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I realise I have a ton of messages and when I tap the first one, I see it’s from Neve.
Neve
How did it go? Tell me everything? I want details
I smile to myself. My girl, checking in with me. That’s what friends are for.
She helped me so much this past week. I needed to get prepared, and not just mentally. There was waxing and plucking involved and self-tan. Neve even paid for me to get my hair washed and blow dried professionally, something I can never afford to do myself.
I felt a million dollars in the gown, and though I know I look ridiculous standing here in an emerald green dress with a Dior hoodie over the top, I remember who I am and what it took to get here. So I hold my head up high and straighten my back.
Fuck him.
Fuck everyone.
I did this because I wanted to, because I needed the cash and I wanted the experience. I don’t need anyone’s judgement — even if it is my own telling me this was a huge mistake.
All I can do is think about what that money will bring me. I try to block out the reminders of what I did — essentially with my ex-stepdad, the one man on the planet that I hold a grudge against — and why I didn’t make him stop.
No. I want to bathe in this feeling. That I had the upper hand. That I was the one that broke him. And I hope he damn well chokes on it.
I smile to myself as I text Neve back.
Me
I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t reply. I’m all good. Talk soon x
I’m not a vindictive person, but this feels like sweet revenge.
I just wish I could stop the racing of my heart whenever I allow myself to think about what we did.
It’s late morning when I surface out of my room. The house is still because both the girls I room with work day shifts. I’m thanking my lucky stars now, because I need quiet to think.
I’m also feeling the need to clean. I always clean when I’m nervous or excited about something. It’s like that nervous twitch that you can’t shake until something is set right again.
So I get stuck in. Scrubbing the shared bathroom from head to toe until it’s gleaming.
I also do three loads of laundry. I stuff the rented emerald dress into the garment bag, ready to drop it off tomorrow to dry clean on my way to work.
I can’t stop thinking about the money and how it makes me feel.
If it hadn’t been Alistair, then would I feel differently?
After I’m done with the bathroom, I start on the kitchen, and when that’s cleaned from head to toe, I decide it’s time for some retail therapy.
I shower and pull my hair into a ponytail, put on my favourite jeans and a long-sleeved top, and fuck it, I slide on Alistair’s hoodie. It’s actually perfectly oversized in an understated way. There’s no way he’s going to get this back. And it could just be my imagination, but it smells like him. That woody, masculine scent permeates my nostrils as I breathe in, remembering everything. As much as I try not to, I know I’m doing this on purpose. Because I want to remember. His hands on my body is a memory I’ll never forget. I fight the urge to be repulsed, that I should feel some kind of remorse, but I can’t. I don’t. If I’m honest with myself, I would admit that I enjoyed it. But what does that make me? Does it make me a whore after all? Or just his little whore?
The man had the audacity to criticise me for what I was doing, talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Damn snob.
No. I’m going to go out onto Kensington high street and I’m going to spend money on myself. Alistair Devereaux’s money, as luck would have it. Yes. I’m going to drown myself in luxury items because that will make me feel a hell of a lot better than facing reality. Even if it is short-lived, I no longer care. I’m going to have an afternoon that’s all about me. And there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.
Chapter Ten
Alistair
I’m annoyed that it took me this long to find her fucking number.
I’m even more pissed to learn how long she’s been in London for. What’s worse? She skipped out on me without as much as a goodbye.
