But then, of course she would, because her so-called BFF had told her she was being a baby about Liam, too.
‘Why are you getting so worked up. It was only a BJ, it was only once and it was Amber’s eighteenth. And she’s fancied Liam for ages.’
When Lizzie had argued that perhaps Liam should have stumped up some cash for a present for Amber rather than gift-wrapping his cock, she’d got Carly’s trademark eye-roll and the one word Lizzie had begun to hate with a passion. Because Liam had used it all the time, too. When he said she was getting too pushy, or too clingy, or doing what he called her ‘stalker vibe’.
Whatever.
A word that basically said, Don’t bug me, don’t bother me, don’t make such a fuss about bugger all. Your opinion, your feelings, your pride don’t matter in the big fat scheme of things that do matter.
You’ve got a boyfriend who gets caught getting a BJ from one of your friends at her birthday party?
Whatever.
You’ve got a mum who takes time out from her busy HELLO!-style life only because she’s having some weird freak-out about you being anorexic?
Whatever.
You’ve got a dad who still thinks you’re his smart, witty, wonderful baby girl. When you know you’re not?
Whatever.
You’ve got a little brother who used to look at you as if you were Hermione Granger and a Powerpuff Girl all rolled into one, but now looks at you as if you’re an unexploded bomb?
Whatever.
You’re going to be stuck for two weeks with a guy who’s weirdly hot but thinks you’re a bitch?
Whatever.
Somehow or other that one word had become a curse. And she hated it. But she knew, deep down, there was one thing she hated more than that bastard, buggering, like-I-give-a-shit word …
And that one thing was herself.
She’d dated Liam and given him BJs until her jaw ached because everyone else thought he was cool. She never confided in Carly, even though they were supposed to be BFFs, because she was scared Carly might drop her. She almost wished she did have anorexia because at least then she would feel as if she deserved her mum’s attention. Her dad didn’t know what she was really like because she didn’t have the guts to tell him. Aldo was scared of her because she’d gone postal on him once too often. And Trey thought she was a bitch because most of the time she was. Especially with him. Because …
Because she might be developing a small, inconvenient crush on him. A crush she could never ever let him know about. Because if he found out, he’d be horrified and she’d be mortified.
Her mum and her mum’s celebrity had come to symbolise all the things that were wrong with Lizzie’s life. But she knew the Domestic Diva was only really responsible for—at most—half of them. The rest of Lizzie’s failings were entirely down to Lizzie.
She texted Carly back. Thnx, but I’ve got to help out with Aldo while my mum’s away.
Just pretending her mum would trust her with that responsibility felt good for a moment. But it was another lie, of course. Trey didn’t need help with her brother. He was far too efficient for that. And her brother didn’t want to spend time with her any more, because Trey was the Aldo Whisperer now.
No wonder her mum had wanted Trey to move in for two weeks. Humiliation sat like a lump of uncooked dough in her stomach. Raw and stodgy and indigestible.
WotevZ. I’ll txt u next wk. Enjoy the mini-terminator. And c if you can size up Super Nanny’s meat while your at it. Carly’s text finished with a grinning devil emoji. And then another one with red cheeks.
The heat flushed all the way to Lizzie’s hairline as she texted back a grinning devil as if she was up for the idea, like the fraud she was.
Whatever.
Halle slotted her new Audi A8 into her dedicated parking space, under the neon sign emblazoned across the brick wall of her cake design studio in Hammersmith.
Best’s Bespoke Bakery—Designer Confectionery from the Domestic Diva.
The quiet purr of the car’s powerful engine died as she turned off the ignition. The A8 had been a present to herself last Christmas, when her sixth book had topped the Sunday Times non-fiction bestseller list. Driving it was usually a great way to lift her mood.
But not today.
She let her gaze linger on the studio’s sign while she dialled her assistant, Mel, but the retro swirl of lipstick-red neon wasn’t giving her the usual ego boost today, either.
She was still feeling guilty about having to lie to Lizzie this morning—inventing a fictitious US book tour to stave off any unanswerable questions about the two weeks she was about to spend in Tennessee with Lizzie’s dad. And Lizzie’s predictably pissed-off reaction to the news.
‘Hi, Mel,’ she said when her PA picked up. ‘Just checking in to find out if the final paperwork came through from Jamie yet.’
Maybe all was not lost.
She didn’t have to go anywhere if Luke hadn’t signed on the dotted line. Which as of yesterday included her stipulation that he agree not to tell Lizzie about their trip. She didn’t want her daughter involved in this fiasco. She was emotionally fragile enough. Why stress her out about something when it meant nothing? If Lizzie figured things out once Luke’s article was published, Future Halle could handle it.
‘Yup, Jamie emailed it this morning. Apparently, Luke wasn’t too happy about the confidentiality clause. But he’s signed it.’
‘OK, I guess I really am going to Tennessee tomorrow, then.’ Halle let out the breath she’d been holding and ticked off the item on the to-do list in her head. The to-do list that would never end. ‘I assume everything’s booked?’
‘Yes, the flight leaves at ten from Heathrow.’
‘How long is it?’ Where was Tennessee anyway? Hopefully not too far from New York. She’d never been a big fan of hanging suspended in a metal box thirty thousand feet above sea level.
‘Nine hours and forty minutes.’
‘Nine …’ So nowhere near New York, then. Bollocks. ‘There isn’t a shorter flight?’
‘I checked. You could get a shorter flight to New York and then transfer for a flight to Atlanta, but there’s a four-hour stopover in Newark.’
‘Oh …’ Shit. The take-offs were always the worst part. Two flights would not be better than one. ‘Fine.’
She
