Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 2) (23 page)

“
Hi Jess. You too.” But just like Amber in the past, she barely registers me and turns away almost immediately after uttering her insincere greeting to speak to Laura and Kyle, both of whom she seems to know.

Why don’t Ben’s girlfriends like me? I can’t be a threat to them, surely? They’re all so
otherworldly gorgeous and I’m so, well,
normal
.

“
Who wants a drink?” Kyle offers, interrupting my speculations.

“
I’ll go,” Ben offers.

He gets the drinks orders
from Jia and Laura, both Stephanie and I insisting we’re fine, despite our clearly empty glasses, and the two guys head towards the bar.

Laura and Stephanie
start talking about the joys of parenthood, leaving Jia and me standing next to one another, feeling awkward and surreptitiously looking around for someone – anyone - else to talk to. But there are no better options, so I decide to make the most of the situation and attempt some light conversation.

“
Did you enjoy the Wearable Arts? Ben told me you were going together.”

“
Yes, but then I do every year. However I don’t think it compared with last year’s show. Did you see it?”

“
No, I was living in London this time last year,” I reply. Oh how I miss my lovely, untroubled life there right now.

She pulls a face.
“Oh, poor you. What a drag. Last year’s show was completely
spectacular
. This year was very good, of course, but it really paled in comparison.”

Well
, I thought it was breathtaking, but in the interests of diplomacy I decide not to make the point.

“
Now. Ben tells me you’re a stylist,” she continues. “Tell me, what exactly is a stylist in Wellington? I mean, we’ve all heard about Hollywood stars having stylists, but we don’t have too many of them here, do we?” She smiles a supercilious smile at me, which instantly gets my back up, the effect I start to suspect she’s aiming for.

“
Ah, no. Umm, well…” I stutter. I’m completely thrown by her unexpected lightly veiled hostility towards me. Pull yourself together, Jess, don’t let her get to you.

“
I help people find their personal style, I suppose, giving them advice on what works for them. I take into account things like their lifestyle, body shape, what colours suit them. That sort of thing.” I’m pleased with this description of my new job, thinking it sounds useful and interesting.

“
I see. And who are your clients, these clueless people who don’t know how to dress themselves? Librarians and sad old women whose husbands have left them, I bet.” She smiles at her own acerbic comment and I instantly dislike her for her patronising personality as well as for her impossible beauty.

As I’m working out how exactly to answer
her, Stephanie trumpets up. “Well, I’m one of these ‘clueless clients’, as you so kindly put it, for a start.”

She’s a
ll sweetness through gritted teeth. Ha! Take that, patronising, too-good-looking-for-your-own-good superior lawyer woman. Go Stephanie!

“
And my husband
had
left me, but with Jessica’s marvellous help he’s now back and we’re happier than ever.”

Jia
has the civility to look abashed. “Oh. Well that’s just wonderful. Well done.” She smiles at Stephanie, who avoids looking at her and instead turns to me, winking discreetly as she does.

“
Well, it’s been so lovely meeting some of Jessica’s… ah…
friends
, but really, I have to go,” she says to Jia, darting her a withering look.

I think I love this woman.

Seeing my chance to escape as well I pipe in with, “Oh, me too. Got a million things to do. Great to see you, Laura.”

I
ignore Jia and lean past her to give Laura a hug, who looks at me enquiringly.

I turn to
Jia. “Bye, then. Nice to meet you.”

C
learly it’s a big fat lie, but I was brought up to be polite, so polite I shall be.

Polite and
entirely dishonest, that is.

“
Bye,” Jia replies. She can barely keep the contempt out of her eyes.

We can’t all be high-flying lawyer types, you know, and being a stylist is a fantastic job, in actual fact, despite dress mix ups, angry mothers
, missing business partners, and the like. Just hazards of my
very
interesting, diverse job.

So there.

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye to the boys over there at the bar?” Stephanie nods towards Ben and Kyle who are laughing at something as they wait for their drinks.

Not wanting to give Stephanie the impression I’m anything but uncomplicated friends with Ben, I walk over to the bar and stand between them, hands on each of their arms.

