Page 120 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

* * *

Every night, Mum came in with our old copy of Father Brown. Read to me until I fell asleep, just like when we used to wait for my dad to come home.

It was weird, at first, not having to whisper.

Not having anyone to fear.

* * *

Eventually I remembered there were things I should have been getting on with. I was starting a new job in a couple of weeks—a job I’d been incredibly happy and proud to get—and I had nowhere to live.

So I sat down with Rabbie, and he helped me figure out my tax bracket and what my take-home pay would be and all that stuff. I thought I could stretch to around seven or (at a push) eight hundred a month for rent, and still leave enough for grown-up things like bills and travel and food and toothpaste.

Not much for fun, though.

But I guess this was life when you weren’t dating a billionaire.

In any case, I thought eight hundred quid a month would be loads. I wasn’t expecting to move into a palace or anything but I thought it might stretch to a nice little apartment somewhere. That could, hypothetically, look similar to the one Sarah Jessica Parker had in Sex and the City.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t quite accounted for London. And the fact I wasn’t the quirky protagonist of an American TV show. It turned out there were garages—and not even nice garages—beyond my budget. And the only residential properties I could afford were spurious house shares or dreary little studio flats. Places with only one or two pictures on RightMove—usually a bare mattress jammed against a stucco wall or an exterior shot of a concrete block or, in particularly dire cases, a photo of the loo. Seriously? Those were the best images somebody could find? I mean, maybe if I’d been an Elizabethan time-traveler the fact I didn’t have to poo out of the window would have been a major wow factor. But, child of the post-Bazalgette era that I was, I was inclined to take indoor plumbing for granted.

Oh God. Caspian had spoiled me. He’d made ordinary life look…really rubbish. And left me stranded between worlds. Alone.

* * *

I was sitting on the swing, swaying in a desultory fashion, and watching the horizon eat the waves. And then the back door opened.

My heart shattered like someone had thrown a rock through it.

But it was Ellery who stepped into the garden. She clomped toward me, hands in the pockets of her hoodie. Scotland suited her. Made her eyes as clear as the sky and the sea.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. Surprised I was even capable of speech.

“Taking in an exhibition at the Tate Modern.” She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Came to see you, dipshit.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

She shrugged. “Guess Caspian fucked you over, huh?”

For a moment or two I didn’t say anything. The wind was sharp and salty-clean like the first sip of an exceptional margarita. It felt good simply to breathe. Let the air scour you. “Well, we’re not together anymore.”

“You’re better off without him.”

“I don’t think it’s a question of better or worse. But not being with him hurts.” I toed the ground, pushing myself a little higher. “You know about Lancaster Steyne, don’t you?”

“Yeah. They didn’t even try to hide that shit from me.”

“But none of it was Caspian’s fault. You get that, right? He was young and vulnerable and messed up. And betrayed by someone he trusted in the worst way possible.”

Another Ellery shrug. “Sure.”

“Sure? Is that all you can say?” My voice cracked. And, suddenly, I was back at One Hyde Park with Caspian. Losing him all over again.

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

“I don’t know. Understanding. A little compassion, maybe?”

“Screw compassion. I mean, if what happened to him was soooo terrible, why wouldn’t he put a stop to it now?”