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“Jesus!” I hissed. “What?!”
I looked over Chelsea’s shoulder to find Tessa tagging along with her. Unlike the direct assault of Chelsea’s dagger eyes, Tessa’s gaze was firmly on the floor. Caught in the middle. Just like always.
“You can clear off,” Chelsea spat at my poor unsuspecting chocolate stud.
I felt his eyes on the back of me, but didn’t say a word. The moment was wrecked, finished, over. I hoped he knew I was sorry. Sorry and fucking mortified.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I groaned once he was out of earshot. “I’m twenty three years old! Who died and made you my babysitter, Chelsea? Can’t you leave the interfering bitch act alone for just one evening?”
“You’re drunk,” she snapped.
“I may be drunk, but you’re still an interfering bitch.”
She folded her arms, and fixed me in that Chelsea-Rawlings-knows-best stare she’s been giving me since reception class. She was worse these days, though. Our old Chelsea had been reborn as London Chelsea, the Chelsea that wanted to ditch her Hertfordshire girl upbringing and get herself an A-list boyfriend, some actor, or singer or sports star. Even a reality star would do at a push, she’d admitted as much, some Z-lister with hardly any brains and barely any money. Chelsea wasn’t fussy, just as long as they could get her in the papers.
“It’s about time someone gave you a few home fucking truths, Gemma Taylor!”
No prizes for guessing who that was going to be.
***
I made to brush her aside, but Chelsea stood firm, pouty lips pursed venomously.
“I’m not joking,” she said. “It’s about time you sorted your shit out.”
She had my attention. “Myshit?What shit?”
She rolled her eyes. “I,we,thought you’d have grown out of this by now. Six months we’ve been here, six whole pissing months!”
“Grown out of what?” I folded my arms, sobriety threatening an unwanted appearance.
“This... this... desperation. This fucking around. This overcompensation thing you’ve been doing ever since we moved here!”
I looked behind her, but Tess kept her gaze on the floor, unwilling to commit either way.
“I like drinking, and dancing, and I like sex. So?”
“So, there’s more to it than that!” Chelsea said. “Overcompensation.”
“Overcompensation for what?” I laughed. “Being sober and stuck at home every evening all week? I work late nights, I let my hair down when I get a Saturday off, big deal.”
Tessa took a step forward. “We’re worried, about you,” she said. “That’s all.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I smiled. “Seriously. I’m all good. Peachy.”
“You act like a slut,” Chelsea groaned. “You didn’t even know his name, did you? Humped him on the dance floor in front of the whole club, practically, not caring what kind of spectacle you were making of yourself.”
“I was dancing!”
She folded her arms, scowling at me. “You think it looks good, but people are laughing at you, you know that?”
My blood ran cold. “Laughing?! Who’d even give a shit what I was doing? The dance floor was rammed.”
“This isn’t like back home,” Chelsea said. “People here are different, the place is different, so much more pressure... we get it, ok? You feel insecure and you’re acting out. We’re just looking out for you.”
“I don’t feel insecure,” I laughed. “Why should I? I just like dancing, and sex, like plenty of other people.”
“You’re pretty,” she smiled, patronisingly. “Your weight doesn’t need to be a big deal.”
