‘I get it. They’re dating.’
‘Dating seriously, apparently. What do y’think?’
‘I think you should go work for E Channel or whatever it’s called.’
‘Really?’ Nat’s posture straightens before her shoulders loosen again. ‘Nah, I’d be all tongue-tied around celebs. Or try to hump their legs like a randy terrier. But do you think it could be true?’
No. It can’t be. ‘I don’t know,’ I answer instead. Towels balanced in some semblance of a pile, I hug their downy softness to my chest because it’s pretty simple; Dylan is still married to me. It doesn’t matter what the world speculates about their relationship because the blond singer can’t be a serious contender for his heart. Not until he responds to the divorce petition, at least. And he hasn’t. Not in months.
And that sense of relief currently filling my chest? Well, I’m just going to ignore it.Because it’s unhealthy.
‘But you’ve met him,’ Nat protests. ‘Does he seem like the monogamous type?’ I don’t have an answer for her. How can I? ‘I certainly wouldn’t have thought so,’ she states. ‘He’s a bit of a lad and seems plenty happy shagging his way through life.’
And this is exactly why I no longer have social media beyond the newly created accounts for salon use. I don’t need to know who he’s screwing. For the sake of my sanity, if nothing else.
‘I don’t rate her.’ I purse my lips together, yet the venomous words still spill. ‘I’ve had better shaped splinters. And she’s tone deaf.’
‘I like her voice. I heard her new song on the radio and—’
‘She couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.’ I scoff, gripping the towels hard. ‘Oh, look, here comes Fin.’
‘Icould killa glass of wine,’ Fin says as she flips the door hanger toclosed.
‘I’m up for murdering something a wee bit stronger. Wine o’clock has been and gone as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Isn’t there a bottle of tequila in the back of the pantry?’ she asks. ‘And limes. Should I grab some glasses?’
My mind immediately goes back to Dylan, and I blame Natasha. I’m like Pavlov’s bloody dog; every time someone mentions tequila, that man’s ringing my bell. Isoregret telling her—in vague terms—about the weekend we met.
We were in Vegas at the wedding of friends. Actually, we were both there as friends of the groom, or maybe I should saygroomsbecause there was no bride at the wedding that day. We were brought together by familiarity.Two Scots at a Vegas wedding; what were the chances?Dylan had moved to live with an aunt in L.A. as a teen following the death of his mother. As I understand it, she was of Italian descent, so Dylan got the best of both tongues, so to speak. An accent tinged with Scots, one that eventually helped make him a movie star, and some command of Italian. Though I’m certain he wouldn’t have learned the more risqué stuff from his mum.
Anyway, the reception was kind of wild, and we played a stupid party game where I somehow ended up with a shot glass propped in my cleavage. Of course, Dylan was partnered to try to lap the tequila out while I pushed my boobs together, keeping the glass straight. What I didn’t tell Natasha was we ended up married that same weekend.
‘Earth to Ivy.’
‘Sorry. Zoned out.’ Closing the day’s diary, Fin presses this morning’s mail into my hand.
‘It’s probably the bleach fumes rotting your brain.’
‘More like my brain has shrunk from all the small talk.Going anywhere nice for the summer?’I pause from flicking through the envelopes and circulars. ‘God, if I asked that once today, I must’ve asked it at least a dozen times.’
‘You could always go back to L.A. and Scarlet Johansson’s hair. I imagine her small talk is way more interesting.’
‘Small talk’s small talk. It’s all the same.’
‘Only you would be unimpressed by superstars.’
I hear but don’t answer her as I stare at the envelope in my hand. Heavy card, it’s marked with the name of some law office. Postmark from LA.
Slipping my finger under the solidly glued flap, I tear.
Oh, Jesus. This is it—he’s serious about her, and he wants a divorce.
Ridiculous thoughts, considering you sent him the paperwork first.
‘You okay?’
‘I’ve just checked the Book-Face thing,’ says June, breezing into the room. ‘There are lots of positive comments and reviews from this week. Oh, and Natasha says she’s just doing a wee bit of housekeeping, and that she’ll be through soon. Was there any—why, whatever’s the matter, dearie?’
