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The answer was simple. Blindingly simple.
“I want to go fucking home.”
***
Chapter Nineteen
Gemma
Chelsea stomped on ahead as though I’d taken a shit in her handbag. Her extensions swished like a cat’s tail, shoulders rigid as I lagged behind. Tessa stayed by my side, uttering the occasional tut at Chelsea’s dramatics, but little else. She disappeared into the kitchen as soon as we were through the door, leaving me to face the jealous wrath of the blonde-haired monster.
“He was here?! Jason fucking Redfern was here, with you? My fucking God. I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
“How is this happening toyou?Imet a guy on chatline,Imet up with him,Ifell in crazy deep with some stranger I’ve never seen. Nothing’s happening toyou, Chelsea.” I dropped myself onto the sofa, tensing against the inevitable ache. Sore pussy, sore ass, sore fucking everything. “This is a horrible nightmare.”
She paced the room. “Sure it is. I bet you’re happy now, aren’t you? Make you feel good, does it? Snaring my hot footballer? Stealing him from under my nose?”
I couldn’t help but gawp at her. “I didn’tstealhim from you, he wasn’t even yours to begin with, you just jumped on him in a shitty club and lied to the papers.”
“You knew I wanted him!”
“I can’t believe this.I’vejust found out that the guy I’m seeing is some famous footballer, married to a bloody girl-band singer, andyou’retrying to make this aboutyou! I really like him, Chelsea, don’t you get it? Ireallyfucking like him. Not for a ticket to free handbags, and designer bloody clothes, and front row seats and my face on the news, Iactually likehim.”
“Well congratu-fucking-lations, Gemma. I hope you’re really fucking happy together.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Tears. Jesus Christ. I watched her pouty lip tremble. “It should bemeand Jason Redfern.Meas the footballer’s wife.Meon the front covers. Not you.”
“Yeah, I get it. I’m fat and ugly and ginger and no fucking good for anything. Piss off, Chelsea.”
She didn’t even pretend to disagree. “You must have known it was him. It must have been obvious.”
“Of course it wasn’t fucking obvious. You think I’d have thought for one second it would be some famous guy at the end of the line? Some famous guy in my flat? In Blackfriars?”
“He’s so fit, Gemma, you must have known! He’s Jason fucking Redfern!”
“Lots of people are toned, Chelsea, they aren’t all Premier League fucking footballers!”
“Notthattoned. Nobody isthattoned.”
I shrugged. “I thought he drove a Land Rover, worked for a haulage company...”
“Nice surprise, then, isn’t it?” she spat. “It’s a fuckingRangeRover by the way. He drives an R8, too, and an Aston fucking Martin. He has a twelve bedroom fucking mansion in Surrey, and he’s captained the England squad for the past six fucking years, Gemma. He’s hot, he’s loaded, he’s fucking perfect! He’s JASON FUCKING REDFERN!”
My stomach lurched. “I don’t want any of it. Just him.”
She laughed a spiteful laugh. “If you say so.”
“I DO!”
Tessa picked the right time to return with the coffees. I sipped mine with my eyes closed, fighting the need to vomit while Tessa tried to smooth Chelsea’s ruffled feathers. I blanked it all out, past caring what the hell either of them thought. I could still feel his touch on me,inme. My dirty bad stranger, my lover in the half light. Why couldn’t he just be a trucker? A trucker would have been fine. A trucker would have beengreat. Not a football player, please God no.
“Earth to Gemma! Hello!”
I groaned at Chelsea’s determination to keep harping on. “What?”
“You and him, is it serious? Do you love him?”
I nearly spat my coffee. “Love?! I’m not even sure what being in love feels like.” An icky feeling, I assumed, with a violin accompaniment. Not the kind of flutters he gave me. Hot flutters, dirty, hot, needy flutters. “I like him. More than I’ve ever liked anyone else. Much more.”
“It’s a low bar,” Tessa said. “Seeing as you only normally screw once and run away.”
