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“Not him.”
I shrugged. “So what? It’s no biggie. Life goes on.”
“So, I’m not pretty enough to get a modelling contract, ok?Not what we’re looking for.Sorry, you’re not the look we’re going for right now. Sorry, we’re looking for a brunette, someone taller, someone shorter, someone prettier.He was my big chance, Gemma! My big break!”
“He’s just a guy in a club, Chelsea.”
“The whole world would’ve known my name!”
“Not in a good way.”
“All publicity is good publicity.” She dabbed her eyes. “I can’t believe he did this to me, asshole.”
I pulled her to her feet, wrapping her in a hug while she sobbed against my shoulder, railing against the pain of rejection and how terrible the world was.
And then I took her home.
Chelsea has always been a terrible bed buddy. She fidgets, and takes up way too much space for her size. I put up with it anyway, glad that the tears had finally stopped. She’d hate her confessions in the morning. Confessions of soul-destroying modelling auditions and meetings with fashion designers that never turned into anything. Confessions of being on the edge of the in-crowd, just some nobody from Hatfield, a silly girl whose face doesn’t fit. Confessions of being in debt up to her eyeballs and no way to pay the rent. Poor Chelsea.
Confident Chelsea, the girl who’d make it big in London and snare some footballer, had shrivelled into nothing, leaving a fragile little girl who felt as self-conscious as the rest of us. Maybe we’re all like that, deep down, even the pretty ones like her. Maybe the pretty ones have it worse; so much more to prove.
She rolled to face me in the darkness, just like she’d always done at sleepovers, ever since we were little.
“I’m sorry I was mean to you, Gem, about the dancing. Sorry about earlier, too. You managed to pull, didn’t you? I can’t believe you pulled a footballer and I didn’t. What the hell?!”
I let it slide. “I didn’t pull him,” I said. “Don’t think I would have done, either. And forget about the dancing thing, I know you didn’t mean it.” I risked a laugh. “You did come charging in to save the day when you thought I was being murdered, that kinda makes up for it.”
“Who is he?” she asked. “ThisJason. God, another bloody Jason. Urgh.”
“Just a guy, that’s all I need to know.”
“Do you like him? Is that why you didn’t pull Powell? He’s a midfielder, you know.”
“I don’t even really know Jason, and that Powell guy was only a kid.”
“He’s twenty, not a kid. What’s even the deal with this Jason? Do you want to know him?”
I stared up at the ceiling. “No. Yes. I dunno.”
“I think you secretly like him.” I heard her yawn, and shuffled down under the duvet, getting myself comfortable while I weighed it up. “I think you have a thing for him and that’s why you wouldn’t have got with Powell. You don’t normally have a problem fucking men in clubs.”
Ouch. She had a point.
Thoughts of Jason spiralled around my stomach in a champagne glow. His voice. His touch. His heady scent. The excitement of his name against a text message icon. The way he made me feel with his hand all the way inside me. All the dirty ways he knew what I needed. A night in that club, surrounded by gorgeous people, and posh drinks, and loud music, and all I’d been thinking about was him. I wouldn’t have fucked that Powell guy. Chelsea was right.
“I do like him,” I whispered. “I like him so much it’s crazy. Insane, right? It doesn’t make any sense. How can I feel like this about a guy I’ve never even seen?”
But there was no answer. Chelsea was already sound asleep.
I was up first, pottering around the kitchen when Chelsea surfaced. She didn’t look so hot, her extensions a matted blonde mess around her face, and streaks of mascara still plastered to her cheeks.
“I feel like death,” she groaned.
I handed her a mug of coffee while she scrolled through her phone. I’d already checked mine. Nothing from Jason. I wished I wasn’t as disappointed as I felt.
Chelsea’s fingers were frantic on her handset, eyes turning to saucers. “Oh my fucking God.”
“What?”
