Page 18 of Worth Every Moment
Typing the words and sending the message makes me ache, and I don’t know why, but Amy’s response only makes it worse.
Amy: Friends could do that.
Me: Not me.
She sends a succession of laughing-so-hard-they’re-crying face emojis.
Amy: Of course not you. ROFL. Ice Queen. It’s probably best you don’t, because if you did the deed, your mum would crawl in there and sew your hymen back together.
Me: That’s disgusting.
Amy: You know it’s true.
Me: It’s not.
Amy: It is. Erica Lefroy doesn’t have sex. No man is worthy of such perfection. Mummy’s guarding the entrance.
I scrape a hand over my forehead. This Ice Queen nickname has been haunting me in the press lately. It’s like the whole purity thing went too far, and rather than pure and chaste, theythink I’m aloof and frosty. I might need to take action if it’s spread so far that even Amy is using it.
I sit there staring at my phone for a few minutes before another message pings in.
Amy: You there? I’m kidding. Chill out. But I do think sex would be good for you. Loosen you up a bit. MELT YOU! Hahahaha.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.She thinks she’s so damn funny. It’s annoying, but I smile anyway because I love her. I still don’t know how to respond though.
Amy: Are you angry with me?
Me: No. But you’re a pain in the arse.
Amy. *Blowing-kiss-emoji* Love you.
I’m about to respond in kind when the sound of keys click in the lock of my front door. And there is only one other person who has keys to my apartment.
Shit.
7
ERICA
Mum is the last person I want to see because I know she’ll have something to say about my fall on the runway today. Steeling myself for an inevitable attack, I tie my hair up and hobble towards the door, but before I get there, Mum swings into the apartment like she owns it.I really need to get those keys off her.Maybe change the locks. I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman whose mother has keys to her flat. Sometimes I hate myself for how pathetic this picture is. Sure, on the outside it looks great. I’m a multimillionaire model and part owner of a cosmetics and luxury fashion company. But beneath the surface… it’s fucked as all hell.
“I thought you were sick?” I ask.
She casts me a fluttering eye roll. “I miraculously recovered when I remembered how you mess up when I’m not there.” Sarcasm drips from her tone. No matter how old I get, or how much money I make, comments like that always sting. “We need to talk about these photos of you today. I’m seeing them all over my feed.” She stills, tapping a finger to her lips as she ponders my face. I restrain the urge to look away. “At least you weren'tsmiling. Thank God for that. I can't fathom how it contorts your features. So peculiar.” Shaking her head, she blinks and shifts into business mode, scrolling on her phone, barely looking at me as she walks past. Each click of her heels is a wordless reprimand that has me bracing. She’s wearing a long black dress beneath a camel overcoat, and her dark hair is blow-dried to perfection. She’s the epitome of middle-aged glamour.
I close the door and lean against it. Mum glances up from her phone to do the usual sweep up and down of my attire, her gaze as disparaging as ever.
“Tracksuit. Really? I hope no one saw you in that. It’s not on brand. Erica Lefroy is the face of high fashion. Glamour.” She inhales through flared nostrils, turns her palms up, and glances deliberately at her attire. “Look at me. I left the house to come here, but I turned myself out properly in case anyone saw me.”
Guess she’s not going to ask about my ankle then.
She steps towards me and teases down some strands of hair from my untidy up-do, assessing the effect, but a moment later she throws her hands in the air and lets out an exasperated sigh. “You shouldn’t wear your hair up unless you really have to. Your ears are very prominent. Your father’s ears. Dear Lord. We should have had those pinned back.”
The familiar void drops through my centre, threatening to reduce me to a heap on the floor. She’s always assessed me like this. And I amalwaysfound wanting. I steel my spine. “My ears are fine.”
“Are they? Have you considered that they might be part of the reason you keep failing to get a role in any of those movies you’re auditioning for?” I wince.Shit. I’d tried to keep this from Mum. “Oh, yes.” She jabs an accusatory finger at my face. “I know you’ve been going behind my back. A rejection letter came to our joint email.”
“And you opened it?”
