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Chapter Twenty

I wake up with a familiar taste in my mouth.

Garlic sauce. I am in my childhood bedroom and I can hear snoring beside me.

God, how many times now have I woken up and had to do detective work to find out who’s asleep in my bed?

I edge over to see that the man in question is Sebastian, and breathe a sigh of relief.

Mam made up the spare bed for nothing, she folded her best towels and everything.

I also spot that he’s fully clothed. As am I.

Well, my dress has rolled up to above my stomach, exposing my black thong.

Last night turned out to be a lot of fun.

There was no way I was going to let Samantha’s bitchiness spoil the mood.

As Layla pointed out, she only sees a quarter of my life and it’s through the tinted lens of her own bitterness. Her point of view is not to be trusted.

Where did you go?

Did you go off with him?

You can do better you know.

C’mon… I’ve got needs.

Gel, sorry, Idnt mean dat. Just come bak.

The thrill of his jealousy and my plan working rushes through me.

Because no matter how hard I deny it to the girls, the truth sits deep in my bones.

There was a big part of me that worked so hard, endured all those burpees and sprints, the burn of exercise (and bleach on my scalp) for him.

For Damon to see what he was missing. What I have to keep reminding myself is it was for him to want me, badly, and not be able to have me.

Giving myself to him, climbing back into his bed and into his life, would be a mistake and undermine all my efforts.

I know that. But still, why can’t I stop fantasising about it?

How much I miss that first moment, when his cock enters me, feeling all of him fill me up.

I try to remind myself that the rest, after those delicious few minutes, is always a rushed disappointment but I can’t.

My fanny is already fluttering. I glance over at Sebastian, he’s still fast asleep, so I let my own fingers snake into my underwear, touching myself how I wish Damon would.

How Tommy might have. How Leo did. My brain gets cloudy, and I shut my eyes, seeing Damon’s abs, the tattoo that rests just above his hipbone.

I think of how he looked at me, that first moment he saw me, the hunger in his eyes.

I remember his hand around my waist last night.

I think of the way he looks when he winks.

I imagine him holding my hands above my head, pinning me down, and…

I shudder, biting my lip from crying out.

Sebastian remains sound asleep. Flushed and only vaguely satisfied, I crawl out of bed, looking for my phone charger.

I find it tangled in one corner of the room and bend over to retrieve it when I hear Sebastian’s plummy tones from the bed.

“Nice ass, you know what I’ve been thinking?” I dart up, press my ass to the wall so he can no longer see it.

“What?” Though I think I can guess, from the tent he’s erecting using my duvet covers.

“Why don’t we road test this in real life? You know, try the humpy-pumpy…”

His use of the words ‘humpy-pumpy’ immediately turns me off.

“It’s not in the plan, Sebastian,” I say, my eye trained on my phone which, now happily plugged into the wall, is firing up again.

“Precisely, we take it off paper, see if this thing works in real life.”

“You don’t even like me,” I remind him, opening up the Daily Wail website.

“That’s just not true, we clash but…isn’t it delicious to clash? Don’t opposites attract? There’s something between us, Angelica, I can feel it.”

“You can feel your morning horn, that’s what you can feel.”

He laughs. “See this is what I like about you, you’re funny, a straight talker. You’re not…” He pauses for the right words. “Afraid of me.”

“Why would I be afraid of you? Mr seven-step-skincare-routine and Just For Men.”

He sits up, looks at me. The tent is still there, in fact, it may have got bigger. What was once a two-man is now a safari. “I’m a very powerful man, and that will only with grow with everything I am due to inherit. And there’s not much money can’t buy you.”

“Love,” I suggest. “Manners. People’s respect, the common sense to realise not everyone reads Horse & Hound . There’s plenty money can’t get you.”

“Keep going,” he says, in an almost growl. A threat? Or something else?

“Fine. You’ve come here to my home town, you’re under my mam’s roof and you’ve had this poncy, judgy look on your face the whole time.

I didn’t mention it because you’re often not worth the fight, Seb…

” I know he hates it when I call him Seb.