“Sorry to interrupt all this terribly important man-talk but Stephanie and I have to go. So I just came over to say bye,” I say to both of them.

“
See ya, Sex Bomb,” says Kyle, giving me a quick squeeze.

I know what you’re thinking, but
let me explain before you start jumping to conclusions here. In our first year at varsity Kyle and I took an introductory course in art history, me because I loved art and Kyle because he’d foolishly thought it’d be an easy option to get some credits. I had to present a paper on the quadripartite ribbed vaulting of Gothic architecture to our tutorial group, as you do.

Now,
you’re probably wondering what
that
has to do with being a sex bomb exactly, Gothic architecture not really known for being overly racy. Well, it turns out when you present a paper on Gothic architecture you have to talk quite a lot about the
thrust
of
groin
vaults.

It was a pretty embarrassing topic for a fairly green eighteen-year-old to have to present to a room full of fellow students, so unsurprisingly I blushed a fair bit during
my delivery. The ‘double entendre’, as the French say, was most certainly not lost on me or the other students, who sniggered throughout. Kyle in particular thought this was all highly amusing, and he and a few of his friends called me Sex Bomb from then on.

So there you have it, nothing
whatsoever to do with my sexual prowess. You’d never have guessed it, would you?

“
Text me when you feel like checking out some more Wellywood sites, Jessie,” Ben repeats as he gives me a hug.

“
Sure. Thanks. See ya.”

I dart a final look at him, wondering
not for the first time in the last few minutes why it bothers me so much that he’s with Jia. Of course on top of being beautiful she’s just shown herself up to be a total bitch, but I have a feeling there’s more to it.

I make my retreat down the stairs and out onto the wharf, heaving a sigh of relief as we reach the fresh air of the outdoors.

“
Ben seems very nice,” comments Stephanie with a glint in her eye.

“
Yes, he’s the best.”

He really is. Ten times the man Scott could ever be.

“Mmm. Well, he certainly thinks highly of you.”

I turn sharply to look at her.
“What makes you say that?”

“
He kept on looking at you.”

“
He did?” I ask, surprised. Hope rises in me like yeast in baking bread.

Why am I hopeful?

And hopeful for what, exactly?

“
Yes, I was watching him. I thought it was strange as he was clearly with that unpleasant woman, Jia. Or should I say,
she
was with
him
. He didn’t look overly interested in her to me. More in you, I’d say.”

Really? Could Stephanie be right? Would Ben really cho
ose me over someone like Jia? I can’t help but feel excited at the prospect. But just as this odd new hope springs, I realise with a sinking feeling Stephanie’s probably got it all wrong.

“
Maybe he was looking at me to make sure I was nice to Jia?” I offer. “She’s his new girlfriend and I hadn’t met her until now, you see. I guess you could say I’ve got a bit of history with Ben’s girlfriends.”

“
Oh?” She raises her eyebrows at me.

“
Yeah. There seems to be this unwritten rule that they don’t like me and I don’t particularly like them.”

“
Interesting.” She smiles a cheeky grin at me and I roll my eyes good-naturedly in response.

“
Well, maybe you’re right, but I’m not convinced. Now, it’s been so lovely spending some time with you.” She looks at her watch. “Lord, is that the time? So sorry, but I have to run. Take care, Jessica, and thanks again.”

And then
she’s off, a blur of Andrea Moore dashing across Queens Wharf and onto Customhouse Quay.

I walk towards the bus stop,
deep in thought about Ben and what Stephanie had said. Why does he have to look so damn
good
? My heart races just at the thought of him standing at the bar, having a laugh with Kyle, looking so unbelievably attractive in his drainpipe jeans and shirt.

W
hy can’t I just act normally around him? What’s got into me?

And then it hits me
, causing me to stop dead in my tracks.

Oh. My. God. I fancy Ben.

And it’s not
just a little crush either, it’s the full-on-can’t-live-without-him kind.

It all makes sense!
That’s why it bothered me so much seeing him with Jia the night of the Wearable Arts. That’s why I’ve been avoiding him and, I think with a cringe, acting like a bumbling idiot in his presence.

When did this happen?
How
did this happen? One minute he’s my mate and I’m shagging someone else, the next all I can do is think about him and how I want to be with him.

