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“We were just catching up,” I tell them miserably. “We were friends in high school. That’s all.”
“Then I’m sure this will all go away. Matthew is bound to have a team of PR people around him who will squash the story. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”
I take comfort from Amy’s unfounded confidence. She has zero idea of how this all works and how this will all turn out, but I choose to believe her. Anything else will have me in an anxiety puddle on the floor.
“You really think he can fix this?” I must look as desperate as I feel because they both nod.
“This will be old news in no time. Just try not to think about it. Today’s news is tomorrow’s kitty litter. Try not to worry.”
I repeat these words in my head while I finish the rest of my wine, determined now to get out of here and burrow into my bed while waiting for my anonymity to retake its hold.
Matthew will fix this. There’s no need to worry.
*****
Apparently, there was every need to worry. And Matthew, in fact, won’t fix any of this. My Monday is only a few hours old and I’m very much feeling the effects of the media outing my ‘so-called’ relationship with the playboy of Australian soccer.
So far this morning, during my walk from the car park to the entrance of the hospital, I’ve had two photographers jump out of the bushes, hurling questions at me and frantically snapping pictures. Not the best day for me to be sporting a messy bun, day-old eyeliner and my favourite blue cat sweater. Then, once I’d escaped their prying eyes, I’d walked straight into the gauntlet of my co-workers, each in one of two camps—side-eyeing me with curiosity or sidling up to me trying to be my best friend. It’s maddening because this is the career I’d been dreaming of and working toward, and I’m only a week in and it’s being derailed by forces out of my control.
And to make matters worse, after a morning of ignoring the whispering and the photographers’ camera flashes through our windows, I escaped to the breakroom looking for a reprieve from the madness, only to find a note stuck in my locker. From the root of all my problems—Matthew.
“What does he say?” Amy is behind me, peering over my shoulder, squinting to read the note in my hands.
I skim-read it once, then twice, before handing it to her. “He wants to meet up. To discuss the ‘situation.’”
“That’s good. He’s obviously got a plan, then.”
Internally, I don’t agree with her optimism. If Matthew had a way to sort this all out, why hadn’t he done it yet?
“He’s left his number. Are you going to message him?”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” My hands shaking slightly, I send him a text message, agreeing to meet up.
He replies instantly.
MATTHEW: Today? Where and when?
“He’s eager,” Amy exclaims, unashamedly reading his message from her spot perched behind me.
“He obviously doesn’t want the world thinking I’m his new girlfriend.”
She makes a doubtful sound, and I ignore her.
NATALIE: I can meet at 1.30 p.m. Somewhere more private this time?
MATTHEW: I’ll bring a car, meet me around the back at 1.30 p.m.
MATTHEW: Near the dumpster.
“Perfect metaphor for our situation.” I show Amy his last message and she laughs before taking pity on me, hugging me with a small smile instead.
“It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”
A group of nurses walk into the break room and promptly stop talking when they see us. See me.
“I hope you’re right,” I mutter to Amy as we shuffle past them, their whispers following us out of the room. “I really hope you’re right.”
CHAPTER 9
