Page 45 of Good Girl
‘What? But...but you told me I was being paranoid about photographers following us round the city. You’ve actually been setting it up to happen?’ I shout after him.
‘Let’s talk inside,’ he says, glancing around as if he’s worried there’ll be more press hiding in the shadows, taking down our every word.
He heads up the stairs before me, not slowing his pace so I can keep up with him as he usually does. I’m out of breath by the time I reach our apartment and my blood rushes thickly through my veins as I try to prepare myself for what I’m about to hear. I’m already vibrating with tension, knowing it’s not going to be good. Why would he do something like this to me? I just can’t reconcile it with the Sandro I know. It has to be a mistake.
He’s already inside as I walk through the door on shaky legs.
‘Why?’ Anger permeates my voice, along with panic. ‘Why would you do something like that when you know how much I hate being photographed by the press?’ I ask him.
He doesn’t answer, just kicks off his shoes and shrugs off the tux jacket, then starts to walk towards the living area.
‘I need a drink,’ he mutters, his back to me.
‘Sandro? Talk to me!’ I demand, running to catch up with him and putting my hand on his arm to try and stop him.
‘Because my father told me to!’ he shouts back.
I physically recoil, horror sinking through me. ‘Why would he do that? I don’t understand.’
‘Because I needed to give the press some good pictures of us together in order to navigate asituationI created,’ he says, roughly shoving his hands through his hair.
‘What situation?’
He sighs and rubs at his forehead. ‘A photo of me appeared in the society press the day after the party in Chelsea and my father wasn’t happy about it.’
‘Why wasn’t he happy? What’s the photo of?’
‘I got in a fight at the party after you’d left. A guy there insulted a woman I was talking to so I hit him.’ He holds up both hands. ‘But I swear to you, it’s not like me to lose it like that, which is why I didn’t mention it. I didn’t want you to think I was a violent person and walk away from our deal. I was just in a bad mood that night and I overreacted.’
‘Was the bad mood because of me? Because of what I...implied?’ The idea that I’d set this awful chain in motion horrifies me.
‘No, of course not,’ he says, batting away my words. ‘I was drunk and the guy was out of line. But my father wasn’t pleased about it getting into the press and wanted me to make amends. Which is why I needed you to act the part of adoring “good girl” girlfriend to help me convince him I was serious about restoring the family’s reputation.’
‘Why didn’t you just ask me to go along with it?’ I ask, not quite able to believe I’m hearing this.
‘Because I thought you’d refuse after what you said about your experience with the press. I thought you wouldn’t agree to come to Florence with me, and I needed it to look real. I was afraid it wouldn’t look right if we were both pretending.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I can be a good little actress when I need to be. I’ve done it all my life. Pretending I’m okay when I’m not,’ I spit angrily.
‘Well, I didn’t want to ask you to do that.’
‘No, because you’re too bloody proud to ask for help, aren’t you?’ I jab my finger at him. ‘So you lied to me instead.’
‘I never meant to lie,’ he shouts back. ‘And I didn’t think you’d ever find out about it.’
‘So you’ve just been pretending to find me attractive all this time? Playing dumb to gain my sympathy, when actually you’re a smart, conniving con artist. You’re the one who’s been manipulatingme.’
‘Playingdumb? I fucking knew it. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? How many degrees and awards someone has.’ The look in his eyes is so full of fury, I take a step backwards and wrap my arms around my body.
Shame slides sickeningly down to my gut as I remember how I misjudged that side of things before I met him.
‘How much of what you told me about yourself was made up?’ I counter in defence.
‘None of it. It’s all true, every word,’ he bites back.
‘How do you expect me to believe that now though, Sandro? How can I believe anything you say to me?’
All those memories of us together, where he’d shown me affection and been so kind, take a dark turn in my mind. Were all of them fake? They hadn’t felt it at the time, but maybe I’d been kidding myself, wanting them to be real. Wanting him genuinely to like me as I am.