My abrupt stop on the pavement causes a group of girls out on a hens’ night to almost smack rig
ht into me. Their cries of, “Watch what you’re doing!” and, “Jesus, get out of the way!” have the effect of jerking me back to reality. I realise I must look like a total oddball so call out an embarrassed, “Sorry!” to them and keep walking towards my bus stop.

But Ben keeps forcing his way back into my mind and I find myself fantasizing about
what it would be like to be with him, to be his girlfriend, and my heart gives a little flutter. But no, I have to stop thinking about him. Not only is he just a mate, he’s with Jia and he’s
clearly
happy to be with her, so I need to stop entertaining ridiculous fantasies and just focus on getting Estil back on track.

Estil
. What more can go wrong? I get a sinking feeling in my gut when I think about how royally I’ve screwed it all up. We’ve barely turned a profit in Morgan’s absence and although I feel like I’m becoming a pretty darn good stylist, it’s not much use if the business goes under.

Moving back to Wellington has been a complete and utter disaster on all fronts.

I wish I’d never left London.

***

Failing spectacularly not to think about Ben I walk past Leuven Belgian bar where they serve ludicrously large glasses of beer -
vases
, I tell you - on my way to the bus stop. I can barely believe my eyes as I spot Love Rat Scott, all alone, sitting in the window, looking like he’s literally crying into his beer.

Seeing him is such a shock
I stop abruptly, this time without partially derailing a group of hens, and I stand on the footpath, furtively watching him through the window.

To say he looks
thoroughly dejected would be an understatement of absolute epic proportions. I never thought I’d use the word
forlorn
but really, it’s the best way to describe him right now.

B
ut somehow, through his misery, he still looks undeniably hot. Damn him.

When I look miserable I really go to town
- my skin takes on an almost grey pallor, I develop Samsonite bags under my eyes overnight, and my hair goes all lank and shapeless no matter how well I blow dry it.

He on the other hand looks
Hollywood
miserable - all brooding and strong, with the kind of sadness you could transform magically, fall in love, and drive off into the sunset while someone belts out a rousing love song.

But this is
Featherston Street, Wellington, on a chilly spring evening, not exactly Malibu, and the last time I saw the man sitting in the window he was dumping me for Brooke Mortimer.

My ange
r begins to rise at the memory and I narrow my eyes at him.

Too late I notice he
looks up from his beer and spots me, blatantly watching him from the street. His face lights up and he looks like he’s saying something to me through the glass, which of course I can’t hear because, well, it’s through the glass.

My first reaction is to scarper, a
s quickly as anyone can in a pair of skinny jeans and strappy heels, but he’s up out of his seat and walking towards me before I’ve managed to engage brain and feet. Quickly I turn to walk in the opposite direction, but he grabs hold of my arm.

“
Jess, don’t go. Please.” He sounds so pleading and desperate. Despite my anger I feel a little bit sorry for him.

Nevertheless
I turn around and level him with my incensed gaze.

“
What? What can you have to say to me, Scott?” I say, pulling my arm away from him so I can cross them in what I hope appears to be in an intimidating manner.

“
Oh Jess,” he replies, putting his hand back on my arm. “I screwed up. I hurt you and Brooke and I didn’t mean to. You have to believe me. It’s just you’re so damn hot, and I couldn’t help it, you know?”

Despite my better judgment I feel a small thrill at being
described as “hot”, but do my best not to let it show on my face, reminding myself what a love rat this man really is.

“
Brooke’s left me,” he continues, wallowing in his self-pity. “My life’s falling apart.” He puts his hand on my other arm so we’re facing one another and I feel my resolve slipping slightly.

“
Can we just talk? I really want to talk to you.”

I
t occurs to me that if he had actually wanted to talk to me he could very easily have called me by now, but as I look at him my anger towards him dissolves. He’s really low and you just can’t kick a man when he’s down, can you?

I feel like the fight has just gone
out of me.

Seeing Ben and
Jia all happy couples together was really the last straw, and my bullshit defences are at an all time low.

Well, that’s the only way I can explain what ha
ppened next.

