil, he was silver-tongued, too. Let’s just say our relationship didn’t so much start under a cloud of Vegas clichés but in a very posh bathroom after he’d uttered the filthiest accented sweet nothings to herald the start of any relationship.
Meet me in the bathroom in five. Your sweet pussy and my face have a date.
It started in the bathroom, but by the time we were hitched, I’d know him for,oh, at least fifty-two hours.At least. And he’d gotten to know me pretty well, too. Almost every square inch of me because I’d spent most of those fifty-two hours on my back.My front. My side. All fours. On my feet...
When he’d suggested we put a ring on it, I thought he was talking sex toys.
Fuck drunk—that’s what Nat would call it. Dopamined to the max because why else would I—sensible Ivy, the voice of caution, the pragmatic friend and biddable daughter—have said yes.To both marriage and sex toys. We went straight from the tacky chapel to a sex toy superstore... But it didn’t matter, I’d reasoned in my blissed-out state, because my heart and vagina wouldn’t be surviving the weekend anyway.
But they both did.Only just.And is it any wonder those same parts of my anatomy were more than a wee bit excited to see Dylan again once we returned to LA? That first meetup was supposed to be a coffee while we discussed our annulment, but it was no coincidence the coffee shop I’d suggested was five minutes away from my apartment. We began to flirt, shamelessly, which was a green light for Dylan to begin with the dirty talk. About ten minutes after that, we were screwing against the wall of my living room. I don’t know what it is about his dirty mouth because swearing is usually a complete turn-off for me. And his accent? Women everywhere might be wild for that husky lilt, but I’m Scottish, for goodness’ sakes. Where I come from, that’s how we speak.Okay, maybe we’re a wee bit more broad. And maybe very few Scotsmen look like him.But being attracted to a Scotsman in LA? That’s like an Eskimo moving to Hawaii and asking for a whale steak... or something.
I can’t explain it.
That man, plus that accent, plus the gravel the Good Lord saw fit to add to his tone, equals good girl kryptonite.
My friends tease me often. They say I’m old-fashioned, but what they mean is puritanical, but Dylan’s Ivy was never that girl. I can’t explain what the man does to me.Didto me.
Our sex life was combustible. And hey, we were married, weren’t we? I’m certain that makes sex almost a sacrament. And as for our annulment, two weeks later, he’d moved in with me. It seemed almost a natural progression for a relationship started the wrong way around. Then a few months more and he was a sudden indie movie star. Times were good. We were happy and in love. Next thing, he’s the hottest newcomer since that sparkly vampire guy. And that was when things started to go wrong.
Hindsight is ordinarily a bitch, but I suppose I should be thankful I never got around to telling anyone we’d married.Especially as it survived only as long as the last iOS update.I’d never even mentioned to anyone back home that I was seeing someone. We’d just existed in our own blissful little bubble, and it was heaven while it lasted. Almost perfect. Maybe I should be thankful we’d kept our marriage a secret, especially as I’ve known friends with longer hook-ups.
