We hadn't had closure, and that was my fault. I'd left to protect my dignity, and in doing so I'd ensured that the following weeks would be torture. He didn't try to contact me, which was hardly a surprise.
I wallowed in an endless cycle of rage, hurt, and sadness: the anger at his deception would evolve into aching at the pain he'd caused me, followed by grief from the loss of a friend. And then I'd be furious again that my friend had fucked me over, and the cycle would restart.
Was he experiencing the same emotions, or had he moved on? Did he care that I was upset, or did he think I deserved it? Had he considered contacting me, or had he been serious when he'd claimed it would take much longer for forgiveness to kick in?
Worst of all, though, I tormented myself with what if scenarios. If I'd stood up to Becca sooner, would we still be in this position? If I'd only posted one article, would he have eventually given up trying to expose me or would he have carried on indefinitely, setting trap after trap? And if I hadn't gone ahead with that first article, would he have trusted me from the start having had no reason not to?
After two weeks without talking, I swallowed my pride and sent a message. I couldn't swallow enough of it to reach out without an excuse, so instead I said I'd found a hoodie of his in my suitcase and did he want it back?
It wasn't a lie, but he didn't respond, leaving me to regret making the first—and possibly last—move.
To ease some of the heartache in my life, I committed to a big change: I surrendered my independence and moved out of the cramped-but-private flat into Mum and Steve's spacious-but-suffocating suburban home. I didn't want to, but Becca and I needed a clean break, and it wasn't fair to make Gabby choose.
When my birthday rolled around in late April, Dad came down to visit, and the five of us met for a meal in a local restaurant, my parents once again demonstrating that the end of a relationship did not mean the end of a friendship. Apparently Ed didn't share that outlook; my birthday would have given him the perfect excuse to contact me, but he didn't.
And to rub salt in the wound, Faye spent most of the meal talking about how her boyfriend had scored tickets to his charity concert next month.
"Didn't realise he was a Teddy Stone fan," I said dryly, glancing up at her from across the table.
"He's not, but the company he works for are one of the sponsors," she replied. "He got free tickets. Early access, apparently. I'm hoping for the front row."
"Free?" I raised an eyebrow. "Is that code for stolen?"
Before Faye could hit back, Mum jumped in. With both of her daughters now living under the same roof, she'd become an expert at diffusing any brewing hostility.
"Who is this Teddy Stone? I've never heard of the boy."
Faye's mouth dropped open. "Seriously, Mum? How have you not heard of him?"
"I think you and I have very different taste in music, Faye."
"Google him," Faye said. "Bet you recognise his face. He's ever so handsome."
Ever so handsome.
Give me strength.
Despite the uncharacteristic choice of words, her comment still ruffled me. It didn't matter that millions of people worldwide considered him attractive. I'd once revelled in that very same knowledge, enjoying how, out of those millions, I was the only one lucky enough to see him naked.
And now I couldn't even get a text back.
As Dad and Steve chatted about the weekend's football fixtures—a conversation I couldn't contribute to—I tried to maintain a polite interest in the discussion between my sister and mother. Faye had pulled up Google Images on her phone and Mum was flicking through snaps of Teddy, agreeing with the assessment of him being ever so handsome.
"Oh dear," she said, shaking her head. She turned the phone towards Faye. "Really, Faye? Tattoos?"
Faye glanced across at the phone for a brief moment before her attention returned to her food. "The tattoo is on the girl, not him."
Then, barely seconds after the words had left her mouth, her head snapped back round to the phone, and she sucked in a startled gasp. Her fork clattered onto her plate, and the piercing rattle of metal on china echoed around the restaurant. Dad and Steve paused their conversation, their attention shifting to our end of the table.
When Faye's shell-shocked eyes met mine, the penny dropped.
Shit.
"Precisely," Mum said, misreading Faye's shock for horror. "Hardly appropriate teenage behaviour, posing with a tattooed, naked woman."
I hadn't been naked, but thanks, Mum.
"He's not a teenager." Faye composed herself and sat up straighter in her chair, but her voice trembled when she spoke. "He's twenty-something."
Twenty-six. Twenty-seven in December. Would we be total strangers again by then? Either way, I couldn't see myself scoring an invitation to celebrate.
"But his fanbase is teenagers. Is this the kind of content you lot consume? Soft pornography? Maybe you shouldn't go to this concert, Faye."
I cleared my throat. This conversation about nudity and porn needed to come to a swift conclusion. The tattoo had been the original secret I'd shared with Faye before she'd deemed it too boring to care about. Regardless of her initial reaction, I hoped she'd still keep her word and not rat me out, but I didn't want to take the chance.
