Page 49 of Good Girl
I slump against the wall next to the sink and slide down to the floor, putting my head in my hands, feeling totally wrecked. A hollow shell of myself.
How could I have let this happen?
I am such afucking idiot.
Ashallowfucking idiot.
I was so proud of myself when she told me that out of all the men she’d researched I’d come out at the top of her list. My sexual reputation had been everything to me at that point. In my mind it made up for my lack of academic prowess, business acumen or any kind of serious drive or ambition, but I know now that it doesn’t. Not for Juno. She needs more than that. She deserves more.
My insides clench with disgust at myself.
I’ve allowed myself to be my father’s puppet all my life, but I’m fed up with putting on a show for people now—just being a pretty face, an arm for women to hang off. I don’t want to be that person any more. I want to be someone who’s respected for more than their family name and looks, even if it means going out on my own. But I don’t want to make a success of my art just for me; I want to do it for her too. I want to feel worthy of being with someone as smart and accomplished as Juno.
I want her to be proud of me.
So I’m going to change. For her. I’m going to do all the things I’ve been too scared to do for fear of failing, and even if I do fail, over and over again, at least I’ll be moving forward.
And maybe she’ll recognise that as a strength and a good reason to give me a chance at being a proper partner to her.
Jesus, I hope so. Because I don’t know how I’m going to live without her.
Finally, I allow myself to put a name to the way I feel about her.
It’s love.
I love her.
I’ve known it for a while, of course, I just haven’t wanted to admit it to myself.
But I have now. And I know what I need to do to let her know it too: I have to swallow my pride and allow myself to be vulnerable. Just like she did.
It takes me a few days to put everything into motion and then there’s nothing left but to go back to London, find her and ask her to forgive me. To beg her for another chance, even though I probably don’t deserve one after the shitty way I behaved.
Once back on English soil, I call the friend of a friend who originally gave me Juno’s number, but he doesn’t have her address. It seems the rest of the people I know from London’s social scene don’t know her well enough to have it either, because she rarely makes an appearance at the events and parties they go to.
But now I’ve made up my mind to do this I know I have to see her right away.
I rack my brain, trying to remember the name of the university where she works, pacing the floor until I manage to break through the fog in my head and access a memory. I remember now that it was named after one of the saints—fitting, really.
I use the Internet browser on my phone to look through the possibilities and when ‘St George’ comes up my brain sparks. That’s it. St George’s University. In a department that has something to do with heart attacks in young athletes. Another search finally leads me to the department I need and its address in London.
With adrenaline rushing through my veins I leave my apartment and run outside to hail a cab.
Juno
After a horrendous day of worry about my father’s condition, where I’d paced around Peretola airport waiting to get on a flight back home, I finally hear from Maya that he’s out of surgery, out of danger and already demanding to be discharged from hospital.
It seems even life-threatening injuries can’t keep my autocratic father down for long.
Joking aside, though, I’m hugely relieved to hear he’s all right and as soon as I get the good news I finally allow myself to cry out all the tension I’ve been carrying around with me like a ten-ton weight.
It takes me another few hours to secure a seat on a plane back to London then two hours in the air and two more till I’m finally back at my apartment in Notting Hill, where I crawl straight into bed. The next day is spent visiting my father in hospital and supporting my sisters, so by Thursday I’m totally shattered when I finally drag myself in to work.
I probably should have called in sick, but I can’t stand the thought of being alone in my flat with just my heartache to keep me company. So I brave the tube, and the curious questions from my colleagues about where I’d been on holiday, and smile politely as they tell me how well I look. Even Adam makes a point of stopping by my desk to check in with me.
I listened to the message he’d left for me that fateful night a few days ago and decided answering it could wait till I got back. Needless to say, it hadn’t been a booty call.
From the way he looked at me just now, however, I’m beginning to wonder whether the next one will be.
