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“Ready?” I ask Roxy.
She nods and follows me out of the restaurant. A few paparazzi are still here, but my car is already waiting for us. I thank the valet and hand him a tip before getting behind the wheel.
The drive to Roxy’s doesn’t take more than twenty minutes, and we spend it in comfortable silence. There aren’t a lot of people with whom silence can be this relaxing, but I’m glad to know Roxy is one of them.
“Here we are,” I announce, pulling up in front of her flat. “Thank you for tonight. I had fun.”
“Me too.” She flashes that beautiful smile, and I struggle to keep my composure. “You’re not too bad—for a footballer.” She opens the door and gets out.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask with a frown, but she closes the door and retreats into her flat without glancing back.
I have a feeling that dating Roxy Grant is going to be full of surprises.
Roxy
I spent my entire Sunday doing nothing except watching Netflix and lounging on my sofa. I did have a quick cry and somehow ended up with a bottle of rum after Netflix suggested Downton Abbey, one of my and Karl’s favourite shows, but other than that, I managed pretty well.
I’m usually a train wreck after a breakup. My boosted spirits are probably thanks to Wade. Even if our relationship is just for show, the fact that I had to dress nicely, put makeup on, and go out helped lift my mood. Plus, I don’t recall having such a brilliant time on a first date, ever. I’m usually too awkward. I try to be funny, but I always wind up sounding stupid. Maybe the key was that it had to be fake for me to actually enjoy it. How pathetic is that? I can’t even do first dates right, I chide inwardly. Still, even if it’s not a real rebound, I’m benefitting from the side effects, so I won’t complain.
Today, I’m particularly excited to go back to work. I’m planning to start compiling the article on Wade and brainstorm ideas for his shoot. I really feel like I have a shot at this.
I arrive at the office early, but Orla, my boss, piles so much work on me, I’m not nearly done by lunchtime when Lina calls me to go to the cafeteria.
She steps into the open space and comes straight to my desk. Strange, she never does that. She says that she doesn’t dare cross the sacred writers’ open space, afraid to distract us or something. Well, she does tend to wear extravagant colours, so she’s not totally wrong. Today’s outfit is a canary-yellow jumpsuit with gold jewellery. I would never dare to wear that, but she pulls it off, like always. She stops next to my desk and throws a magazine on my keyboard without uttering a word.
“Hey,” I grumble. “What are you—”
Then, my eyes fall on the magazine. In the right-hand corner is a picture of Wade and me entering the restaurant on Saturday night. My hair looks quite good, and though you can’t really see my face since I’m looking down, I decide right now that I will never wear that outfit again. What’s wrong with my mirror? I didn’t look like that at home.
“What’s this?” she asks in a loud whisper.
I give her a side eye, grab the magazine and my ID badge, and get up. We shuffle to the elevator, and as soon as the door closes, she repeats in a louder voice, “What the hell is happening?”
I sigh and force myself to look her in the eye. Here we are. The dreaded moment when I have to lie to my best friend. “It just kind of happened.”
“What do you mean ‘kind of happened’? Three days ago, you were passed out drunk in your living room, trying to get over Karl. The guy you’ve been pining over for years. And now you’re on the cover of every tabloid with some hot athlete.”
My eyes widen as heat washes over my face. “Every tabloid?”
“Well, a lot of them. I bought the one with the biggest picture, but I spotted you on a few others too.”
“Terrific.” I lean against the elevator wall. For someone who doesn’t like the spotlight, this arrangement might not have been the brightest of ideas. Why didn’t I think of this possibility? Because I just assumed no one really cared about footballers or who they date. At least not enough to plaster them on the cover of every tabloid. I don’t recall seeing athletes a lot on the covers. Clearly, it’s a different story with England’s Golden Boy.
“So, explain!”
I had an entire speech prepared, but I can’t muster the courage to recite it. I hate secrets, I hate lying, and I’m going to explode if I don’t share this with someone. Lina would never betray me, I’m sure of it. She confided in me last year when she was secretly dating our boss. I can trust her.
I lean in closer to her and whisper, “Okay. I need to tell you something, but you have to promise not to say a word to anyone.”
Her eyes bulge a little, and she nods vigorously.
“Not to Jude, not to your friends in the US, not even to your parents. No one. I mean it.”
She pretends to zip her lips with a key and throw it over her shoulder.
So, I spill. When the elevator door pings open, she’s still standing frozen, mouth agape, digesting what I just unloaded. As for me, I feel so much lighter.
“Whoa,” she breathes. “That’s insane. Incredible, but insane. Only you would score a hot soccer player as a rebound.”
