For the longest time, I was one of those girls who was far too interested in appearances; I'd get dressed up, put a face full of make up on, style my hair so that there wasn't a strand out of place and get ready to hit the town and just have fun.
I was a wild child, I admit. My parents always thought that Sophie was the problem child but if they knew what I used to get up to in secret, they'd soon see that Sophie was a Saint in comparison. I never used to be embarrassed about it but since the devastating break up with He Who Shall Not Be Named Ever Again On Pain Of Death, I've realised that I can't be as carefree when there are things at stake, especially if it's my heart on the line.
I suppose that's why, as I get dressed and prepare to go out, I find myself being more and more selective of what I choose. Yes, I could wear the tightest and shortest arse skimming dress I owned, but that's what the old Charlotte would have done. Instead, as I looked at everything that hung in my closet, my eyes were drawn to the loose fitting Tom Ford sweater I had invested in over winter and a pair of jeans.
Picking them out of the closet, I threw them on the bed and deliberated a little more. The girls would kill me for wearing something like this on a night out but it was comfortable and it made me feel safe, which given my unstable romantic life, I was very much for safety when going out 'on the pull', as Aimee kept saying. Not that I was expecting to hook a man; I'm already fighting the temptation of Isaac Fletcher without even looking at other blokes.
Knowing that he was going to be in my flat tonight was unnerving and despite having more than a week to come to terms with the prospect, I was still conscious that he was invading my space. For all I know, he could tell the guys he was going to the bathroom and find himself in my bedroom!
This thought permeated my mind and for all the times that I tried to shake it from there, it remained and made me panic over every little detail about my bedroom. Were the sheets clean? Was the bed made? Were there any dirty clothes lying around? Were there any embarrassing family photos on display? Would he judge me for the artwork that hung on the walls? Would he approve of the colours I had chosen? Oh, God, what if he went into my closet and saw all my pre mid-2016 clothes? He would definitely judge me for that.
"Sam!" I yelled as I went into panic mode. I heard footsteps fast approaching, followed by the sight of a half dressed Sam entering my room with a wild look on his face. For some weird reason, he held one of my shoes in his hand. "No, this is not a kill-the-spider situation. I need you to help me hide my clothes."
Not realising just how serious my comment was, Sam laughed. "Hide your clothes?" He managed to ask before he burst into hysterical laughter again.
"Yes," I clarify. Pointing at my closet, I say, "Well, I need you to help me start there. After that, we need to change the bedsheets, take the artwork off the wall, hide all my family photographs and-"
"Hold on," Sam told me. He'd stopped laughing by now and was instead giving me a confused look, a frown forming between his eyes as he walked further into the room. "Is this about Fletch? Char, we've been over this twenty times already- I won't let him out of my sight. We've already stripped the walls in the communal area of anything colourful, we've bought new cushions for your sofa, moved all the photos to the guest bedroom and donated all your girly movies and books to Oxfam. What more do you need to do?"
Before I get the chance to answer, Sam shakes his head and grabs me by the shoulders. "The only thing left for you to do is to get in the shower and get ready to go out with the girls. They'll be here soon," he told me, waving his watch in front of my face. As if I could tell the correct time from that. When I swatted his arm away, he laughed and looked at the outfit that was on the bed. "I thought you were going to a club?"
Not wanting to explain myself to Sam- not that I'm obliged to explain myself to him- I shove at his shoulders until he was on the other side of the threshold and promptly shut the bedroom door in his face. He was right about the outfit but I didn't care; I was wearing it and that's that.
Twenty minutes later and I was showered and wringing the water out of my tresses as I padded back to the bedroom area of the master suite. I was a tad behind schedule but knowing the girls, they'd be more than willing to speak to Sam while they waited for me. Since he'd moved in, Sam was a regular face down at La Petite Pâtisserie and Lauren, Joanne and Aimee had taken to him instantly. Naturally, Arnaud was indifferent while Nate kept a close eye on Lauren's interactions with him, not that Sam was interested.
I had just finished drying my hair when I heard the buzzer of the intercom for the first time. Even though there weren't any guarantees that it was Isaac, I still found myself holding my breath until I heard the guest's voice fill the air. Elias Marshall. Breathing a sigh of relief, I busied myself smothering my face with make up, even going so far as to apply eyeliner as I perfected the flick. When I was happy with the end result, I took a step back and scrutinised my reflection in the mirror.
My eyes were heavily made up with the eyeliner, the mascara and the smokey eye effect that I'd created. My skin looked even and well covered with the YSL foundation that cost the same as my monthly grocery bill and the slick of red lipstick I'd applied gave the impression that I was a femme fatale. I'd obviously forgotten that I'd chosen 'safe' over 'daring' for this evening. Suddenly, the outfit on the bed wouldn't do anymore.
