Ruined (8 page)

Bed does sound so appealing right now. I feel as though my brain is trying to escape through my nose. I climb in and relax into my fluffy pillows. Hugo opens his arms, and pulls me tight to his side. I stiffen for a moment.

He doesn’t even open his eyes. “Relax Molly, I’m not going to jump you. I just like sleeping with you. You’re comfy. I wasn’t going to come near you last night in case you threw up on me.” He smiles.

“Careful.” I mumble. “Keep saying shit like that, and you might grow a vagina.”

“You’re right. In fact my junk may have just shrunk a little.” He shoves his hand under the duvet, groping himself.

“Will you stop?!” I hiss. “I do not need you touching your peen right next to me. Gross.”

He laughs, the deep rumble vibrating his chest under my ear. It relaxes my tense muscles, and the warmth of his body filters through my shirt. My bare legs press against his hairy ones, and a feeling of familiarity, of safety, washes over me. Whatever Hugo and I are or were, he’s always been somewhat comforting to me. That may be strange, but it’s true. I rest my head on his shoulder and inhale the fresh scent of him. Even laced with tequila and cigarettes, he still manages to smell, clean and refreshing. I fall asleep to his slow breathes, with his arm wrapped tightly around my waist.

I’m dying on the sofa when the door buzzer goes. It’s mid-afternoon, and I don’t really feel any better. I’ve managed to make it from my bed to the sofa, but that’s it. I even still have my duvet. Hugo stays with me, watching TV and trying to feed me, which isn’t going over so well. Mostly though, he just takes the piss out of me. Hugo doesn’t get up early enough to experience hang overs, he sleeps right through them. Not to mention the fact that his alcohol tolerance must be through the roof.

He gets up to answer the door. A few minutes later and Theo and Lilly appear. Lilly has on a hoody, with the hood pulled up, and a massive pair of sunglasses. She kicks her shoes off and immediately crawls under my duvet on the sofa with me. She tucks herself between me and the back of the sofa, and wraps her arms around me, spooning me. Our sofa is easily as wide as a single bed.

“I think I’m dying.” She whines.

“Me, too.” I groan.

“Can tequila induce a stroke? I can’t feel my face. Call Alex. Ask him.” She mumbles into my hair.

Laughter, that’s all I hear from Hugo and Theo. Bastards.

“Next time you’re hung over, I’m going to start blasting rock music around the house.” Lilly promises.

“Sugar, I don’t get hung over. At least not like you do. I mean, you just don’t hold back babe. You are a balls to the wall fucking mess.” Theo tells her.

“Hey, I had to hose her down.” Hugo says pointing at me. “Shit doesn’t get much more disgusting than that.”

“Piss off!” I say as loudly as my pounding head will allow. They both laugh like the smug bastards they are.

“Dude, she tried to jump me, whilst still covered in her own vomit.” Theo says through his laughter. “I mean, I’ve seen her in some states, and never said no, but that was whole new levels.”

“Fuck you.” Lilly mumbles, her face buried in my back somewhere. “Don’t you two have somewhere to be?”

They do eventually leave us to our pitiful states, going out to do some man shit. Apparently Theo is organising, as he and Lilly are leaving for a month long business trip in two days. He has offices in Paris and Rome. She’s going as his legal aid, but well, we all know why she’s really going. He can’t be without her for a whole month. It’s so cute. Right now though, Lilly couldn’t care less what is happening.

“We’re going to lay here and die for a bit, and then we’re going to order pizza.” She mumbles into my back, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist.

I close my eyes against the pounding in my head. I don’t think I’ve ever had a hang over this brutal.

I still don’t feel great on Monday morning. I had totally forgotten that Alex was supposed to be coming over last night. I had to cancel last minute for fear that he might take one look at me and run away screaming. So now, I’m sitting at my desk, pretending to look at my computer as my vision blurs a little. My boss is in mega bitch mode today, which is not helping. I work for a fashion magazine, and as cliché as The Devil Wears Prada is, my life isn’t dissimilar. I swear the woman just knows how much I hate this materialistic, shallow bullshit, so she rams it down my throat even more.

