Elouise

“Elouise. Hi.”

“Hello, Hayden,” she says happily. “Are you okay, lovely? Christopher is stuck in a meeting.”

“No. I’m not,” I whisper. “I’m in a bar, and a group of photographers have found me and are waiting out front, and now I’m hiding in the bathroom,” I splutter.

“Oh dear. Where are you? I’ll get Hans to come and collect you now.”

I put the phone down. “What’s the name of this bar?” I ask the waitress.

“O’Brian’s.”

“What’s the address?” God, I must sound stupid, but I was ambling down the street paying no attention.

She gives me the address, and I tell Elouise.

“Just wait there. Hans will call you when he pulls up out the front,” Elouise says calmly.

I hear my angry heartbeat in my ears. This is all so overdramatic.

And so . . . not me.

“It’s okay, Hayden. Please don’t let this worry you. It comes with Miles territory. In time, you will get used to it,” Elouise says.

Not likely.

“Stay in the bathroom. Hans will be there soon.”

Ugh, I hate this.

“Are you okay?” Elouise asks.

“Yep,” I snap. I can’t even hide how angry I am.

I stay in the bathroom, and twenty minutes later my phone rings.

Hans

“Hello,” I answer.

“Hello, Miss Whitmore. I’m out the front.”

I peer out the door to see the black Mercedes double-parked in the traffic.

“There’s a security guard with me. He’s coming in to get you.”

My eyes well with embarrassed tears. So dramatic.

“Okay.”

I peer around the corner again to see a big burly bodyguard get out of the car and walk into the bar, and I square my shoulders to prepare myself.

I walk out in a rush, and the security guard gives me a kind smile. “Hello, Miss Whitmore?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go. Stay close.” He turns and walks out of the bar, and I follow him like a child. Cameras flash, people call my name, and in a whirlwind of chaos I am ushered into the back of the waiting car.

The guard gets into the front passenger seat, and we drive off into the traffic.

“Imbeciles,” Hans mutters under his breath.

A text bounces in from Elouise.

I’ve canceled your appointment with Zoe for this afternoon.

We will have to reschedule.

Let me know when suits.

X

I exhale heavily, great.

I can’t even go shopping now.

That was the one thing that I was doing today . . . the only thing.

Now that’s ruined too.

I stare out the window as I internally fume. How dare these fuckers chase me around town? Why don’t they report on an issue that actually matters?

“Where would you like to go, Miss Whitmore?” Hans asks.

“Home, please.”

Two hours later

My phone buzzes . . .

Christopher

“Hello,” I answer.

“Babe, are you okay?” he stammers. “I was in a meeting and just found out what happened.”

“I’m fine.” I’ve calmed down now and am feeling stupid for letting it get to me.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

“They won’t be able to sell the images. Everyone has been warned. I’m sorry that you had to deal with this alone.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”

“Do you want me to come home? I’ll cancel the meeting I had with Paris for this afternoon.”

“No.” He can’t come home every time I’m photographed. I know I have to learn to deal with this shit. “Finish your day. It’s fine.”

He hangs on the line. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I promise.”

“Just order in tonight; don’t cook. I’m going to be late with this stupid fucking meeting.”

“Okay.”

“Why don’t you go and get a massage or a pedicure . . .”

I roll my eyes. “Really?”

“I just thought . . .”

“You thought wrong. See you tonight.” I hang up.

Idiot.

Because a massage or a pedicure is so fucking riveting. Does he even know me at all?

I throw the phone onto the couch and begin to pace. I’m so bored that I can hardly see straight. I want to be positive and love it here, but deep down I already know.

This isn’t who I am.

This whole city-living life just isn’t me.

I want to work, but then I don’t want to commit to anything until after the three months. If we do decide not to live here long term, then I don’t want to let anyone down.

What if we stay?

Hell . . . the thought of living here forever is traumatizing. No grass, no sun . . . not one thing to fucking do. I had all these hopes and dreams of opening my own animal husbandry business when I got back from traveling. I’d been working toward it for years. I was going to get an apprentice and perhaps hire a stable to work from.

But now what?

I walk to the window and look at the busy city way below . . . there are no animals here. Not a one.

Except for the paparazzi, of course.

I exhale heavily, disappointed that I feel this way. I want to love it. I want to support Christopher and be the good girlfriend that he deserves, but it’s as if every day that I stay here, I feel like I lose a little more of myself. As if minute by minute I’m watching my hopes and dreams slowly drip down the drain.

If he had just told me who he was.

I know that I’ve said that I made peace with Christopher for lying to me, and I realize that he had a valid reason for doing it.

But deep down, I’m resentful. His life is chugging along just great, while mine has come to a complete standstill.

We don’t have an equal exchange of power. It’s all about him and his life and his job . . . and how I should fit into it.

What if I wanted him to fit into my life . . . could he do that? Of course not. It’s not even an option, and I mean, it’s ridiculous to even want that because he makes so much more money than me. Of course his job should come first.

The thought is depressing.

I fell for a simple cleaner and ended up with a workaholic . . . the two men I love are worlds apart.

10:00 p.m.

The movie is playing, but I’m not watching . . . I mean, I’ve never been one to watch a lot of television, but now that it’s my only company, I’m beginning to really despise it.

I glance at the time on my phone: 10:00 p.m. . . . god, it’s late. That must be some motherfucking long telecall to Paris. Poor Christopher, he’s been at work since eight o’clock this morning. I hope he at least had something to eat before his meeting.

He works too hard.

I exhale heavily and hold the remote up and turn the television off.

I’m going to bed.