Jack was still smiling, but he’d stepped back completely now. His hands were in his pockets.
‘We make sense together, Ryan. We both know it. We always did.’
‘You do realise this is all a terrible cliché, don’t you?’ Rachel asked, common sense fighting for supremacy over the champagne buzz still warming her blood. She groped for something sarcastic to say. ‘People like you always want back the love they gave away!’ she cried eventually. ‘And people like me want to believe you when you say you’ve changed.’
This second point, she had to admit, she wasn’t so thrilled about.
Jack’s forehead scrunched up, but he was still smirking. ‘Are youquotingat me? I’ve heard that before. Is that poetry?’
‘Yes, it’s poetry,’ Rachel said, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘It’s Taylor bloody Swift, you philistine.’
She stomped past him, letting the front gate slam shut and instantly hoping that it hadn’t woken Anna or any of their neighbours. Jack was laughing softly.
‘Goodnight, Ryan,’ he chuckled. ‘I’ll see you on Monday. I guess you’ll let me know when you decide whether or not youbelieve I’ve changed.’
24
The final Saturday of April saw Rachel on the Tube to Soho, on her way to meet Tom. He and Dev were keen to show her around the small gallery they’d booked for the #NoFilter exhibition, which was due to open in a couple of months’ time.
When she emerged from Leicester Square station into the crowds and commotion of the West End, the day was bright, the breeze was gentle and the pavement free from puddles. It finally felt like spring.
For the first time in months Rachel had left the house without a proper coat, throwing a thrift-shop blazer over her skinny jeans and sweatshirt. She felt light – liberated, somehow – and she was looking forward to seeing Tom.
It wasn’t lost on her that he was the person she’d been most honest with over the past few months. While Rachel’s truth-telling had been largely accidental, the consequence was that she felt more comfortable with Tom than almost anyone else at the moment. It was a relief to be around him, somehow – like she could press pause on trying to impersonate someone whose life was going swimmingly.
The only thing Tomdidn’tknow was that he’d been mistaken for her besotted boyfriend – and, frankly, this was information Rachel felt he could do without.
As she walked up Charing Cross Road, through throngs of tourists clustered outside theatres and chain restaurants, Rachel glanced up and noticed she’d just outpaced the number 24 bus. She span to look back at the shiny red double-decker – with a new photo of Jessica Williams emblazoned on its side.
Several people tutted, bashing into her or barging by as she stopped to stare at the glossy image.
Rachel’s sightings of Jessica had diminished in frequency since the January detox campaign, and their power to demoralise her had dwindled as more immediate problems claimed her attention. Now, though, Rachel found herself riveted. This was a genius bit of marketing, she had to admit.
Gone were the flimsy-yet-wholesome clothes from Jessica’s previous ads for Angeljuice and its brand of cereal bars. Now she sported a shiny scarlet bodysuit – long-sleeved, but with a V-neck so wide and deep it was incredible her nipples weren’t on show.
Jessica’s lips – poutier and puffier than ever – were painted a vivid, blazing crimson, and a pair of pointed red horns peeped out above her curtain of lustrous pitch-black hair.
HELLFIRE FAT BURNER, shouted the picture’s big, bold caption. Then, in smaller letters:Lookdevilishlyslim this summer. Try the hot new supplement from the makers of Angeljuice.Pinched between Jessica’s forefinger and thumb was a bright-red pill.
Rachel gaped at the ad. Was Jessica seriously promoting weight-loss capsules to her hundreds of thousands of fans? This was different from advertising supposedly healthy snacks or endorsing ‘cleansing’ drinks. It made Rachel feel a little sick.
Decade-old remnants of jealousy reignited alongside Rachel’s outrage, then seemed to burn away. As usual, Jessica looked incredible – but Rachel’s distaste for diet culture was stronger than her envy of an old rival’s sex appeal.
She shook her head at the bus, turned away and kept walking. She didn’t bother to look up again as it picked up speed and went past her.
The venue for #NoFilter was on Greek Street: a tall, thin building squeezed between a French restaurant and a posh optician’s. The outside was painted blinding white, and the brilliant, ‘blank canvas’ effect continued inside. The place was stylishly fitted with original stripped-wood floors and carefully considered lighting. Large sash windows overlooked the bustling street below, allowing sunshine to bathe the high-ceilinged rooms in brightness.
‘It’sgorgeous,’ Rachel said, beaming at Tom and Dev after they’d led her up to the top floor.
‘Newly refurbished,’ Dev said, smoothing a hand over his glossy black quiff. ‘We’ll spread the exhibition over all five floors of the building, ordering the images and words so that as people walk through there’s a sense of story. You two will be in charge of that, obviously.’
Rachel smiled at him and nodded. Dev looked as polished today as he had when they’d first met in January, though he’d shaved off his beard since the last time she’d seen him. His skin, she could now see, was radiant – perfectly smooth and poreless, like a baby’s. She wondered what moisturiser he used, then resolved to go to Boots on the way home and buy the retinol cream she’d been promising herself since New Year.
‘Dev managed to convince the owners of this place that having a show of starry photos would guarantee ongoing celebrity interest,’ Tom said, winking.
Dev was smiling. ‘Indeed. Though the discount I negotiated will probably be swallowed twice over by the budget for press night …’
‘Press night?’ Rachel asked.
