Curled up in the crisp sheets of my huge hotel bed, I stare out of the window, watching raindrops slide down the glass. It’s late evening, and amber headlights flash down the wet roads below as cars make their way through central London, navigating the after-work traffic rush. The honks of car horns mingle with the rhythmic thudding echoing through my bedroom wall, interspersed with occasional feminine whimpers and soft grunts.
It sounds like my neighbours are having a good night.
I’m too sad to even put in earphones to drown them out. I’m too sad to do…. Anything, really.
It’s been four days since the wedding, and I still feel completely and utterly decimated. I used to think movies overplayed heartbreak; that the image of a girl in her pyjamas, crying in bed and eating pints of ice cream, was just a dumb stereotype.
Now I know the truth. Movies underplay the pain. I can barely get out of bed. My whole body hurts. I feel like I’ve been ripped apart.
And I hate it. I hate the guys for making me feel like this. I hate myself for putting myself in a position where I could be hurt this badly.
I look around the hotel room, taking in four days’ worth of clothes and room service trays strewn across the expensive furniture. Maybe it was cowardly to go to a hotel instead of just going back to my own flat, but I can’t be in the same building as the guys right now. I can’t lie in my bed at night, knowing they’re just a few metres away. I can’t handle the thought of accidentally bumping into them in the corridors or standing next to them in the lift. I already had an overnight bag packed for the wedding. It was far easier to head into the city and pay for a new suite.
To try and cheer myself up, I booked into a really, really nice place: a five-star, right on the bank of the Thames. As I turn back to the window, the London Eye glows at me through the glass, its bright red lights reflecting off the surrounding high-rises and sky-scraping office buildings. I thought that staying in a posh hotel might make me feel better — that the California King bed and luxury jacuzzi would help remind me that, even though my relationship failed, the rest of my life is still going great.
It didn’t work. A California King is ridiculously huge when you’re only one person. Especially when you’re used to curling between multiple bodies to sleep.
My laptop dings under the covers, and I pull it out, squinting at the screen. It’s another notification. I swipe it away, feeling sick.
My social media has exploded in the last few days. Apparently, some prick at the wedding reception decided to secretly photograph me with the guys, and then blast the pictures onto every social media platform under the sun. And now all our listeners are calling me a slag online.
It’s funny. I’ve analysed those photos so closely. In every single one of them, it’s the guys who are coming on to me. Luke is kissing my cheek. Zack is pulling me into his chest. Josh is tipping my mouth up for a kiss. But of course, everyone naturally assumes I’m the slag.
I don’t understand it. The listeners knew that I was going on dates with all three men. They’ve spent weeks fighting over which guy I should ‘pick’. Three Single Guys has recorded multiple episodes on group relationships in the past. But for some reason, as soon as everyone saw those photos, their first assumption was that I was a total ho.
To make matters worse, the guys haven’t said anything. The first couple days after the wedding, I kept waiting for them to write a post or upload an episode explaining the situation. They never did. All they’ve done is tweet one very bland PR statement, asking people to ‘please not spread rumours when they don’t understand the context behind the pictures’.
Obviously, since they didn’t actually explain what happened, that did absolutely nothing.
They have been ringing me, Josh especially, but I haven’t answered. I can’t. They’re letting people run with these stories, and it makes me sick to my stomach. It’s one thing to say they don’t want to date me; it’s another to let me be publicly embarrassed and not step in to defend me.
The worst part is, I can’t even defend myself. I’ve got plenty of experience with bullying. I know how it works. The guys have a whole mob of fans on their side, and I have no one. If I try to argue with them, it’ll just fan the flames. I need the boys to stand up and defend me, but for whatever reason, they’re not doing it.
Another email notification dings up on my laptop, and my jaw locks as I read the subject header.
I found an article you might enjoy. Eat dirt you ugly ho.
The attachment is titled ‘Ten Ways to End it All’.
Something breaks inside me. Tears flood my eyes, and my stomach suddenly churns. I barely have enough time to shove aside my laptop and dodge for the ensuite bathroom before I’m throwing up in the porcelain toilet bowl. I’ve not eaten properly in days, so bile burns my throat, choking me as I kneel on the cold marble and heave, over and over.
By the time my stomach finally settles, my hands are shaking. I’m sweating all over. Little pricks of light are dancing over my vision. I flush the toilet and flop down onto the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees and breathing hard as old, half-buried memories pound through my mind. Teachers mocking me. Girls laughing at me. Boys whistling and catcalling and grabbing me. I rub my face, trying to shut them off, but they just get louder and more vivid, washing over me in great big heavy waves until I can’t even sit upright anymore.
God knows how long it takes me to calm down. It feels like hours. Eventually, I end up just lying on the tile, my heart pounding out of my chest, tears trickling down the sides of my nose.
This isn’t the first time this has happened in the last few days. The heartbreak is bad enough, but it’s the harassment that’s really been hurting me. It’s like all the old anxiety I felt when I was sixteen has flooded back. I can’t eat because of the knot in my stomach. I can’t sleep, and whenever I do drop off, I wake up in cold sweats. I feel like I’m going crazy.
As I lay on my hotel bathroom’s mirror-shine floor, defeat washes over me. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. It’s killing me. Something has got to change.
Standing shakily, I head back into the bedroom, opening my laptop again and bringing up my email. With trembling fingers, I tap out a quick message to Anna Bardet Couture, giving her assistant the phone number of my hotel room, and letting her know that my work number and email will be unavailable until further notice. Then I finally shut down my laptop and power off my phone.
Immediately, relief floods me. Climbing weakly back into bed, I reach for my sketchbook, snuggling down with it.
I’ve spent the last few days trying to distract myself by working on design proposals for this weekend’s meeting with Anna. So far, I already have four sketches incorporating my butterfly design into her own style, but none of them are good enough. They need to be perfect. There’s now more riding on the collaboration with Anna Bardet than there ever was before.
I’ve looked through some New York real estate sites. Even a small apartment is ridiculously expensive, but if Anna ends up offering me a contract, I should be making enough to live and work in the city. And right now, moving to America is looking more and more attractive every day.
I glance at my suitcase, lying open by the foot of my bed. In just a few days, I’m finally getting out of here. Then I can put this whole mess behind me.
Hopefully forever.
