Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I stare at my laptop like it’s personally offended me. The cursor blinks on the screen, a mocking little metronome keeping time with my lack of progress. I’m supposed to be finishing a client’s logo today. A sleek, minimalist design for a wellness brand, but all I’ve managed so far is: pick a shade of teal that is all the rage at the moment, then delete it. My head is foggy, my eyes are gritty, and my brain keeps wandering back to Saturday night like it’s stuck on repeat. I thought I’d paid the price for that yesterday with an appallingly bad hangover, but nope, it is the gift that keeps on giving.
I keep replaying a scene in my head. Me in that Jessica Rabbit dress. The whistles. The cheers. The exaggerated walk that will haunt me to my grave. And him. That bloody stranger with the dangerous green eyes and the scowl. I really don’t want to keep thinking about him, and yet, I do.
My cell phone buzzes on the desk, dragging me out of my spiral. I pick it up and look at the screen. Messages are pinging into the group chat I am in with Sandra and Lucy. I open it, already knowing it’s going to be a mistake.
Sandra: Morning, Jessica. Or should I say Internet legend?
I groan out loud as a winky-face emoji pops in next, before Lucy’s message pops up too.
Lucy: I can confirm that you’re famous. I just saw a video of you on TikTok. It’s got like 250k views already.
My stomach sinks.
What? “No. Nope. No, no, no,” I mutter, pressing my palms over my face.
Another ping from the group chat, and Sandra has sent a link to the video. I hesitate. Watching it will only bring the horror back, fresh and garish, into my mind. But not watching it will leave me wondering just how bad it actually is. I tap the link, filled with morbid curiosity. And there I am, in glorious high definition. It’s not too bad at first as I have my back to the camera, but then I turn around and begin strutting across Mason’s Bar in that bloody scrap of a dress, my hips swinging like I’m auditioning for Strictly Come Dancing: The Adult Edition. The video cuts out just as I take my bow.
The video is bad enough, but the comments! Oh my God! Worse. Far worse. I scroll through them. There are few comments with nothing but fire emojis and a few with laughing emojis which I try to tell myself are people laughing with me, not at me. To my surprise, the majority are actually positive, but somehow, that is more mortifying.
@GingerAndProud: Omg QUEEN
@PintsAndGiggles: Marry me, Jessica Rabbit.
@ThatOneBloke: Lads, she’s brave. Respect. And those tits! Whoa!
@SophieLou89: I’d die before doing this sober. Legend.
I bury my face in my hoodie.
“I can never show my face again,” I whisper, feeling the heat in my cheeks.
My cell phone pings, and it’s the group chat again. Sandra, this time.
Sandra: You should be proud. Look at you owning it.
Lucy: We told you it was iconic.
Sandra: Also, your man is hot, like hot HOT. Have you heard from him yet?
Before I can reply, my cell phone rings. It’s my mum. I debate ignoring it, but that’s a fool’s game. She’ll just keep calling until I pick up.
“Hi, Mum,” I say cautiously, praying her timing is just a coincidence and she doesn’t know about the video. Her voice is already full of laughter when she speaks, and I know before she has said more than my name that she does indeed know about the video.
“Pippa Hart, you wicked girl. Why didn’t you tell me you had a hidden talent for cabaret?”
I groan so loudly she cackles.
“Not you as well. Please tell me you didn’t see that video.”
“Oh, darling, of course I have. Everyone’s seen it. Your Auntie June sent me the link. She said isn’t this our Pippa? And I said, yes, it is, and doesn’t she look fabulous in red? Honestly, sweetheart, you should wear that color more often.”
“Do we have to talk about this?” I groan.
She laughs. “I’m serious, sweetheart. It suits you. I’ve never seen your bust look so …”
I slap a hand over my eyes. “Do not finish that sentence,” I say, cutting her off.
She giggles like she’s still twenty. “OK, forget your bust. Tell me about the man.”
“There is no man.”
“Oh, come on now. The tall one in the suit you asked out. When are you seeing him?”
“I’m not. It’s not like he’s actually going to call. That’s not …” I wave my hands at the ceiling, exasperated. “It was just a joke. A dare. That’s all.”
“Hmm,” she hums, unconvinced. “Well, I think he looked rather handsome. And if he does call, you’ll at least give him a chance, won’t you? It’s not like you’re exactly …”