The Sporting Director sips his espresso. ‘We don’t need an answer today. Think it over.’
We move in convoy back down to the foyer, where I’m given a vintage Montclair watch and told to loan their Stradale hypercar while I’m in Italy. They’ll pick it up from the airport when I’m done. Like, what world am I living in? I can barely get cold bottled water at Leone’s HQ.
‘Enjoy the jacket.’ The Technical Director smiles as we shake hands. ‘It suits you.’
Chapter 44
JULES
LONDON
I’m lying on my kitchen floor. I got over how uncomfortable it is about an hour ago. The marble still feels cold under my cheek. Quite remarkable, really. I hoped at some point I’d fall asleep to make the day go quicker, but I’ve just been staring at the bottom of my island. Counting its ridges. Judging the thin line of dust my cleaner missed.
I jump when simultaneously my doorbell rings, my phone buzzes, and a faraway voice calls my name. I release a small sigh and do nothing. I’m not in the mood for visitors. Or calls. Maybe tomorrow. Probably not.
I’ve found myself in a bit of a stalemate. No path forward, no path back. Everything I thought about myself is wrong – I’m not healed, I’m not powerful, I’m not good at my job, I’m not significant, I’m not better than my exes. I thought I could fix everything, but it turns out I can’t even fix myself.
The brand I spent years building has gone up in flames. Two brand partners have terminated their contracts. Podcast downloads have sharply dipped. Tom never wants to see me again. I haven’t checked social media in a couple of days but when I last looked, my follower count was sliding in largechunks. The comments sections were battlegrounds, my own content evidence against me. How quickly fortunes can change.
My phone vibrates on the counter and I ignore it. It’s too far away. I don’t have the energy.
The thing I feel the worst about is Minnie. She’s been against this fake dating scheme from the start, not to mention nervous about me preying on men in her line of work. She’s a serious journalist, and me and my fluff proved her right, dragging her down and undermining her credibility. The last thing I saw on Instagram was a deluge of comments blaming Minnie for allowing me into this world, and even suggesting she had something to do with manipulating Tom. She stuck by me through my mum’s cancer, Damian, my OCD episodes, the lot, and this is how I repay her. I feel revolting.
I want to face her with honesty and sincerity, and I’m not in any state to do that right now, especially since I’m covered in desiccated coconut. I wanted a snack, but my exercise today has consisted of approximately eight steps, and I haven’t been shopping since who knows when, so that was the best I could?—
My phone rings again.
Get the message. Leave me alone. I’m busy.
I haven’t cried today, which is progress. To be honest, I think I’ve cried myself out. Is it possible to?—
CRASH.
It came from my dining room. Glass shattering, shards falling to the floor like heavy rain. I yelp but stay put.
Aftereverything, I’m being robbed.
Sad that I can’t even find it in me to hide, or even shove on my LED mask and petrify them.
New low, Jules.
‘Jules?’
That’s no burglar. I summon the energy to sit up, and it’s a bigger struggle than I’d like to admit. He stumbles into thekitchen, chest heaving, wearing a very dapper long coat. Even though my life’s imploded, I look like a troll, and have something sticky in my hair, my chest gives an inch at the sight of him. His tussled hair, his flushed cheeks, his Arctic coat even though it’s only October and unseasonably mild – if the radio forecast’s anything to go by.
‘Do I ask why you’re on the floor?’ he pants, standing over me.
‘No.’
He unbuttons his coat, and his casual tone belied by shaking fingers. ‘Do you need a hand up?’
‘No. Look, I don’t want to talk about it?—’
‘Who says I’m here to talk about anything?’ He drapes it over a high stool. ‘I’m here to sit on your kitchen floor. The floor’s great. Who needs back support? Not this guy.’
Even though I feel hollow, my face morphs into a smile, and his eyes lose some of their tension. I know I didn’t want visitors but if it has to be someone, I’m glad that someone’s Tiago. His presence soothes my soul, even though he has a voice like a foghorn and hums reggaeton if he’s silent for too long.
He sits cross-legged beside me. Close enough to feel him, but not close enough to touch, treating me like I’m a spooked horse.
