Page 51 of Lady and the Camp
I moved on to researching camp accounts. I reviewed dozens of camp websites and their corresponding social media. Camp Junebug barely had an online presence, and while I understood Lucas didn’t want to bankroll some major PR campaign when they couldn’t hire more staff, I had to dosomething. It was like overhearing someone say they only washed their face with water and wondered why their skin broke out. As if I could stay silent under such dire circumstances.
I made notes and a branding file that I stored on Twila’s computer. Colors, fonts, ideas for content. They could run with it. Or I could give them a head start. What else did I have to do?
Yes, that would keep me busy. I could explore the grounds further and snap a bunch of stills and background video as a base to overly text later. I glanced at the digital clock in the lower corner of the screen. It was barely noon. I had a whole afternoon to fill.
I clicked open a new browser window and ordered two new pairs of shorts, more socks, and a couple tank tops from a site running a big sale. I’d decided to take Twila up on her offer to store some of my less camp appropriate things in the main office to save space at the cabin. Heels, open toed sandals, dresses, and a bag of jewelry.
Okay, that took a whole fifteen minutes. What else could I do? I opened another website tab to lurk on my social media accounts. Some fans demanded new content. Others worried for my well being, despite the posted approved statement. Many seemed sympathetic to my needing time away from social media.
I’d always prided myself on being genuine with my online content. If I posted now about skincare like nothing was amiss in my life, it would feel dishonest. I wasn’t sure what to say other than the statement.
No, that was a cop out. I was scared.
But what if my lurker account offered a little secondhand info? Like Jillian had suggested doing for me, but I’d refused as a natural control freak. A message supposedly passed along by a trusted friend source that things were cool, or at least, not currently smoking.
What was the harm? I just had to be careful.
I clicked through the last few Instagram posts I’d made. The itch to delete the troll comments came strong. But if I deleted them, they’d know I’d been monitoring. At least leaving the bad comments allowed my supporters the chance to defend me. And many were.
The lurker account used a flower for a profile pic along with a generic bio:20-something skincare dork.All posts locked as private.
I hit the comment button on my own most recent post.
Heard from a friend of one of Hudson’s friends she is taking needed time to regroup and refresh. She wishes everyone peace and great skin in the meantime.
There. That sounded like something I might say that I hadn’t ever said before. Like a message filtered through several people. Maybe a few fans would see it and know I was at least not hanging off the side of a cliff.
I switched to YouTube, where the comments remained a nightmarish apocalypse. Nope, no spiraling for me today. I closed that window and found myself typing my own name in the browser search bar. The latest trash blogs continued to blame me for Kristoff’s downfall. One tabloid boasted he’d been spotted at an L.A. hot spot with a new lady on his arm.Okay fine. You bait, I click.The article clearly evaded spellcheck or any hint of editing, but I scanned through until I reached the accompanying photo.
Kristoff wore his typically messy but posh look: expensive clothes that appeared to have been simply tossed on at the last minute.
And there she was. A gorgeous woman somewhere in the Kardashian prototype. Glossy black hair, flawless airbrushed skin, and heavy makeup. She wore a bodycon dress illuminating her curves. She looked like she owned the world.
I sank into the chair. I’d been that woman. Briefly, but I’d been her.
So what?
I did a double take, looking around the empty room. My own inner voice had a real mouth on her.
So what? Beingthat womanhad been #Goals. Every woman wanted to hold on to the arm of a billionaire like Kristoff.
No, they don’t.
“Yeesh, inner voice. Why don’t you tell me what you really think?” I was clearly losing it out here in the woods.
I looked at the tabloid photo again. The woman exuded carefully crafted beauty. The kind of beauty stamped with wealth and possibility. She looked like a billionaire’s girlfriend.
A small plastic mirror tacked onto the frame of Twila’s computer monitor displayed my reflection. I looked like a pink-haired kid playing dress up.
If I was honest with myself, I would admit that life with Kristoff always felt pretend. Maybe my mom had it right. I’d beenplaying celebrity. And now celebrity playtime was over. It had only been a role I played to gain what I wanted.
What I wanted.Then, not now. What did I wantnow?
The outer office door blew open. “What are you doing?” Lucas demanded.
My hand flew to my chest as my heart recovered from the interruption. Well, almost. It had a strange beat whenever Lucas came around. “You said I was allowed to use the office. So I’m using it.”
“Right. That’s fine.” He blinked. “I…come in sometimes on weekends.”
