Page 15 of One Night in Glasgow
The Sun?What the fuck had I donenow?
My fingers, suddenly clumsy, fumbled to open the link. The headline jumped out at me: “AMERICAN MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER’S WILD NIGHT OUT IN GLASGOW.”
“Oh no,” I whispered, pressing play on the grainy video. There I was, in a drunken stumble, coming out of the pub with Sean, laughing like an idiot. Thank God for those ridiculous sunglasses and the scarf. At least my face wasn’t clearly visible. But I recognized myself immediately. The designer dress, the unmistakable red hair peeking out from under the scarf. It was definitely me.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I hissed, panic rising in my throat. This was bad. This was really fucking bad. My parents’ ultimatum was still ringing in my ears like a goddamn broken record. “Get your shit together or kiss your trust fund goodbye,” they’d said. Or worse, Mum wanted me to shack up with that prick Stewart and play happy families. I’d rather gargle razorblades. And here I was, splashed across the rags like some two-bit floozy, looking every bit the same old wild child Beth, they’d always bitched about.
My finger hovered over Kinna’s number.Fuck. I’m going to regret this.
I pushed “call” and began pacing the room.
Kinna picked up on the first ring. “Beth? Thank God, finally! Please tell me that’s not really you in that video.”
“I wish I could, Kin. But it’s me.”
“Fuck,” she breathed. “Okay, don’t panic. We can fix this.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Fix it? How the hell are we supposed to fix this? I’m all over the fucking internet!”
“Deep breaths, babe,” Kinna said, her voice calm and steady. “Your face isn’t clearly visible. That’s good. We can work with that.”
I nodded, even though I was on the phone. “Yeah, I guess. But people are going to speculate, aren’t they? It won’t take long for someone to recognize me.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Kinna mused. “Listen up. The first thing we need to do is damage control. We need a strategy before your parents find out.”
The thought made me want to vomit. “God, I hope they’re still asleep. What kind of strategy? It’s not like I can deny it’s me if someone recognizes me.”
“No, but we can muddy the waters a bit.” I could practically hear the rusty hamster wheel in Kinna’s brain squeaking away. “First things first, delete any social media posts from last night. Did you check in anywhere?”
I wracked my brain. “I... I um, no we didn’t.”
“Okay, good. Now, listen carefully. If anyone asks—you were home all night. You weren’t feeling well, so you stayed in. Got it?”
I bit my lip, trying to sound confident as I said, “Yeah, got it. But Kinna, what if?—”
“No ‘what ifs’,” she cut me off. “That’s the story. Stick to it. The less you say, the better.”
Just then, another notification popped up on my phone and I got that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I read it.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
“What? What is it?” Kinna demanded.
“It’s... it’s a DM on Instagram. From some gossip account. They’re asking if it’s me in the video.”
Kinna was quiet for a beat. “Ignore it,” she said finally. “Don’t respond, don’t even open it. If you engage, it’ll get worse.”
I sucked in air like I was trying to inhale the whole damn room, hoping it might slow down my heartbeat, which was doing its best imitation of a jackhammer on crack. “Okay. Okay, I can remember all that.”
“Good girl.” I heard the smile in Kinna’s voice. “Now, about this bloke...”
“Sean,” I supplied, memories of last night flooding back. His laugh, his hands, the way he’d looked at me like I was the only woman in the world.
“Right, Sean.” Kinna’s voice snapped me back to reality. “We need to get ahead of this. If he talks to the press?—”
“He won’t,” I said, more confidently than I felt. “I didn’t even tell him my last name.”
“That’s a start, but hope isn’t a strategy,” Kinna muttered, the typing getting faster. “Okay, I’m on his website now. Sean McCrae, motivational guru... impressive, I’ll give him that. Ah, here we go. ‘For all press and booking inquiries, contact his agent, Daniel Beckford.’”
