Page 32 of (Not) The One
I realise Heather is still complaining about her little brother. ‘He’s such a little shit.’
‘To be fair, he’s only thirteen. Let’s hope he grows out of it.’
‘And some little dicks just grow to be bigger dicks. Bigger dicks who think about nothing but their dicks.’
‘Are we talking about that night?’ I ask carefully.
‘Nope. There’s nothing to talk about. I went. I changed my mind. I left. End of story. And if he wants to talk shit about me, he can.’
‘But you’re okay?’
‘Except I’m skint now until payday. Twenty pounds a week he’s charging me. Thanks for paying for lunch, by the way.’
‘That’s okay.’ I pull my purse onto my lap and pull my emergency twenty-pound note from the inside pocket. ‘You can give it back to me when you get paid.’
‘Thanks, Mir. You’re a lifesaver.’ She pockets the cash quickly, almost as though I might change my mind. ‘Can give me a lift home after work?’
‘Yeah, sure. I suppose I better have a little chat with Danny. Make him see the error of his ways. And threaten to tell on him.’
‘Ha. Good luck. ‘I’m going to get a bottle of water,’ she says, pushing her chair back. ‘Want anything?’ I shake my head, pulling the local newspaper abandoned on the table next to ours. I flip it open, going straight to the entertainment and lifestyle sections. It doesn’t harm to keep an eye on what’s happening in London, and it was reading the local rag that gave me the idea to contact the one or two publicists for theLust Islandcrew. It might’ve been nice if I could’ve gotten a couple of the girls to come along too, but they all seemed to have conflicts in their schedule.
Yeah, right.
‘You ready?’ I lift my gaze from the newspaper, my fingers already preparing to close it when something catches my attention.
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.