"It's a charity concert in aid of mental health," I said. "I don't think you need to worry about it, Mum. The photo might look shocking, but that's pretty normal nowadays. Magazines are always fighting to have the hottest photos of the biggest stars. There's nothing pornographic about it."
"Can I see this photo?" Dad asked.
Mum rolled her eyes and began to hand it over. Tasteful though it might be, the image still bordered on a level of sexuality that I was not comfortable letting my father view—I wasn't sure whether it made it better or worse that he wouldn't know it was me.
So I intercepted the phone and tossed it back to Faye.
"Seriously, Dad?" I shot him a glare. "We're in a restaurant."
"Thought you said there was nothing outrageous about it?"
Faye locked the phone and dropped it into her bag. "I always get in trouble for using my phone at the table. I wouldn't want you all to become massive hypocrites."
The rare display of solidarity touched me, but maybe she was just sticking to her word. Once satisfied that the conversation had moved past the photograph, I excused myself to the bathroom. Locking the stall door, I took a deep breath.
Ed had said he wanted the tattoo immortalised, and that was now coming back to haunt me. I could remember how non-sexual that shoot had been, and yet seeing just a glimpse of the photo again had stirred up memories of all the sexual things we had done together when he'd been on his knees in front of me.
His mouth all over my body.
Kissing. Licking. Sucking. Biting.
Once desperate to bring me pleasure, and now wanting nothing to do with me.
Heat had begun to creep through my veins, but the ice-cold reality of my current relationship with Ed extinguished it. After the way I'd betrayed him, he'd never sink to his knees for me again.
Besides, he wasn't like an ex who you could summon for a booty call late at night. He was hidden behind a thorough security team. And I wasn't like an obsessed fan whose fantasies could accompany her to bed each night; those fantasies were memories for me, and I'd never re-live them.
When I opened the stall door, I jumped at the sight of Faye leaning against the sink.
"What the fuck, Faye?" I clutched my chest to calm my startled heart.
Her eyes narrowed. "Exactly. What the fuck, indeed."
Ignoring her, I flicked on the tap and started to wash my hands. Faye was nothing if not persistent, though.
"Seriously, Sophia? You're not even going to address it?"
"Don't know what you're talking about."
She snorted. "Right. My mistake. Must be some other girl with exactly the same tattoo as you."
"Must be."
I strode over to the hand-dryer, but Faye waited until the noise died down before continuing her interrogation. Folding her arms, bracelets jangling, she stepped in front of the door to block my exit, crossing one high-heeled boot over the other to symbolise that she had no intention of moving.
"He was in Europe the same time as you."
"Europe's a big place." I threw my hands in the air, frustrated at how she'd managed to piss me off without even trying this time. By pushing me to admit to knowing Teddy Stone, she had inadvertently dredged up more resentment at no longer knowing him. "Rather than jumping to wild conclusions, why don't you thank me for taking your side on the concert?"
"Why don't you thank me for not letting your dad see a naked photo of his daughter?"
Not naked.
"It's not me."
"Bullshit, Sophia! Why are you lying?"
Moving in with Mum and Steve had made my relationship with Faye worse at first. She naturally hated the idea of us living together. As the weeks passed, though, we'd learnt to co-exist, and any active hatred of me mellowed into passive distaste and then finally acceptance.
We weren't friends, but she didn't tear into me at every chance she got anymore. That would take far too much effort on a day-to-day basis. Maybe it was because her worst nightmare had come true. The imposter had moved in with her family, and yet it wasn't quite as horrific as she'd imagined.
As she stood in front of me, her large brown eyes desperate for answers, I realised I held the upper hand for once. I could have admitted to it, but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction.
"Let it go, Faye. If I knew Teddy Stone, you'd be well aware of it. Trust me."
That didn't seem to satisfy her, but she conceded defeat. For the first time.
And besides, it wasn't a lie—despite what I'd thought, I hadn't known Teddy Stone at all.
*
I didn't get a birthday text, but I did receive an email from Teddy Stone's Management Team just before midnight.
On behalf of Teddy Stone, we wish you a very happy birthday.
We are pleased to attach two complimentary tickets to his charity concert on 9th May.
It felt like a kick in the teeth, but when I opened the attachment, I spotted 'VIP Box' printed below the date. No meet and greet this time—Ed clearly didn't want to speak to me—but if the tickets were specifically for the box then that had to mean he'd had a say in the matter. Or at least that someone in the team had made that choice based on my fear of crowds.
Either way, what initially sounded like a generic birthday message now seemed to have a personal touch.
I could have decided not to go out of spite, but I barely entertained the idea. There was no way I wouldn't be using those tickets.
***
Thank you for reading :) xx
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