CHAPTER NINE
I’m rudely awoken by my phone beeping and am about to shove it under a pillow when I spot approx one bazillion Whatsapp messages. I open the most recent, squinting as my eyes get used to the light pouring in through the blind in my hotel room.
Got something to tell me, mate?It’s a message from Ben, rounded off with an Italian flag, a crown and the winky face emoji. Then there’s one from my mum which cryptically says, ‘He’s rather handsome!’, and a whole load from Mila which are mostly made up of the gold medal emoji.
What is going on?
I finally flick on to my Facebook app, flashing red with an alarming 32 notifications, and suddenly the situation becomes All. Too. Clear. Susan Jones, who was in second set science with me at high school, has tagged me in a screengrab. Of the biggest news and showbiz website.
‘OMGI can’t believe my old friend Jasmine is dating an Italian prince!’
My stomach lurches and not just because Facebook is So Awful. I haven’t spoken to fucking Susan since we argued over who got to operate the Bunsen burner but here she is, calling me an old friend and broadcasting my business on social media. Fucking Susan.
I sit up in bed and even though I have a really bad feeling about this, I scroll through the comments.
‘Imagine the wedding!’
‘He’s so handsome, well done Jasmine, so pleased for you.’
‘Wow, it really is the ones you least expect who make something of themselves isn’t it? No offence Jasmine!’
Someone’s posted a link to my page and thanks to faultless wifi, the article is soon writ large on my phone screen.
AL FRISK-O! PRINCE ALESSANDRO’S SECRET AL FRESCO DATE WITH MYSTERY BRUNETTE
And there we are. Blurry, long distance photos they may be, but you can still see me with a mouthful of bread, him with a strand of my hair in his hand. And then the next picture, Alessandro leaning in for the kiss which made my entire body feel like it was on fire. Here we are walking hand in hand back to his boat after our ‘secret date’.
Having stared at all of the photographs in abject horror, I decide to torture myself further by reading the article.
Italian aristo Alessandro Mazzi looked smitten with his new love during a very sexy secret date.
The hot-blooded prince took his mystery brunette for a meal in the grounds of his family’s palatial Lake Como home.
Alessandro, who counts models and movie stars among his list of exes, chose a somewhat left of field companion for his frisky al fresco date. We couldn’t help but notice her torn dress and the scrapes on her knees, not to mention the fact that she brought a tatty old backpack with her.
Unable to read any more, I take the only sensible option left to me and throw my phone across the room. HOLY SHIT. Where did these photos come from? What the actual eff do I do now? And can someone please tell Fucking Susan to stop posting on my bloody Facebook?
It takes me less than five minutes to edit a picture for Instagram and I can have a lunch for Violet ordered within three, but figuring out how to take my phone off vibrate? I’ve been burrowing around in my settings for seven whole minutes now and I’m still none the wiser. The constant buzz of notifications has my nerves jangling so I turn the whole thing off. Obviously I need to talk to Alessandro but I don’t have his mobile number and there’s work to do.
I slink downstairs, cheeks burning as I find the rest of the crew waiting to head back to the villa for another day of filming.
‘Ifit isn’t our mystery brunette!’ calls Karen, wrapping an arm around me and guiding me to a seat next to her on the bus.
‘Please don’t. . . I’m mortified.’
‘Why? It’s great publicity, babes, don’t worry about it!’ Karen looks thrilled. I’ll tell you who isn’t thrilled. . . Violet. She’s absolutely steaming. She dragged me off the bus when we arrive at the villa and into the banquet room, whipping round to face me with a face full of rage.
‘Would you like to explain yourself?’ She says, thrusting her phone, open on the web page of doom, at me.
‘It was just a date,’ I look down at my toes. ‘And it was meant to be private.’
‘Oh please,’ Violet scoffs, her voice raised to new levels of shrill. I can see both cast and crew milling around by the opening to our room, which is just peachy. A dressing down from Violet is bad enough, but one with an audience?
‘You asked for time off from working withmeso thatyoucould go on a date?’ Violet rages on.
‘Yes I did. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. It’s the first time in months I’d requested leave,’ I say quietly. Urgh. I know I should be sticking up for myself more, but I hate confrontation and for some reason, Violet in a bad mood seems to paralyse my sense of reason.
‘That’s as it may be,’ Violet spits. ‘But in the future, I’d appreciate a heads up when you plan to splash yourself across the news websites. Honestly, I did not think you had it in you.’
