I shook my head.
‘I’m going to put my hand on your back, okay? You can cry for as long as you want.’
Her hand was a warm weight, rubbing gently at the base ofmy neck, as I pressed my eyes into the base of my palms and tried desperately to get myself under control.
I couldn’t tell you exactly how long I cried. It was probably only a few minutes, but in that way where time slows down at the worst possible moment, it felt like hours.
It had only taken a few seconds for Jac to say ‘I don’t want to be with you anymore’. But I could tell you everything about those seconds, every tiny little detail, like they were in slow motion. What she’d been wearing. Where she’d been standing. Which eye a stray piece of her hair kept falling into. How it had felt when I’d said, ‘… what?’ and she’d blown that piece of hair out of her eye before she’d said, ‘this isn’t easy for me either, but it’s what’s best, I don’t love you any more,’ and I’d started crying, and she’d said, ‘not now, Mandie, please, we need to be adults about this.’
‘That’s the way,’ the woman said, rubbing my back, when my sobs eventually began to peter out. ‘Deep breaths, all right?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I managed to say.
I looked at her for the first time, and blinked. The person who’d just witnessed my extremely public breakdown was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen.
She wasn’t my type. When I date women, I tend to go for Kristen Stewart types – short hair, kind of masc aesthetic, soft butch. Jac, with her undercut and her librarian glasses and her love of wearing tweed blazers, had been the epitome of my type.
This woman was not that. She had long dark hair, partially restrained by a bright orange headband. Her dress was bright orange as well, belted at the waist, with a full skirt that looked like it would flare to about mid-calf when she stood.
And her eyebrows. My goodness, her eyebrows. I had never seen anyone with eyebrows as sharp and perfect and knife-edged as hers.
She might not have been my type, but I would murder anyone who said a word against those eyebrows.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, still rubbing my back.
‘Embarrassed,’ I replied. ‘Really, really embarrassed.’
‘This probably doesn’t help,’ she said, ‘but if you get on the show, they’re going to embarrass you way worse than this.’
She wasn’t wrong. I might have sidestepped the fact I was bi, but there had to be plenty of other ways the show could make my life a nightmare if they tried. I certainly had enough weaknesses they could exploit.
Why hadn’t I listened to Mum? Why didn’t Ithinkbefore I did anything?
‘You’ll definitely get on the show, don’t worry,’ the woman said, misreading my expression. ‘I’m amazed they even made you come to an audition. They probably already wrote your name on a bunch of the date cards. Pretty pint-sized blonde like you, you’re catnip to these people.’
I managed a weak smile.
‘You want to talk about whatever’s got you out here crying?’
Wordlessly, I passed her the note.
‘You’re crying because your mum loves you?’ she asked, arching one perfect eyebrow as she read it. ‘I don’t want to be insensitive, but you need to get bigger problems.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Well, kind of. She doesn’t think this is a good idea. I lied about where I was going.’
‘I just didn’t tell mine,’ she replied. ‘I figure I’ll cross thatbridge and deal with the “this is what you want to do with your life?this?” lecture if I come to it.’
‘Smart,’ I said. ‘I should have done that.’
She nudged me with her elbow. ‘That the real reason you’re crying, though?’
I sighed. ‘I’m crying because my mum loves me,’ I said, ‘but my ex doesn’t.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Now that’s a problem worth crying about.’
I realised about a second too late that I probably shouldn’t be providing gossip fodder to someone who might be on the show with me. This was classic potential humiliation material.
But she just nudged me with her elbow again. ‘I’m sorry that happened to you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt. It hurts like hell.’