I’m not proud to say it
, but before I even realise what’s happening, Scott has me wrapped up in his arms, kissing me passionately. Now, I’d love to say I push him away firmly, self-respect intact, maybe even slap his face dramatically for his audacity. But I kiss him right back, pushing him against the wall in my suddenly overwhelming desire for him.

He starts
whispering how sexy I am, how much he still wants me, how his new apartment’s just around the corner. I admit I’m sorely tempted. It takes for him to reach up my top, cupping my left breast and brushing my nipple with his thumb, reminding me of how he’d seduced me the first night in his car on Mt Victoria, for me to come crashing back to Earth with a jolt.

Immediately I pull away from him,
hair dishevelled, my clothes in disarray, lipstick smeared across my face. God, I must look a sight. I take a step back from him so we’re no longer touching because any physical contact with him is just far too risky in my current fragile state of mind.

“
No,” I say as firmly as I can muster. “No I can’t do this. I won’t. Scott, I’m sorry you screwed up and you’re so down. But I’m not the girl for you. You treated me really badly, you’ve got to know that, and I don’t want to be with you. Despite
this
.”

I wave my hand around
between us to indicate what we’ve just been doing, ignoring how turned on I still feel at the thought of him touching me.

There comes a time in a girl’s life when she needs to put her own self respect above animal attraction, and for me that moment is right now.

Before I can give him the chance to talk me around, or worse yet kiss me again, I turn on my heel and walk purposefully - albeit in a slightly wobbly fashion - away from him down the street. I pull my top back down and smooth my ruffled hair as passers-by watch me, sniggering and nudging one another.

I’m
sure I look ridiculous, but I’m proud of myself for taking control of the situation and rejecting Scott once and for all.

As I walk
down the street, head held high, I’m certain I can hear Pat Benatar belting out ‘Heartbreaker’ nearby. You know the one, “
You’re a heart breaker, dream maker, a love taker, Don’t you mess around with me…
” Pretty satisfying stuff for someone who’s just kicked a real jerk to the curb. It might be coming from the pub on the corner, or it could just be in my head, but as I turn onto Lambton Quay I know from that moment on my resolve is firm.

T
here’s just no going back to Scott.

***

The following morning I awaken to tui chirping outside my window and the sun trying its level best to shine through the clouds. I feel calm and refreshed.

Thoughts of Scott soon elbow their way into my consciousness.
Damn him and his matinee idol good looks and expert kissing technique.

To make matters worse
I then feel a dead weight in the pit of my stomach as I think of how happy Ben looked with Jia at the bar.

Dragging myself out of bed,
I walk into the kitchen to make a much-needed cup of tea. Mum’s at the table and greets me breezily.

“
Morning, Jessica dear.” She looks up at me and her expression changes to concern. “Oh, you don’t look so good. Bad night?”

“
You could say that, Mum.”

I really don’t feel like getting into the details with her. It would be a colossal mistake to tell her how I feel about Ben. It’d get her hopes up we were going to
fall in love, have the wedding of
her
dreams, then settle down in Karori and produce beautiful grandchildren for her to show off at her bridge club. I’d never hear the end of it.

And now I’ve resolved
that the only self-respecting course to take is to forget about him and hope the feelings go away, it’s the
last
thing I need.

I pull
out a couple of pieces of toast and pop them down in the toaster. I feel as flat as a chapatti today. Estil, Ben, Morgan, Scott. All of it just feels like it’s getting on top of me.

Moving back here -
trying to kick-start my new life - feels like a great big fat mistake once again.

I
just want to run away, hide under a rock somewhere.

Preferably a rock with
cable TV, a spa bath, minibar and room service, of course. But a rock nonetheless.

“
Don’t worry about me, Mum.” I smile weakly. “I’m just tired.”

“Dear,” Mum starts, taking a seat opposite me at the kitchen table, “there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

What is it this time?
Last time she’d said we needed to talk she ended up introducing me to her new man, so who knows what it’ll be this time. They’re going to have a baby? The thought of my post-menopausal mum having a baby almost makes me snigger. Almost, but not quite. Not really having the energy for a ‘talk’ I just look at her over my tea and toast and wait for her to speak.