Things just got a lot more complicated.
The adrenaline from the kiss keeps me lying awake. I can’t stop thinking about him. How he smelled. His eyes. His warm body pressed against mine in the cold. I feel excited and stupidly giddy, rolling over in bed from one side to the other, fluffing my pillow, tucking my duvet under my chin, as though that will make theslightest difference. But then a wave of fear hits me. The sound of his voice as he called meEmily,so affectionate.
How could I let this happen?I stare at the ceiling, the back of my hand resting on my forehead, like an actress from the Shakespearean stage showing despair.
After the wedding, I’ll have to tell him. I can’t go on a date with him as Emily. I’ll have to sit him down and explain everything, tell him who I really am, hope he understands. And I can only do that if I get permission from Cordelia and Lady Meade. They didn’t want him to know—they didn’t want anyone to know. I signed an NDA, for goodness’ sake.
Why did I agree to a date? All I had to do was say no.
Thanks to my busy, agitated brain and unbearably fast-thudding heart, it takes me ages to get to sleep, and when my alarm goes off in the morning, I’m sure I’ve only managed a couple of hours. I drag myself groggily to the bathroom and huff at my reflection, my eyes puffy, my hair tangled from the restless night.
Once I’m showered and dressed, I try to push Tom from my mind and focus on work, going through my emails and checking I’m on schedule for my other weddings. Every now and then I catch myself smiling, lost in the memory of the night before.
I’ve been standing in the kitchen dreamily stirring my coffee for about five minutes when my phone rings, Lady Meade’s name flashing up.
“Good morning, Lady Meade,” I say brightly, picking up. “How is the journey to Dashwell? Hope the traffic hasn’t been too bad so far.”
“We’re still in London,” she says matter-of-factly. “We need you to come round to talk. There’s been an emergency.”
Something in her voice is off. Her words are sharp, no hint of warmth.
“Everything all right?”
“Please get here as soon as possible. And I would bring a scarf or sunglasses, something to cover your face.”
She hangs up. No goodbye, no thank-you, no sense of acquaintance. Formal, cutting, cold. I’m rattled by the swift conversation and its execution. Why on earth would she want me to cover my face? As I scramble around the flat, gathering my things, dread seeps through me that maybe someone in their circle has worked out who I really am. Maybe Annabel, looking for revenge on Cordelia after the Christmas party, has discovered the truth and is threatening to tell.
I swallow the bile that’s risen into my throat, and my fingers tremble as I pick up my keys from the coffee table, head out of the door, and lock it behind me.
Am I about to be fired?
I’ve never been fired before. I’ve barely been in trouble before. I’m not the sort of person who breaks rules and gets fired. I take a lot of pride in doing a job well. This is unfamiliar territory for me.
I consider ordering an Uber, but start walking toward the tube. With London traffic, it will be quicker. The platform is busy, and when the train arrives, it’s packed. I hate rush hour. I find myself pressed up against someone’s backpack, trying not to shudder too obviously every time the person squished in behind me breathes on my neck. I’m so distracted, sick with worry about what I’m heading toward, that I don’t notice when we get to a popular stop and everyone shuffles around the carriage as people jostle each other to get off. I’m in the way, and as a woman barges past me to get off, she tuts loudly, muttering something under her breath about “selfish passengers.”
“Sorry,” I say hurriedly, when what I want to say isGive me a fucking break, lady! I’m about to be fired.
I keep telling myself it’s going to be OK. People have been fired before: I’m not the only one. If they can handle it, so can I.Everyone fails sometimes. I’ve covered my tracks as best I could, and if Annabel has worked out who I am, it’s not entirely my fault.
By the time I get to Grosvenor Crescent, it feels like it’s taken hours. And I understand now why Lady Meade warned me to cover my face. Reporters areeverywhere.Oh, shit. Were paparazzi lurking around the house last night?
Did someone get a photo ofme and Tom?
I think I’m about to be sick. How could I be sostupid? We kissed out in the open! Right here in the street! Anyone could have seen us! This is all my fault.Whydidn’t I check the celeb news on my way here? Then I’d have some idea of how much they know! I’ve been so worried about being fired that I was too distracted for even a cursory google.
I tentatively approach the crowd buzzing around their front door, careful not to draw attention to myself. I’m wearing an old Wimbledon cap that Mum bought me as a souvenir when we got Centre Court tickets a few years ago, and I’ve got a long, heavy scarf wrapped around my neck and mouth. I slip on sunglasses as I nudge my way toward the door, deciding that anyone wearing sunglasses in winter might be a bit suspect so best to leave it to the last minute.
If the scenario weren’t so serious, my getup would be hilarious.
As soon as I start making my way up the steps, the reporters leap into action. Flashes go off, microphones are shoved into my face, and everyone starts yelling at me, asking who I am, why I’m there. I clutch my scarf around my face to make sure it doesn’t fall even a tiny bit, and as I lift my hand to knock on the door, it swings open. I hurry in, tripping over the doorstep because I can’t really see anything, and the door slams behind me. I turn to see Lady Meade standing behind the door, stern creases on her forehead. The house is jarringly silent in comparison with the chaos outside the door.
“Good morning, Lady Meade,” I say, taking off my hat and sunglasses, then unraveling my scarf.
She nods curtly in acknowledgment, holding out her hand for my coat. I undo the buttons, let it slide off and give it to her. As she hangs it in the cupboard, I swallow the saliva that’s built up in my mouth from nerves.
“Come through to the sitting room, please,” she instructs, leading the way, her Jimmy Choo heels clip-clopping across the polished floor.
I come into the room behind her and start. We’re not alone. Lord Meade, Cordelia, and Tom are in there. Lord Meade is leaning against the mantelpiece above the extravagant fireplace, one hand massaging his temples. Tom is standing by the window, arms folded, eyes to the floor. Cordelia is sitting in the middle of the sofa.
