Page 28 of (Not) The One
Tall, blond, and handsome, pap’d coming out of a charity gala last night.
And is that ... Giselle Hampton?
‘Ready?’
‘I’ll follow you.’ I don’t look up from the paper, spreading it out against the table to read the tiny caption and accompanying column under a double-page spread of celebrity shenanigans.Two Twitsreads the byline under photographs of a pair of female columnists who seem more like two party girls than serious journalists.
‘Suit yourself.’ Heather unscrews the cap on her water as she turns away.
So I read.
Giselle Hampton looks radiant in pink florals as she leaves the RFW Charity ball with an unnamed date.
Giselle looked every inch the soon-to-be millionaire as she left the event at the prestigious Fortnum Club looking pretty in pink Gucci.
The thirty-seven-year-old former model-turned-actress, who recently split from her billionaire textiles magnate husband, Johnno Hampton, is expected to receive a record settlement when the pair head to court later this year.
When asked for the name of her arm candy for the evening, Giselle, who’s rumoured to be starring in the upcoming film about Madonna’s life, just smiled enigmatically.
We don’t know about you, but she doesn’t look like she’s crying into her cocoa to us!
Who’s That Girl? More like who’s that hunk!
Tweet a twit if you know, and you could win yourself fifty quid!
I think I know that blond. I know those cheekbones. And I know that wicked half smile. I can’t be one hundred percent sure, not that I’d be tweeting the newspaper for the chance of a quick fifty quid, but it does look awfully like hot neighbour dude.
Like James.
And I don’t know how I feel about the article. Or maybe I just care not to examine how I feel because to feel anything would be weird, right? I mean, they don’t call it a one-night stand for nothing, do they? So I slept with a man who normally sleeps with women who look like Giselle; five-foot-nine stunners with shiny chestnut hair and legs up to their armpits. Women who move in celebrity circles, swear by juice cleanses, and holiday in St Barts.
Maybe he was slumming it that night.
I halt the thought right there before it spirals. We might not have been hanging out at the Fortnum Club, black tie and canapes, but it’s not like he didn’t enjoy himself in that odd little bedroom that would’ve looked at home in a museum.
You’re so tight. You feel like velvet. Every inch of you.
His hand on my breast and his wicked whispers in my ear.
I might not be Giselle, but I wouldn’t swap that night for anything.
7
Miranda
Life movesalong in its familiar rhythms, and I barely think of that night. Okay, I sometimes think of that night. Mostly, I just think about him. James. He’s like the only lady wank-bank material I’ll ever need.
Lust Islandboys are just that. Boys.
Today, Heather and I are holed up at a window table at the café next door, avoiding the unseasonable wind pushing shoppers along the precinct while we eat lunch. We’re not really talking, but the silence is a comfortable one. Until her displeasure is aired for all to hear.
‘What do you suppose crawled up his arse and died?’
‘What?’ I stop tapping my toes to the song that’s playing on the radio and look up from the email I’m reading on my phone, instinctively glancing behind me. Jorge stands at the counter. I might smile or wave except for the fact that he’s deliberately ignoring us. ‘Maybe he didn’t see us.’ Or maybe he’s just a tit.
‘Oh, he saw us, all right. Honestly, his attitude is getting worse.’
‘Maybe you should consider halting the cookie war.’ Jorge has a tendency to stuff his face with other people’s biscuits while hoarding his own in his desk drawer. A desk drawer that Heather has liberated them from, placing them in the communal cookie jar and discarding the evidentiary packaging.
