Page 71 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“He wasn’t my boss, and I’m not sleeping with him anymore. And at least he wasn’t married.”
“No, just two-timing you with some ditzy Hollywood fembot. Has he called you?”
“Allegedly. And no.”
“Emailed?”
I shake my head. Sad but true fact alert—my iPhone has been glued to my hand for the last few days on the off chance that he might.
“Then he’s a total bastard and not worth thinking about.”
Lucy sits down next to me on the sofa and pushes my stringy, unwashed hair out of my eyes. She knows all about our stalemate. She knows it’s an impossible thing that Jake has asked of me. I refuse to discuss my father with anyone. It’s always been that way.
I pull the cushion back over my face and groan. “Isn’t there a drug on the market that erases the last few months of your life?”
“It’s called vodka.” She picks up the latest edition ofHello!from the coffee table and flicks through the pages. “She’s got a beaky nose, you know. And her eyes are far too close together.”
“Who?”
“Cassie Lee. She’s a moose.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes you do.” Lucy starts fiddling with her phone next. “Shit. I have to go into the office. Another royal’s got herself knocked up, and I need to report it. Why don’t you come into London with me? It’ll make a change from gazing at TV programs sponsored by luminous orange car dealers.”
“No thanks. I’ll have to wash my hair, and that’ll mean burning my fingers on your evil tongs again. Don’t you think I’ve taken enough abuse this week?”
“Then read a book, paint your nails. Just dosomething.”
“I can’t.”
Books don’t hold the same magic for me anymore. For some reason, they remind me of Jake. Make that,everythingreminds me of Jake.
I wanted reality when I boarded that plane all those months ago. I was begging for fireworks. I craved a life beyond my own walls. I shot for the stars…
And got totally grounded within eight weeks.
No, lower than grounded.
I’m at less than zero and sinking fast.
Chapter Forty
Lucy’s tireless dedication to getting my ass off the couch has me grumbling all the way to the bathroom and then into my closet to get dressed.
She’s right, though. I need to yank myself back into the land of the living…starting today. I haven’t left the apartment in a week, and I’ve started Googling how to cure potential bedsores.
We part ways at Waterloo station, and twenty minutes later I’m bounding up the steps of Piccadilly Circus Tube. Since I left for Morocco, Central London has traded a fractious winter for the lightness and euphoria of early summer. With the sunshine on my face, my broken heart feels more like jagged splinters than lung-puncturing assaults. Surely, it’s too glorious a day for another corkscrew twist in my rollercoaster ride of a life…
And then my mother calls.
“Darling!” she cries. “Are you better?”
“Much better,” I lie, dashing across the pedestrian crossing and making a silent bet with myself.The quicker I walk, the quicker this phone call will be over.
“We all like Jake, Charlotte. He’ssucha catch. Courtney and I were only discussing that yesterday.”
What a surprise. My mother has become best friends with the plastic PA from L.A. I’m practically sprinting down Haymarket now, scattering dirty gray pigeons like a proverbial cat. All the businessmen and jobbing actors walking past are giving me a wide berth. “I told you before, Mom. Jake and I are not together.”