Groaning to myself, I went back to survey my options as I skimmed through the racks of clothes on display in the closet. Narrowing it down to a two black and one red thigh-skimming dress, I alternated placing each one against my body as I cast a scrutinising gaze on the reflection in the mirror.
The first dress I held up was a deep v-neck black dress that had cut outs at either side of my waist. It was almost to my knee but I still couldn't take my focus off the fact that it would flaunt my boobs when I'd much rather that they were covered. The red dress was a Hervé Leger mini dress that would cling to my figure. In recent days, my stomach had looked bloated and the fabric of the dress would only highlight that. Instantly, I placed the dress back on the rail and held up the second black dress.
Made of black crepe and silk chiffon, the dress crisscrossed over my shoulders and had layered ruffles that were figure-skimming. It was shorter than the other black dress, but at least my chest was well covered. That was the only consolation.
"Personally, I preferred the first dress," that gorgeous Australian accent said from behind me. Looking up, I caught Isaac Fletcher's reflection in the mirror as he leant against the door of the closet, his arms folded over his chest and that heart-stopping smirk on his face. How I wish I could slap that off him. And so much for Sam promising never to let him out of his sight. Traitor. "You've got great assets, may as well show them off."
Feeling irritated that he was a) in my closet, b) in my bedroom, and c) passing judgement on what I should wear, I let his outfit suggestion fall to the floor and spun on my heels, sauntering off to the bathroom with the second black dress. The chuckle I heard from behind me did nothing for my raging anger.
God, I wanted to kill him. Or kiss him. It could easily go either way.
I struggled with the zip, but I was determined not to have to ask Isaac to do it up for me. I could ask Sam, but that would mean having to walk passed Isaac with the zip undone and then he'd probably make a remark about the colour of my underwear and then I'd murder/kiss him in front of everyone. To avoid such situations, I decided to contort myself into the weirdest shapes as I finally heard the delightful sound of the zip as it fastened.
The only thing I needed now was my shoes. Which were in my closet. And yet unchosen. Manning up, I pull the bathroom door open with more force than necessary and march to the closet, trying my hardest not to look at Isaac as he sprawled out on my bed. I could already smell his aftershave and it did something terribly strange to my knees, almost like they wanted to buckle.
"I was hoping you'd choose that dress," Isaac commented in that annoying yet equally fucking hot accent of his. "I knew if I said to wear one dress that you'd choose the other. I've always thought that your legs are your best feature- long and strong and perfectly moulded to go around my hips."
Despite myself, my cheeks burned at hearing his words. "Isaac," I tried my best to keep my voice calm but even a deaf person would hear the flustered undertone. "Why are you even here?"
"It's poker night," he answered. He knew full well that that was not what I meant, and the pointed look I gave him as I exited the closet, heels in hand, told him as much. He sat up and cleared his throat, his perfect blue eyes piercing mine. My knees did that strange thing again. "You've been ignoring me, Lottie. For three weeks. Even when I come into the shop, you pull a Houdini and vanish. Although, you may want to work on the crawling through the kitchen door part of your act. Unless you have a ghost, in which case, I'm totally willing to believe that he or she is the one opening the door and not you."
Again, I blushed. In the hope that I could buy myself more time, I pulled on my heels and fastened the buckle as slowly as I could. Eventually, with both shoes on, I had to face Isaac once more. "Look, I won't deny that New Year's Eve was a lot of fun, but really, that's all it was," I lie. "Nothing more can and will happen between us, Isaac. I've heard about your reputation and I'm sorry, but I need more than a wham, bam, thank you, ma'am kind of thing."
"And you don't think I can offer you that?" He asked incredulously. He stood from the bed and bridged the gap between us so fast that, if I blinked, I would have missed the movement entirely. "You don't know anything about me, Charlotte-" The way he used my full name stung. "-But if that's how you feel, fine. I won't waste my time trying to convince you otherwise because I can see that your assumptions about me are set in stone. I'll leave you to finish getting ready."
He left, closing the door behind him. For the first time since I'd seen him in my bedroom, I felt that I could breathe. I also felt like I couldn't breathe at all. Was he really letting me go? In a way, that's what I wanted. It's all I've wanted, but now that it's happening, why did I feel so disappointed? Maybe I thought that he would be willing to change. Naively, maybe I thought that I'd be the one to change the notorious Isaac Fletcher. Maybe for me, he'd come back.
"Oh, and one last thing," his voice was like music to my ears as he stormed back into the room. He didn't come for me, however. No, he disappeared into the closet, rummaged a little, and then reappeared, holding the white shirt of his that I'd been unable to give back to him since our tryst. "I'm reclaiming my shirt. Have a nice life, Charlotte."
And there he went again. I should have stopped him.
You idiot, Charlotte. You utter idiot.
Next update: some time next week.