Page 28 of The Painter and His Poet

“Mum, you know how strained things are between me and dad.”

“Like I said before, it’s time to be the man that I know you are, but I’m not just talking about that. I’m sure Benedict would love to see you, Dalton and Drix too. You might not have made any friends here, but those menareyour friends, and it looks like you could use their support now more than ever, yes?”

“I’m not going back home to live with dad in Princetown. No way.”

“I’m not suggesting that, but a short visit can’t hurt, can it? Go home, attend your father’s wedding, spend some time with your friends.”

“Maybe,” I reply, but a couple of months later I find myself back in Princetown with no idea that my short visit will become a more permanent stay.

EIGHT

HARLOW

Present day

“Darling, have you heard from Julian? I need to make sure that I’m looking my absolute best tomorrow, and Julian is theonlyperson I trust to do my hair. If he’s delayed it will ruin everything and there won’t be time to replace him. I can’t be expected to do my own hair on my wedding day!” my mother trills, her voice rising as her unwarranted panic sets in.

“He’s currently on a flight from Paris, and will be arriving at the hotel later this afternoon,” I remind her for the tenth time this morning, more than a little exasperated. Her makeup artist, Stephanie, flits me a small grin as she applies my mother’s makeup. She knows only too well how trying my mother can be.

Jorge Visagé is the hairdresser to the stars, and has cost a cool three hundred thousand pounds to hire for the weekend, expenses on top,of course. But to a billionaire like Robert Blade, that kind of money is, apparently, small change.

“Only the best for my darling fiancé,”he’d responded when I’d emailed him my mother’s list of requirements and the corresponding fees, totalling to just over one million pounds.Robert has more money than sense in my opinion, but despite my initial reservations, he genuinely seems to love my mother and has made a huge effort to include me in this wedding. His genuine appreciation for my singing ability has worn my mother down, and she has done a three-sixty turn about the whole idea of me singing at the ceremony. But honestly her approval is the least of my worries right now.

Because I have astalker.

Or at least that’s what I’m beginning to think, given the escalation of the messages I’ve been getting over the last few months on Instagram since I responded with a simplethank youto that first message I’d received. After that they’ve become more frequent, starting out almost like fan mail. At first I wasn’t sure if it was a man or a woman messaging me, but the latest message I received confirmed he’s male. He started off complimenting me on my singing ability, asking when I’d be posting another song, whether I had a Spotify account for my music. But over the last few months, each message has become increasingly more personal, more insistent, more intrusive, and nowsexual.

I received the latest message just this morning.

When I listen to your voice I can’t help but touch myself. You taunt me. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m gripping my dick now, listening to you sing.

I should probably just delete the account or block this person, but there’s a small part of me that thinks if this escalates any further then at least I’d have evidence. I’ve received other messages from different accounts too, but I’ve been too afraid to open them in case it’s this person trying to reach me from another account, given I haven’t responded to any of his messages since that first time.

I honestly don’t know what to do, and it’s messing with my head. I’ve considered telling my mother, hoping she’d have some advice, that she would try to help, but then I would have to explain to her about my Instagram account, and that I’ve been performing in secret as Friday Love. I just know she wouldn’t understand. So I’ve kept quiet, concentrating on organising her upcoming wedding and vowing to file a report once the wedding’s over.

“Harlow, are you even listening to a word I’m saying?” my mother scolds, forcing me back to the present moment.

“You really need to stop questioning everything that I do,” I reply sharply, frustrated with her self-absorption, and lack of emotional intelligence. Surely someone who truly cared about their daughter’s happiness and well-being wouldseethat something is up, would notice how jumpy they were, and would question it? Not my mother.

“I’m just checking,” she snaps, looking up at me. “Robert and I just want to make sure that everything goes smoothly for our special day.”

I heave out a sigh, pushing my own worries, and feelings aside. “I know, but everything is covered. I promise.”

“So you keep telling me, darling, but I just worry. Don’t take it to heart, I’m just a woman in love wanting to make sure everything is perfect, and you do have a habit of getting distracted with your…” She waves her hand in the air between us, her eyes dropping to my notebook that I use to write lyrics in, “Otherinterests.”

Distracted? I’ve only spent the last few months since Robert proposed working my arse off organising this over-the-top, extravagant-as-fuck wedding, but that doesn’t seem to register with my mother. Though I shouldn’t be surprised, we’ve already established that she doesn’t notice much unless it directly affects her.

“Itwillbe perfect,” I reply tightly, then add, “And how I spend my free time has no reflection on my job. Have I ever let you down before?”

She arches her brow. “Darling, are you forgetting that time when you failed to arrange for a chauffeur to pick me up, and get me to my final interview in New York after you spent the night God knows where. I had to call the hotel’s Maitre’d to organise it for me. It was so humiliating.”

“It was my first night off in months, and I didn’t fail to organise anything, the driverfailedto arrive,” I remind her, my cheeks heating, not at her complaint, but at the memory of that night in Sterling’s arms.

That one night of escape is theonlything that has gotten me through these past few months. I’ve done little else but organise this damn wedding, pushing my own wants and needs aside, not to mention my safety. Admittedly, for a while I’d considered that Sterling was the one sending the messages, that he’d somehow found my Instagram account, had recognised my voice, and he’s been sending them as punishment for sneaking out on him that night. But I refuse to believe that’s the case, and maybe it’s foolish to think this, but he didn’t seem like the stalking, creepy type. There have been many people who I’ve met over the years who fit that bill perfectly, but not Sterling.

He was intense, sure, but he was also…wonderful.

Then again, what do I know? No matter how incredible that night was, how connected I felt to him, I don’t know him. I don’t even know his full name, let alone whether he could be capable of sending those messages.

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