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Still though, she didn’t imagine it was anything weird.
Probably just her downstairs neighbor forgetting his keys again. In a second, Mrs. Porter from the other flat down there would bustle out in a fury and let him in. Then there would be peace again, in which she would get at least another hour’s kip before she had to get ready for the car that would be here at ten.
Yep, that checks out, she thought.
Only somehow it wasn’t checking out.
It just kept going and going and Mrs. Porter wasn’t doing anything, and now somehow there was shouting, too. Loud shouting, of the sort that usually happened when the bailiffs came round to repossess the possessions of a man who’d died without anyone knowing three weeks ago.
We know you’re in there, she was pretty sure she heard.
And she had no choice, after that. She had to go check it out.
She’d never forgive herself if she just stayed in bed while her dead downstairs neighbor got burst in on by burly men looking for a Bluetooth speaker that didn’t actually work.It only plays the beat, you can never hear the lyrics, she thought of saying to them, as she thundered down the stairs that led out from her flat and threw open the front door.
Though god, she wished she’d considered it a bit more before she did.
At the very least she would have put on something other than her pajamas.
And maybe she might have brushed her hair, too, because Christ, Alfie was just gonna go spare when he saw the state it was in.I only did it the other day, he’d say, upon seeing it splashed across the sixth page of some third-rate newspaper.
Then she had to wonder why the fuck it was his outrage she was focusing on.
And not the fucking newspaper part, the newspaper part, oh god, there were newspaper people on her front doorstep.Paparazzi, her brain screamed at her. That was exactly what they were, quite obviously. They all looked like her dad after an all-night bender, and every one of them had a camera they were jabbing at her aggressively, and when they shouted all she could think of was a bunch of dogs barking.
Before she realizedwhatthey were shouting.
Mabel, they said.Mabel Willicker.
Because apparently, they didn’t just know where she lived. They knew who she was. And it seemed like they were intent on shouting about it really loudly, for reasons she just couldn’t fathom. It didn’t make any sense—because even if they’d heard Alfie shouting her name yesterday, they shouldn’t have been here bellowing it at her on her doorstep. They didn’t even do that for actually famous people.
Unless the famous people had murdered someone, of course.Oh god, did I accidentally murder someone while I was sleeping, she found herself thinking as she slammed the door on them, and took the stairs two at a time, and stuck a charger into her poor dead phone after what felt like seven shaky attempts.
And saw what she would have done much sooner, if she weren’t a huge dipshit who let her phone die while in the middle of all this madness:
Her voicemail inbox was full of messages.
Most of which were just incoherent screaming from almosteveryone she knew. And even the ones that didn’t do that were incredibly disturbing. Connie’s husky voice had gone so high it sounded as if she’d been sucking helium.What is going on, my Instagram feed is jammed with I-told-you-sos about you and then some stuff about Richard Gere from someone called Gossip Queen?she yelled at one point.
And the message from her other bestie, Berinder, didn’t sound any better. It was just a lot of questions, so rapidly asked they sounded like one word.Like, I knew you were secretive about anything that actually super matters to you but oh my god he’s been in actualmovies,Mabie, how on earth did you even meet him,she finished.
But the worst part was: she couldn’t answer either of them.
She couldn’t immediately jump into group chat and at least sharesomething.
And not just because she was the friend people came to with their complicated problems, rather than the friend who had complicated ones she knew how to share. No, there was also the fact that everything she could share would betray Alfie. Not to mention blow her years-long carefully constructed cone of secrecy around her ghostwriting, and break the NDA she’d signed for Harchester. So now she was even more isolated, deep feelings–wise, than she usually forced herself to be. She just had to smile and winky face at them.
Even as she went through everything else she was being bombarded with.
Like the other messages.
From other friends.
Friends she barely spoke to.
Hell, she even heard her sister among it all, and her sister hadn’t been in touch foryears. And all that was before she even got to Henry Samuel Beckett, sounding just as chipper as he had the other day but now with just a hint of panic. And her agent with twenty missed calls and three emails that ended on a simple bold-lettered WHERE ARE YOU.
Then finally, there was Alfie.
