Page 45 of Worth Every Moment
People are crowding the car, leaning in at the darkened windows. I’ve never been so glad for the safety glass in my life. Muffled calls of ‘Erica, Erica,’ meet my ears.
We can’t fucking sit here while she works out what she needs.
“Just keep moving.” At my command, the driver shifts into the lane and I click the partition to separate us from him.
When we’re alone, I turn to her. “What happened?”
She closes her eyes, pressing the knuckles of one hand to her lips as if to stop them quivering. She says nothing, but I sense that it’s not that she doesn’t want to tell me, but rather that she doesn’t trust herself to speak without breaking.
She passes me the tabloid paper she’s clutching, folded open to an article entitled,Is Erica Lefroy the world’s least sexy supermodel?
I glance over it.
Rumour has it that Erica Lefroy, Britain’s top model and reputed Ice Queen, is looking to audition for the role of Vanessa Darkmoore alongside Hollywood heartthrob Michael Drayton in the upcoming blockbuster, Taming the Beast, based on the multi-million-copy bestselling book by Abigail Enwright.
It remains to be seen whether Lefroy can hold her own alongside Michael, who was nominated for an Oscar last year for his performance in Downtown Meat Market. Lefroy might have a perfect face that fits on the Golden Ratio mask, but can we really imagine the woman who never smiles, with a figure like an overgrown adolescent boy and breasts so tiny they might as well be inverted, playing the role of the tortured sex bomb Vanessa, who captured the hearts of millions of readers worldwide?
If her recently leaked audition tapes are anything to go by, I very much doubt it. Never have I seen a more awkward screen performance. I hate to break it to you, Erica, but you don’t have my vote, and I’m not sure you’ve got the sex appeal to captivate a man like Michael Drayton, let alone the worldwide cinema-going audience. If I were Abigail Enwright, I would have serious questions about Miss Lefroy, if she does indeed attempt to go for this role.
As ever, we’re interested in public opinion. What do you think? Erica Lefroy, hot or not?
Beneath it there’s a website address for readers to cast their vote online.
When I look back at Erica, she’s leaning forward, her head in her hands as tears drip between her fingers and onto her knees.
This reaction cannot just be about the article. She’s well-versed in shitty publicity. It’s part and parcel of being in the public eye. Hell, we’ve sat on her sofa and laughed at some of the outrageous comments on her social media posts. Those trolls can be vicious, but I’ve never seen her like this.
I fold up the paper and put it aside. “Where the fuck is my phone?” Erica glances my way, frowning, but I keep theatrically searching my jacket pockets for it even though I know full well it’s in my trouser pocket. “I’ve got to submit my vote. Hot. The answer is fucking hot. Erica Lefroy is hot.”
She lowers her head, rubbing her thumb and forefinger over her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on her face, even though she’s refusing to look at me.
I abort my fake search for my phone. “Michael Drayton’s very good looking, but really, he’s not worth all these tears.”
She glances at me sideways, the tiniest curve to her lips. “You couldn’t not make a joke.”
I take her shift in demeanor as permission to move closer. I want to touch her so badly. Comfort her. I might have guided her to the car just now, but that felt necessary. Protective. I had to shield her from that shit out there. But now, in the car, virtually alone aside from the driver, I don’t know if I can touch her again. Not after our last encounter.
She leans into me, her weight settling against my side.She must want to be held. My heart aches at the thought and I slide my arm around her back, not knowing what the fuck to say next.
“Your breasts are definitely not inverted.”
Good one, Seb.
She leans forward, spurts of pitiful laughter breaking through her tears. “Are you not done yet?”
“I’m taking a stand against fake news.” She snorts like a pig, but at least it sounds like one who’s having a good time. Or a moderate time. Maybe one who was wailing about being turned into bacon and has discovered they’re being upgraded to a hog roast. “I’ll run down Oxford Street in my boxers yelling, ‘Erica Lefroy has perfect tits’, if it’ll make you feel better.” I stroke my chin, striking a thoughtful pose, and Erica peers up at me. “I mean, you’d have to let me see them first. I don’t want to inadvertently add to the fake news.”
She sighs and leans back against me. “I really hate you sometimes.” I can tell by the resigned and yet relaxed way she says it that she doesn’t mean it. “But thank you.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes until her fingers find my wrist. Heat leaks through me from the point of contact, my awareness narrowing as if her delicate touch on my skin is the only thing of importance in the entire universe. She slides the sleeve of my shirt upwards, her thumb resting on the pulse point. “You gave him your watch?” she whispers.
I shift my hand so my sleeve slips down. “I’d have given him more than that to leave you alone.”
“Thank you,” she whispers again.
An awkwardness I can’t make sense of descends. Erica glances out of the window, but I’m not ready to lose her attention.
“Michael Drayton, eh?” I say, referencing the actor from the article. “He’s the one Nico hit that night at Martini Gems. Do you remember? Kate was drunk, and he was dancing with her and Nico didn’t like it.”
