Page 27 of The Ring
“You know who I bumped into at Harrods two days ago?” I ask, changing the topic because I want him to think I’m unbothered by all of this, and I’d like to talk about something that won’t give me a headache or make me want to throw up again. Besides, I’d planned to bring this up the moment he came back.
He rests his fingers on his jaw as he looks at me. “Who?”
“Mackenzie Vanride.” She’s a socialite and a writer forVogue.We’ve hung out at events from time to time. She’s Anthony’s age, and she’s genuinely nice—not the kindI’m niceto you because of who you are and what I can get from younice, which I get a lot. “She got a divorce and is back in London for good.”
She married a New York lawyer one year ago and moved there. Some people may see that as a red flag, but I don’t. I actually think that speaks well of a person—knowing when something isn’t working and leaving, rather than staying and being unhappy.
Anthony doesn’t say anything but looks intrigued to see where I’m going with this, which I take as a signal to keep talking.
“I was thinking that maybe the three of us could go to dinner and catch up.”
Actually, it was more like what she was thinking. When I bumped into her, she asked me a lot about Anthony and kept going over her divorce. In my mind, what she was really saying was,Is your brother still single?She asked about going to dinner next week, and I thought I might as well cut the middleman and take Anthony with me.
I know that, technically, her wanting to hang out with me to get to my brother contradicts my argument that she’s genuinely nice, but she was nice to me when she was dating her now ex-husband. And I don’t blame her—she’s almost forty. Where else is she going to find a billionaire with no children, no ex-wife, muscles, and all of his hair? And I really think they could make a cute couple.
Anthony’s lips curl slowly. “Thank you very much, but I can get my own dates.” He saw straight through me.
Sure, he can get his own dates, but he never gets himselfagirlfriend—which is why this isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last, that I’ve tried to set him up with someone.
Before I can argue, he gets up. “I’m going to unpack, and you eat something, or I’ll take it away.” He gestures at my newnecklace, and I clutch it, bringing it to my chest. If he wants it back, he’s going to have to fight me.
On his way out, he glances at my laptop, which is still sitting open on my desk, with a lot of tabs open on various tabloids. “Also, stop reading that trash,” he says, pointing at my laptop. “I know it’s tempting, but it won’t do you any good. I’ve already called the lawyers to serve them papers for defamation. It won’t get everything down, but it will address the ones that aren’t based on facts.”
Chapter 14
TJ
The phone rings again, and I toss it onto the other couch. I don’t need to look to know who it is—it’s one of the three people who haven’t stopped calling me since Friday: my mum, Laurie, or that one girl I hooked up with two months ago who now works as a “journalist” for one of the tabloids, trying to get a quote or some inside information. I blocked her number, but apparently, she didn’t get the message and has been calling me from different numbers ever since. Let this be a reminder: never give your number to someone you don’t plan on seeing ever again.
“Didn’t you say earlier this week you’d stop reading tabloids?” West asks from the kitchen.
I did, and surprisingly, I’ve kept my word. I had to after vomiting from reading the comments. Half of the people online are calling me every colourful name possible, and the other half are boosting me for sleeping with both Cornelia and her mother. If they only knew. So I decided to take a page from Cornelia’s book and live in avoidance and denial of whathappened. I haven’t left the flat since, and the only person I’ve spoken to is West.
It was actually working, and for brief moments, I forgot how disgusted I felt with everyone knowing what happened between Cornelia’s mother and me. I could even push aside the urge to kick Nate again, along with the bitter knowledge that he and Cornelia slept together.
“It wasn’t a tabloid, just some annoying calls.”
“Was it the reporter girl again?”
“Who knows? I didn’t look,” I reply, glancing curiously towards the kitchen where he’s been for a while. “What are you doing there?”
“I’m making tea and pastries,” he calls out.
I’m shocked. Is this the same person who once tried to make scrambled eggs for breakfast, only to give up halfway through and order food instead?
I blink. “I think I heard you wrong. Did you say you’re making pastries?”
“To be truthful, I bought them pre-cooked,” West admits, “and now I’m having a hard time getting the oven on to heat them up.”
That’s more like him.
I could offer to help, but I’d probably be as lost as he is. For us, the kitchen is more for decoration than anything else.
I snort a laugh. “Why are you doing that?”
Before he can answer, the doorbell rings.
“Don’t be mad,” he says.
