Page 22 of Wish You Knew
“I thought we’d been getting on so well.”
“So well that you needed todrug meto get me to sleep with you.” I struggled to get out of his grasp. “How many other women have you done that to, Mark? Huh? Or was I the first?”
“Women like you never look at guys like me.” His face was twisted into a mask. “I’m the prop at the side, never the one you’d really be interested in. You’re too busy making love to the camera. Don’t think I didn’t notice the looks you were shooting towards the photographer. Thinking abouthim,were you?” He pushed himself towards me again, his nose only inches from mine.
“What if I was? Why did it give you the right to spike me?” My voice came out louder than I anticipated; the words reverberated around the room.
“What’s going on in here? Rosie? Mark?” The fashion director reappeared, taking in the scene in front of her: me cowering away from Mark, him towering over me.
Instantly, he released my arm. I let out a breath, not realising I’d been holding it in all this time.
Silence descended. I waited for Mark to explain, but he wasn’t forthcoming.
Anger overtook any fear I had.
I drew back my shoulders and stood tall. “I’d like to thank you for the opportunity today, but I’m afraid if you’re planning to work with Mark, you won’t be working with me.” Without saying another word, I grabbed my bag and walked out.
I pushed open the door to the outside world and gulped in deep breaths of air.
There was only one person I needed to speak to right now.
I pulled out my phone and dialled his number.
11
Scott
Day one at the family bolthole, and I hadn’t yet managed to get out of bed, whiling away the time watching some weekday morning magazine programme. Truth be told, I’d always had a crush on the blonde presenter.
Friday night slash Saturday morning’s excesses finally took their roll. I had slept way past check out time yesterday. Mat had almost broken the door down, thinking I’d done something stupid, until one of the housekeeping staff let him in. Then he yelled at me for a good twenty minutes, calling me every name under the sun. Didn’t bode well for us spending the journey home cooped up in a confined space.
The journey back to Manchester had been silent.
A traffic jam on the motorway meant we were on the road for close to five and a half hours. Tempers were frayed by the time I got dropped off. The wordless disapproval from Mat, Declan and Bobby couldn’t have been more apparent.
I got into my flat, dumped my bag and fell straight into bed again.
An insistent buzzing on the intercom roused me around midday on Sunday. Shaking the fog from my brain, I remembered I’d organised a car for the week in the Cheshire countryside. Pulling on some clothes and shoes, I did all the necessary checks with the drop off driver, signed my life away and took possession of the keys for the Range Rover. The temptation to go back to bed was a strong one, but I stopped myself. If I got my shit together, I could get to the house late afternoon and then finally relax.
Which is exactly what I did.
My phone rang. I ignored it. No-one was meant to be bothering me here. Not even the band.
Not bothering to even look at who was calling, I let it go to voicemail. If it was important, they’d leave a message, or call again.
The duvet enveloped me in warmth and comfort. I needed a break; an enforced detox. The craziness of the tour, plus the way I reacted at the Brixton gig meant I’d put more bad shit into my bloodstream than was good for any man.
I needed quiet calm and no distractions.
The phone chirruped again, this time with a message.
Seriously, could people not leave me alone?
Reluctantly, I reached for the device, having every intention of switching it off until I saw who had sent it.
Rosie: Scott, can you call me? I really need you…
The message was enough to spark me into life. A voicemail flashed up with her name. I sat bolt upright and dialled voicemail.
