Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
We kiss in a long, desperate whirlwind – once, twice, three times on the way to the front door, kisses and goodbyes and see you soons and… love you!
And then the door is closed behind us.
Josh and I don’t bother speaking. We’re just standing alone in the morning heat together when the driveway gates open and the cab rolls in. We load our stuff into the back, trying to act like things are normal and dandy, even though my ribs feel speared with the loss at what, or rather, who, we are leaving behind.
I figure we’ve got this. Deep breaths. Pasted on smiles. Everything under control.
No big deal, no big deal, no big deal…
“We’ll be seeing him again soon, baby,” Josh whispers, right into my ear. “Real soon. As soon as we can. We’ll make it work, and we’ll keep it under wraps. We’ll make it happen. Somehow.”
I nod, mute as I slide into the backseat. I get a stabbing pain in my gut when the taxi pulls away, because here we are, on our way back to the airport. Our Naughty Week is over, and our lover has been left behind.
I can’t help the silent tears that fall from my eyes. I wipe them away with swats of my hand so the driver doesn’t see them, and I don’t look at Josh. I can’t.
I know he’s battling with tears of his own.
EPILOGUE
The car zooms along towards the airport, and I’m desperate to tell the cab driver to turn around and take us back to Heath’s place, it hurts so fucking bad. This isn’t morning after syndrome, and it isn’t week after syndrome – it’s leaving someone you’re in love with behind, not knowing when the hell you’ll see them again. The driver has the radio on, playing some upbeat pop without a care in the world, swaying his head from side to side. Lucky bastard.
“It’ll be alright,” Josh tells me in the backseat. “Proposals come in all the time. We may have a fresh one already. Who knows?”
I know the fresh proposal he may be referring to.
No matter how great our relationship with Heath Mason has been over this past week, it was still just a proposal that brought us out here. He’s still a client, and we’re still subject to Agency rules. We’re still his curvas, even though it feels like we’re his partners now.
“We can’t have another one already,” I say. “We switched our profiles to temporarily unavailable, remember?”
“Shit, you’re right,” Josh says, “then let’s get our phones switched on and alter that situation. Plus, our parents will be dying to hear from us, and Tiff will be ready to yap our ears off. It’ll get us grounded.”
His light-heartedness is returning, and so is mine. Me and Josh will be ok. He’s right. And Heath will be sending us another proposal just as soon as we mark ourselves available. Definitely. He’s been terrified of the negative spotlight for years, and I totally get it now. But we’ve made progress. He’s made progress. Together. Long may it continue. Whatever that might entail.
I take my phone from my handbag, looking at its blank screen and trying to fathom how much of an impact this device makes on our lives, day after day without realising. It’s insane.
“Ready to enter real life again?” I ask Josh, who’s holding his in his hand, too.
He nods. “Let’s do it. Three, two, one,” he says, and we press the button.
I wonder what will be waiting for me as my phone fires up. Messages, voicemails, social media announcements, I imagine.
I ready myself for a load of ping, ping, ping vibrations, but there are so many notifications that they buzz through my whole fucking arm, and Josh’s are the same.
I have to laugh, because hell, who’d have thought we’d have been quite so popular? We did say we’d be on a ‘retreat’ for a week, after all.
It’s only when I examine my notification window that I see all the exclamation marks and missed calls. All the messages in capital letters, screaming. Ones from Mum, Dad, Tiff, Ebony…
WHERE ARE YOU?
WHAT THE FUCK, ELLA?? CALL US NOW!
CONNOR TOLD THEM, ELLA! HE TOLD THEM WHO YOU ARE!
I look at Josh and he’s open mouthed, no doubt having the same stream of notifications as I’m having.
No.
No fucking way.
Connor can’t have told them who I am. I can’t be officially known as the ex who became a hooker and broke his heart. Not for real.
My fingers are shaking when I click on a link Mum has sent. I retch as I see the headline on one of the major news sites.
Connor Preston’s ‘hooker’ ex revealed! Ella Edwards, 24, from Belgravia.
They have a picture of me, right there. A picture of me and Connor together, taken when we were teenagers alongside it. Then more. Pictures of me cheering him on at the side of a gig he was doing, staring up at him adoringly.