I got this job because I have an impressive CV and what she called a ‘bullet proof’ attitude. Looking at the other people who work here, that’s not hard. I once saw Sarah, the receptionist actually cry because one of the editorial assistants said she looked like she had put on weight. Seriously? This is the shit I have to put up with. I just need to keep my head down, make editor within a few years, and then bugger off and get a proper editor’s position, for a magazine that writes something useful.

“Molly!” Diane’s voice screeches from her office. Her voice is like nails being dragged down a chalk board. I steel myself and get up from my desk which is stationed in a small entry office, just off hers.

“Yes.” I say through gritted teeth. She looks up from her desk, watching me over the rims of her glasses, which are perched on the end of her nose. She has a severe black bob, with a fringe that sits just above her eyebrows. She always wears bright red lipstick, and a sharp suit, usually with a pencil skirt, and she would never ever leave her house without a pair of six inch heels on. She’s the definition of fashionista.

“Well come in child, don’t just stand there.” She barks. It used to annoy me that she called me child. I mean, she can’t be much older than forty herself, although I have no doubt the woman is a hard core Botox junky. Or maybe she just doesn’t smile…or frown. Who knows? Now though, I’m used to it.

She has some photos arranged in front of her. “Jean Luc is going to be here this afternoon.” She says without looking up at me. “This is his new collection.” She makes a sweeping gesture across the photos. All I can see is a lot of bright colours and weird materials. I mean really? A bright yellow pleather dress. This cannot be the cutting edge of fashion. It reminds me of those stupid abstract paintings that people pay millions for. It’s not cool in its simplicity, or pioneering and innovative. The artist isn’t before their time.  A five year old could have painted it.

Well, quite frankly, a builder who knows shit all about fashion could have designed that dress. Clearly I know nothing.

“Melanie can’t make it for the demo, so you’ll be replacing her.” Again, she doesn’t even look up at me. Melanie Dohl is a model.

“You want me to model?”

“Yes.” She finally looks up at me. “You’re a little broad, but you’re not too far off. You’ll do for today. I just need to see what the collection looks like, and what pieces we want to feature in this month’s edition.” I know what she’s doing, but seriously, she wants me to model?

“I’m not very good with things like that.” I say awkwardly. She tilts her head forward, giving me the full on bitch look.

“It wasn’t a request.” She looks back down at the pictures in front of her. “You can go.” She dismisses me.

I go back to my desk and rest my forehead on it. I’m pretty sure that the term ‘human Barbie doll’ is not in my job description. If I refuse though, then she will fire me. This isn’t the first time she’s made me do something like this.

I think my life just hit new lows. I’m standing here in the bloody yellow dress. The pleather, yellow dress. It’s so short, my vagina is in danger of making an appearance, and I’m pretty sure it’s a size four. I’m a size eight! My organs are so compressed, I may spring a hernia any minute.

“Isn’t it stunning?” Jean Luc is all of five and a half foot. He’s dressed in a purple shirt and dark grey trousers. His hair is quite long and pulled back in a ponytail, and he has this ridiculous French accent to match his oh so European look. He’s a walking bloody cliche if ever I saw one.

“It’s slutty chic.” Diane muses. No, just slutty. Funny that if this dress cost fifty quid it would be slutty, but as soon as it costs five hundred quid, it’s chic.

“Okay, next.” She barks. Elena is another model that I often see coming in and out of here. She’s the other model for the day, except she doesn’t mind it, because it’s her job. We both turn and step out of the room. My office has been fashioned into a small dressing room. I’ve been at fittings before, and seen models literally just get naked in front of whoever. Like I say, it’s their job, they don’t care. I however, refuse to get naked in front of the tiny Frenchman…or Diane for that matter. I can only imagine what she’d say about my flat stomach. Surely it should be concaved. I’m pretty sure she wants liver definition in there.

“That dress really is awful.” Elena whispers in her American accent, giggling.

“Thank god it’s not just me. I thought I was just not ‘getting it’.” I cock an eyebrow.

I pick my phone up off my desk, and press the camera button. I stretch my arm out and take a selfie, before sending it to Lilly.

“This is so bad, it has to be shared.” I mutter.

She laughs. “That’s so bad, I wouldn’t go sharing it.”

