Page 21 of Worth Every Moment
Mum smiles, seemingly satisfied with my thanks, despite it sounding as though it was dragged up from the depths of the deepest ocean like a shipwreck. “You’re welcome.” She arches a brow. “So, are we clear? Focus on the brand. The launch. Do not go out with or be seen with anyone who might affect your reputation. You’re the face of this brand, and I am as deeply financially invested in it as I am emotionally. And if you wantthis Hollywood career, then I will get it for you. First stop, breast implants. Then your body will finally match your gorgeous face, and we can take on the world.”
We?She wants to take this from me too? I want to throw up. I want to destroy everything I’ve worked for. Take a match and burn every single photo that’s ever been taken of me—the legacy she created—just to hurt her.
Fortunately, I have enough self-restraint and common sense to realise that fucking things up for Mum is the same as fucking everything up for me. I need this platform. This fame. This brand. I need all of it, so I can use it as a springboard to launch myself into Hollywood. Or at least as far away from my mother as I can get.
Iwillfind success, and I will find it on my own this time.
8
SEB
I’m on my way to the opening of a new exhibition at the Tate Modern. Some fancy new artist. Nico owns a few of his pieces and we’re sponsoring the show, but I couldn’t give a fuck about it. There’s only one thing on my mind tonight, and it’s Erica Lefroy.
I haven’t heard from her for six weeks. Radio fucking silence since the night she kicked me out. Not that I’ve tried to contact her—my stupid pride wouldn’t let me—but it still feels like I’m being ignored because the absence of contact is a noticeable void in my life. I hadn’t realised just how often I reach for my phone to share something with her. A joke. A stupid GIF. Something that someone said. Something that happened to me. A randomGood Night, Sleep Tight, or, if I’m feeling like I want to piss her off just a little, an unacceptably earlyWakey wakey, eggs and bakeywhen I leave for the gym.
I’ve been emotionally dependent on Erica for longer than I want to admit.
Maybe a break is a good thing. Maybe this whole ‘being friends with a woman I find indescribably attractive’ is bullshit anyway,and I’m kidding myself that we could ever maintain a friendship long-term.
But it’s been five years, and we’ve somehow got this far. But I’m tired. Tired of pretending that I wouldn't prefer Erica to anyone else, and yet knowing I have no fucking chance. Tired of pretending that all I want is friendship.
Tired. Yeah. That’s what I am. Tired of seeing my brothers and my friends getting together with women who adore them. Finding something serious. Finding love.
I want something that isn’t completely meaningless. Something more than a vacuous physical connection with someone I hardly know.
But with Erica? I’m not foolish enough to think she’d really give me the time of day. If she can give me the silent treatment for six weeks, maybe this whole friendship doesn’t mean as much to her as it does to me.
But then again, she could be thinking the same thing about me, having no idea that I’ve been tormented by the silence. Has it tormented her too? I have no way of knowing. A dark part of me hopes it has. Hopes she’s fucking ached for me every day, but a more rational part knows she’s probably been too busy to spare me a second thought.
Tonight, there’s a chance I’ll see her and our stalemate might break. She’ll be at the event, and I’m as nervous as a teenager on a first date. Palms sweating, stomach rioting.
I have no fucking clue how to tell Erica that she’s the one I want, so here I am, on my way to the event with Harriet, my date for the night, who’s staring at me like I hung the goddamn moon.
As we get out of the car on the St Paul’s side (I wanted to walk over the bridge to clear my head), a hint of spring warmth lingers in the air. It’s unusual to have warm evenings in London in April, but this year we’ve been blessed with an early heatwave that makes it feel like we’re in the Mediterranean. It’s one ofthose blissful London nights where the air is full of the chatter of people out late, corporate suits spilling onto the pavement from the nearby bars. It makes me happy in a way Harriet’s presence ought to, but doesn’t.
“I was so glad you called,” she says. “I’d been waiting to hear from you, you know, since we—”
Fucked. “Yeah. Sorry. Work was hectic.”God, I feel like a prick.I’m not into this woman. I’m using her to soothe my bruised ego. I should tell her I’m not looking for a relationship or even a hookup, but I don’t want to ruin the evening. Yet here I am, staying quiet and thinking about someone else. I hate that I’m doing this to her.
I should definitely tell her I’m not interested.
“I thought you’d forgotten about me,” she adds, staring at me with those big, pitiful eyes, like I made her fucking year because I asked her out tonight.
Well, fuck.Could she have said anything worse?
I’m an arsehole. The worst type of man. But I’m fairly committed to the persona, and the flirtatious compliments are reflexive by this point in my life, so I flash a smile and watch her visibly melt. “Nope. Absolutely not. You’re unforgettable.” Harriet…whatever your name is.
“That’s such a lovely thing to say,” she responds as I offer her my arm and she takes it as we stride over the bridge.
I say nothing as we walk the rest of the way, the Thames churning, dull and dreary beneath us. But I fucking love it. London. The river. The Millennium Bridge. There’s a power to this city that I can feel through the soles of my shoes, making my skin tingle. I ache with wishing it was Erica by my side. She’s the one I want to share this moment with. Fuck it; she’s the one I want to share every moment with.
The gallery looms into view, a great brick and glass building overlooking the river. My family has been sponsoringexhibitions here for years, and it’s expected that I attend. My brothers, Nico and Matt, will be here too, and perhaps even my father. I know he’s in London at the moment, but I haven’t been to see him.
In fact, I haven’t seen him since Christmas, and that’s a fact I have no desire to change anytime soon.
Once we’re signed in, we enter the party. We’re a bit late, and the place is heaving with women in elegant evening wear and men in suits, a buzz filling the huge atrium. A waitress offers us both a glass of champagne, which we take.
“Shall we look around?” Harriet asks.
