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I know him so well I can almost hear his brain thinking and I can picture his brows pulled together in confusion as he asks, “Why?”
“Because if you truly loved me and wanted me back, you wouldn’t be waiting for the bloody tour to end.” I take a breath before adding, “Don’t come back, Lennon. I don’t want to see you.” I bite my lip as I prepare to end the call.
Darla, my assistant, is watching me closely, and she raises her brows, questioning if I’m okay. She knows the last thing I need on this shoot is for my concentration to be challenged. And she can probably tell from my body language and facial expressions that’s exactly what’s happening. She’s worked with me for a long time and been my friend for longer. She knows me well. I nod at her to indicate I’ll be okay, because I will be. This isn’t the first time my husband has screwed with my concentration. I’m well versed in dealing with it and getting through my work, in spite of it.
Lennon’s patience gives way. I’m surprised he’s lasted this long with that short fuse of his. “Presley, you don’t know what you want half the time,” he snaps. “We’re meant to be, and you’ll s
ee that when I get there.”
“Goodbye, Lennon,” I say and hang up because otherwise we could be going back and forth all day. He just doesn’t listen. I knew it while we were together, but since we broke up, it’s become even clearer to me.
Darla approaches. “You okay, boss?”
“That was Lennon,” I say.
Her eyes widen. “What did he want?”
“Apparently, after all this time, he’s decided he wants me back. Says he’s coming home in a week or so to show me how much.”
“That bloody asshole!” She’s never been a huge fan, not after she saw the way he always put our marriage second to his career.
“I feel like this truly is the end now, you know?” I don’t know why I feel sad about this all of a sudden. I’ve spent the last six months trying to get over him, and I’ve started moving on, but after that conversation, it feels more final. I look at Darla with resignation. “I don’t know, maybe deep down I still hoped he’d come and fight for me, but what he’s doing doesn’t feel like enough. Does that sound stupid?”
She madly shakes her head. “No, it doesn’t, and you’re right . . . this is all too little, too late.”
I slowly nod. “Yeah, it is.”
We stand in silence for a moment, both lost in thought about the demise of my marriage. Eventually, Darla claps her hands together. “Okay, back to work. We’re going to get this shoot finished and then we’re gonna go out and get drunk.”
I shake my head and grin mischievously at her. “No, you might be going to get drunk… I’m going to get laid.”
Laughing, she agrees, “Yes, you are. And I might just do that, too.”
* * *
I finish applying lipstick to my lips, place it back in my purse, and then run my fingers through my long, blonde hair, messing it up as I go. The straight hair trend shits me to tears; give me messy, wild hair any day over that perfect, boring look. Stepping back from the mirror, I assess my outfit for tonight; skintight black leather pants, heels, and a slinky red sleeveless top. I’ve finished it off with an assortment of bracelets and my silver Tiffany heart tag necklace. Yeah, I grin, tonight I’m going to score.
“Presley, babe, you made it.”
I divert my attention from the mirror to the voice behind me. Shit, I’d forgotten she’d be here tonight. Jade Garcia. Supermodel. Shallow bitch from hell. God, give me strength.
Before I can reply, her food deprived friend interrupts. “You’re the photographer from today’s shoot, aren’t you?”
Full points to the vapid supermodel wannabe. I bite my tongue on so many witty remarks and instead, simply reply, “Yes.” Well, okay, perhaps they weren’t witty, so much as catty. I can be one of the cattiest bitches you’ll ever meet. That could be why I don’t have a lot of friends. That and the fact that I truly dislike most people I meet.
Jade starts gushing to her friend. “Presley is one of the best photographers I’ve ever worked with. They had to pay a small fortune to get her to work on this shoot.”
I tune her out; I’ve heard it all before, and I’m over it. I’m also over working with models and clients with no imagination. This shoot bored me to fucking tears, and I won’t be in a hurry to work with them again.
“I’ve got to meet another friend, Jade. I’ll see you around,” I say as I begin to make my way out of the ladies’ room.
She raises her eyebrows. “A Valentine’s date?”
“God, no!”
“You don’t like Valentine’s Day?”
“What’s there to like? A commercialised day that puts pressure on people to buy shit that supposedly proves how much they love their partner. I’ve never celebrated it and don’t ever plan to,” I reply, noting her stunned expression.