Getting out of the dress is a little bit like trying to squeeze out a splinter. Painful, and hard work. The next dress is better, although the back drops so low, my underwear is showing.

“You need to take off your panties.”

“What? Like, totally?” She nods. I sigh and go for full on crack exposure.

She shrugs one shoulder apologetically. “Designers.” She offers as way of explanation.

Whole. New. Lows.

I get home at six. I said I’d meet Alex for dinner at eight. I don’t normally book dates on a Monday, because no-one ever feels like going out on a Monday night. With his work schedule though, and my cancelling on him last night, I want to see him. I’m just not really feeling venturing out in public. Maybe we could just get take away here? No. That might look like I can’t be bothered, which I can’t, but I don’t want him to feel like I don’t care. God, I can totally see why Lilly and George are so into casual sex, or
was
in Lilly’s case.

My phone rings just as I’m walking through the front door. As if my day wasn’t bad enough already, it’s my father. I take a deep breath. I never speak to my dad unless I have to. He only ever calls me if it’s necessary.

I swipe my finger over the green button. “Hello.”

“Molly.” Just the sound of his voice makes me shrink slightly. I despise my father, and everything he stands for, yet I’m terrified of disappointing him. Even though everything I do disappoints him. Figures I would be one of those girls with classic daddy issues.

“Dad. How are you?” I ask politely.

He doesn’t answer my question. “I’m in London next week for a business trip. I want us to meet for dinner.” I haven’t spoken to my father for five months, and when I do, he treats me like an appointment to be fitted in amongst his business dealings.

“Okay.”

“Good. I’ll email you the details.” He says quickly before he hangs up. I stare at the phone for a minute, fighting the usual feelings of inadequacy that always arise whenever I speak to him.

My father has always been a selfish man, totally driven by money and success. People’s measure of success varies dramatically, and my father’s idea of success is not the same as mine. He and my mother could not be any more different if they tried. He met her twenty five years ago, in New York. He was an investment broker. She was a model. It’s the usual story; rich man meets a foreign beauty. My mother is half Swedish, half Russian, and stunningly beautiful. She’s also kind, and selfless. She’s the best person I know. For a long time, my father adored her, worshipped her beauty, gravitated towards her inner grace, as everyone else did. Until one day he didn’t any more.

Ten years ago, he started having an affair. He found a new, younger version of my mother. She kicked him out. I was thirteen at the time. Old enough to understand everything. Old enough to resent my father for discarding the most amazing woman I’ve ever known. He left her with nothing. Even after everything he did to her, my mother insisted I have a relationship with him, insisted that I not resent him for his actions. She told me that the heart wants what the heart wants, and I had no right to judge him for that.

I do judge him, because he’s a selfish bastard.

He still supported me, financially at least. He paid for my education, funded my Cambridge degree. He even insists on paying for my flat, and my mum insists I let him, because she hates the idea of me living in a rough area.

He doesn’t care about me though. I’m a continual disappointment to him. I studied journalism, when he wanted me to study business. I moved in with George and Lilly, both of whom he disapproves of. He says I’m too much like my mother, too free. I shouldn’t care what he thinks, but I do, and a visit from him only ever ends one way. Me feeling like shit.

Poor Alex is going to get the crap end of the deal tonight.

I meet him at a little Italian restaurant around the corner from my flat at eight. He’s looking sharp. Really sharp. A pale blue shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and is tailored perfectly to his narrow hips. He’s wearing jeans that are doing him a world of favours. I manage to arrange my face into some semblance of a smile. It’s not without effort. Anything involving my father seems to have the ability to send me running for the vodka, or at least it would if I didn’t still feel so bloody rough from Saturday night.

“Hey.” He flashes me a perfect smile.

“Hey.”

He reaches for me, pulling me in and brushing his lips across my cheek. He’s clean shaven, but a day’s worth of growth scratches lightly across my skin.

“You look lovely as always.” He comments. I glance down at myself. I’m wearing a loose off the shoulder grey jumper, black skinny jeans and flat over the knee boots. Compared to him I look positively drab.

He hands me a glass of red wine and I smile. What more could a girl want than a hot man who brings her wine? I don’t have the heart to tell him that the thought of alcohol still makes me want to hurl.