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Jamie straightened, saving me from myself. ‘Mon, we’ll head in. You’re freezing.’

‘I’m fine—’ I was not fine. You could have dangled teacups off my nipples.

He held his arm out anyway. I rolled my eyes and walked ahead of Jamie with him close behind. As we headed back inside, I felt his hand slide to my back – light, steady, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Which, annoyingly, made my stomach flip like an absolute idiot.

Chapter Sixteen

The next day, I had an unexpected spring in my step, which I suppose was suspicious in itself. It was the first time in years that I’d woken up excited to get started – well, apart from the mornings after landing bad-ass brand deals. But there was no ‘use code HARRIETTE20 for shite you don’t need’ going on today, just ideas banging around my head. Actual plans. Creative ones. The kind I used to have before my life became one long sponsored ad. Part of me felt like the old me again – the one who built something from nothing, who stayed up all night grafting instead of pretending to like protein powder. My brain was firing. Content ideas, community stuff, Christmas plans. Things that actually meant something.

Annoyingly, my mind also kept wandering back to Jamie. That weird moment between us. The way his hand just landed on my back. What the fuck was that? Because, let’s not forget – mere hours earlier, he’d been chatting absolute shite about me to his mum, and then suddenly he’s at the bins trying to flirt like we’re in the pool on fucking Love Island?

Still. I wasn’t daft. I knew better than to get involved. Even if – purely for research purposes – I had enjoyed last night. Lucy, her kids, the community centre. It felt real. Like I wasn’t performing for once. Like, people seemed to actually like me, not just my follower count.

My phone pinged on the bedside table.

Claire: Check out Rupert’s Insta! He’s made a statement!!!!

My stomach dropped so fast it nearly took my spine with it.

Right. That’ll be today’s happiness over, then.

I opened Instagram, trying to breathe like a normal person and not someone about to commit murder. It could be nothing, I told myself. Don’t stress. A single bead of sweat plopped onto my phone from my forehead. For fuck sake, calm down, Harri. You’re having a nice day. Don’t spiral. Don’t—

But there it was. Right at the top of my feed, of course. The algorithm loves a public humiliation. A screenshot of his Notes app. The black text on white background format of the classic wanker self-pitying communication. Who did he think he was? Brooklyn fuckin’ Beckham? My eyes skimmed down.

I am aware that a few weeks ago, many of you witnessed a close interaction between me and one of our staff members, which was posted online. My wife, Harriette, was live streaming when this occurred, and the interaction was subsequently uploaded to various platforms. It was not my intent to upset anyone – especially not my wife or family. I am aware that Harriette needs privacy, and finding her whereabouts has always been top of my agenda since this incident occurred. However, I now ask for privacy myself to deal with this ongoing difficult stage. I have people camping outside my house, strangers shouting at me on the street, and I am finding it all too much. I simply ask that you respect my privacy so I can try to navigate this new way of life.

I will forever be grateful for all the messages of love and peace.

And I will be back soon,

Rupey x

My stomach churned.

No mention of an apology to me. Not even a background sound to the post. ‘Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word’ by Elton wouldn’t go amiss, hubs.

I reread his words, feeling my blood boil. Trying to find me, my arse! Clearly, all he wanted was to have some uninterrupted time with his little floozy, but my fans were making it difficult for him to get his balls emptied.

Rage roared inside me; my hands were shaking.

I heard a loud knock at the front door and felt the blood instantly drain from my face. Shit. What if it was him? What if he was serious?

‘Oh hiya, mon in – she’s up the stairs!’ I heard Mum say.

‘Mum, who is it?’ I called back, full of panic.

‘It’s Jamie! You decent?’ she hollered.

Decent? It was early afternoon and I was still in a fleece onesie, giving off the vibe of a depressed Teletubby, and my hair looked like it had been brushed with a fucking firework.

I jumped up and popped my head out at the top landing to signal her to send him away, but the two of them were already staring up at me in anticipation.

‘There she is – on you go up, son,’ Mum said, like she was dispatching him on a wee errand instead of delivering him directly to my nervous system.

I bolted into my room and yanked the duvet straight, then dragged my fingers through my hair like that would somehow transform me from feral goblin to Sabrina Carpenter.