“Are you sure? It can wait until morning.” Claudia looks undecisive. Like she’s not sure whether to leave me.
“I’ve already waited long enough. I’m fine,” I reassure her. “I’m going straight to bed.” And pray I wake up from this nightmare.
“Okay. Call if you need me. I’ll be here in a flash. Actually, I can work from here and stay the night.”
I shake my head. “It’s getting late. Go home. I’ll only be asleep. I’ll call you in the morning.”
Claudia nibbles her bottom lip. “I hate leaving you like this.”
“I’m fine. The shower and Tylenol have sobered me up. I’m exhausted. All I want to do is sleep.” Most of what I said is true.I am exhausted and need sleep. I’m not exactly sober. The room is still slightly spinning.
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t call room service for more champagne.”
Like she doesn’t trust me, she takes the bottle I was eyeing and hoping to finish off, and goes into the bathroom. I’m assuming to pour the liquid down the sink. My suspicions are confirmed when she comes back with an empty bottle.
She won’t know if I order more. “I won’t,” I lie. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt. Except the thought of drinking more champagne makes my stomach churn.
Claudia picks her phone up from the bed. I stand and give her a hug. “I’ll email you the statement for you to finalize,” she says.
“I trust you. Just publish it.” It’s only going to be something vague about needing time away and privacy.
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up and we can go on that honeymoon to Bora Bora you paid for.”
There’s no way I’d let Darren take the vacation. “Can’t wait.” A secluded tropical island is what I need. A place where I can get away from everyone.
I walk Claudia to the door and say goodbye. When the door closes behind her, I sigh with relief. As much as I love her and am grateful for her help and support, it’s nice to have some time to myself. I don’t want to talk. Or think. Or pretend I’ll get my shit together. All I want to do is sleep for about five days.
Before I can face-plant onto the bed and fall into what I’m hoping is a dreamless sleep, I spot Claudia’s purse on the table. “She forgot it,” I mumble.
I sprint for the door and out into the corridor to catch up with her. The elevator doors are closing before I can call out her name to stop her. Oh well, she’ll come back for it if she needs it, or I’ll give it to her in the morning.
Something bangs behind me. A surge of dread fills me. I slowly turn around. The door to my room is closed. Crap! I don’t have the keycard. I grab the door handle and jerk it up and down in case it miraculously opens. It doesn’t budge. In frustration, I kick the timber with my bare foot. “Ouch,” I whimper.
What am I going to do now? I don’t have my phone to call reception. And I don’t want to go down there wearing a bathrobe and a towel wrapped around my head. What if paparazzi know I’m staying at this hotel and are camped in the lobby? They can’t see me like this.
What other choice do I have? I can’t spend the night in the corridor.
As I’m deciding what to do next, the elevators chime to announce they’ve reached my floor. My shoulders sag with relief. Oh, thank God. Hopefully, Claudia has come back for her purse, or it’s someone I can send to reception for me. Spinning around, I race to the elevator then skid to a stop. Four men step out, and when they spot me, they rush toward me, pointing cameras in my face. Bright lights blur my vision, and I hold my hand up to shield my eyes.
“Penelope Aldin,” a man with a black, bushy beard shouts. “How do you feel about the video of Darren Ellis and Karen Featherstone having sex?”
Another says, “Did you know about the affair?”
A guy with a potbelly and balding head asks, “Will you still marry him?”
The fourth man wearing a Hawaiian shirt snickers. “Does Darren have sex tapes of you too?”
Fear and embarrassment grip me. My arms flail around as I yell, “Leave me alone.”
My outburst only makes them more trigger-happy, and they press in closer, snapping more pictures.
“Come on, Penelope. Give us the details,” the photographer with the bushy beard says with a cajoling tone.
In my frazzled state, trying to get away, the towel slips off my head and falls onto the floor, causing my hair to fall in tangled, wet clumps around my shoulders. Again, the clicking noise of the cameras go wild.
Since I can’t get back into my room, I have no choice but to run to the elevators and somehow keep them from following me inside and hope the concierge can help me. The photographers have circled around me and are practically glued to my body. There’s zero chance of getting away without them following me in. Still, I have to try. I can’t stay out here so exposed.
Before I can find a gap and sprint, the elevator doors ping open and a couple steps into the corridor. The man’s arm is flung over the woman’s shoulder, and she’s pressed against his side. Their faces are buried in each other’s necks, and they appear to be unaware of the commotion going on.