“But yeah, you could buy everyone in the North a drink but you will never be able to make them like you, no one here likes you. They all think you’re a jumped-up posh boy with no dress sense. ”

I maybe took it too far, I’m feeling a little guilty, when I glance down at the tent. Then I look at his face, all flushed and hungry. He’s turned on!

“Oh my god, of course,” I say. “You’re one of those, a man with power who gets off on being insulted! God, Seb, you’re such a cliché!” I’m not annoyed, more amused. Why didn’t I realise this before?

“You sussed me,” he grins. “I like being knocked down a peg or two, and you are more than up to the task.”

“Let’s get this straight,” I say. “I’m not your dominatrix. If you want that, you can pay for it. In real life, sex is not in our deal, this is all fake. Fake!” I throw my arms up in the air.

“If this is all fake then why am I in your bed?”

That I cannot answer. I don’t remember much of last night. I know it was fun, but that’s it.

“I dunno, why are you here?”

“Because you begged me, you were all over me in the club, and then later, you came on to me, all doe-eyed in your tiny-little dress saying ‘please Seb, please’ but I knew you were too drunk. And besides, I’m not a fan of whimpering girls begging me for sex…”

“No, you like to be the whimperer,” I say, trying to wrack my brains for the version of myself he’s relaying back.

It really doesn’t sound like me. But then, I was desperate to make Damon jealous and I was using Sebastian as a means to an end.

I also needed to be on good form for the photographers.

It’s tough pretending to fancy someone so much, even tougher when they actually are, on paper, good looking.

Throw a few drinks into the mix and my brain and body probably got confused and I thought I actually wanted Sebastian.

Something which, in the cold hard light of day, I tell myself was simply a mistake, my heart (and other areas) confused by all the acting.

How do actual actors manage it? I guess that’s why they so often end up actually banging each other.

The other thing I don’t remember is now also being reflected back to me.

Not from Sebastian but in pictures when I automatically check my phone and the tabloid homepages, as there I am, all over the gossip sections with an absolutely massive kebab in my hand.

Please tell me I didn’t eat that! I click through to the story, and sure enough, it’s like a picture-book of my own horror!

The first pics are me, Sebastian, Madison, Layla and Samantha all standing outside MeatMizzle kebabs, lit up by the orange and blue lights.

They’re quite cute shots, actually. I’m hanging off of Sebastian’s arm, laughing at something Madison is saying while Layla is dropping chips into Madison’s mouth.

But then they get progressively worse, as all of a sudden, I have a kebab in my hand and in the next shot my face is literally in it.

Like I stick my face into the kebab, and there’s garlic sauce all over my nose, cheeks and chin.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Sebastian says.

“I have,” I say. “The ghost of Angelica’s past.” I crawl over to him. “Look at these pictures! They’re disgusting!”

He takes my phone out of my hand and scrolls through, his laugh getting louder and louder.

“Don’t laugh!”

“Come on, you can always laugh at yourself, these really aren’t that bad.”

I know he’s right, I would never have been bothered by pics like these in the past. But new body, new nose Angelica is annoyed.

I think of how Samantha said that no one is taking me seriously in London’s media circuit, and I can feel all of that late night takeaway, heavy in my stomach.

It’s churning around in there and I can almost picture it, morphing into evil little fat cells that are swimming, right for my belly and thighs, laughing and rubbing their hands together.

“I look so fat!”

“Everyone looks fat in pap pictures, Angelica, that’s their aim, to take the least flattering shot possible.”

“I don’t know why you’re being nice to me, I was just horrible to you,” I say, feeling my lip begin to shake slightly and my throat get sore.

My throat always gets sore just before I’m about to cry and, is this really happening?

Am I really going to cry over a greasy kebab and some mean photos of myself?

I’m stronger than that, come on! But, despite the kebab swishing about in my belly, I’m also hungry, sad and feeling weak.

Hangovers used to be cured with macaroni cheese, a full-fat Coke and some trash TV.

Now all I’ve got is the trash TV and I have to be very careful not to pick anything where they’re eating, as that’s just miserable viewing these days.

But then, I remember something! Sometimes when I’m hungover, I’m sick.

My body rejects all that I put in it the night before, and it comes tumbling out into the toilet bowl.