“Now, don’t be dramatic, darling,” my PR manager drawls, examining her nail beds. “It’s not like the man was trying to kill you.”
I close my eyes, rubbing my temples. It’s just turned four AM, and my head is still spinning from last night’s rosé. Red and blue lights flash through the window of my little pink-tiled kitchen, shining in from the police car parked in my drive. Over my head, I can hear the heavy footsteps and low voices of the police officers investigating upstairs.
I am tired.
“A stranger climbed the side of my house, broke my bedroom window, and jerked off in my bed,” I say slowly. “I’m not being dramatic.”
Julie shrugs from her position at the marble breakfast bar, fishing her compact out of her designer purse. “He didn’t even touch you, babe,” she mumbles, patting powder over her pert nose. “This hardly seems like a reason to fire poor Rodriguez.”
My eyes slide to Rodriguez, my home security guard. He refuses to look at me, shifting uncomfortably in his spot next to Julie. His hair is ruffled, his fly is undone, and his shirt is unbuttoned. Julie’s red lipstick is all over his neck.
It’s not too difficult to work out how the intruder managed to get past my gate.
“Yes,” I say flatly. “It is. Rodriguez, do up your trousers and go.”
His eyes widen. “But, ma’am—”
“Don’t ma’am me. You don’t work for me anymore.” I wave at the front door. “Go.”
He stands, puffing his chest out. “Ma’am, really, that’s not fair—”
“Of course it’s fair,” I snap. “You were too busy shagging my staff to notice the strange man breaking into my bedroom. I pay you six figures, and you still can’t get through an eight-hour shift without getting your rocks off. You’re fired. Now get out of my house, before I call your wife and tell her why you no longer have a job.”
I turn on my heel and leave the kitchen, ignoring the muttered ‘bitch’ behind my back.
Right. That’s me. I’m not the one who screwed around on the job and cheated on my pregnant wife. But as per usual, I’m the bitch.
Of course, most people would agree with him. I’m a well-renowned cow. I even have titles: you are talking to the proud three-time winner of Goss magazine’s ‘Biggest Celebrity Diva’ award. A major UK newspaper crowned me ‘Britain’s Biggest Bitch’ just a couple of weeks ago. I don’t think they’re actually supposed to be awards, but I’ll take them all the same.
I suppose it is kind of my fault. As I step into the corridor, I catch a glimpse of myself in the diamond-studded hallway mirror. Highlighted blonde hair. Veneers. Fake nails. I’m the kind of woman people love to call a bitch.
There’s footsteps on the stairs, and I look up to see a policeman stepping onto the landing, holding a clear evidence bag.
“You got a sample?” I ask, leaning heavily against the wall.
He nods. “Doesn’t guarantee we’ll find the guy, though. If he’s not a repeat UK offender, we won’t have his DNA to match with.”
“Don’t you have databases? Hospital records, or something?”
He rolls his eyes. “We might do that for a more high-profile case, ma’am. Nothin’ as minor as a break-in.” He pulls his phone out of the back pocket of his pants and wiggles his thick black eyebrows. “By the way, my daughter was a massive fan of that TV show you were in, back in the day. You don’t mind snapping me a quick pic, do you?”
I look down at myself. I’m wearing a stained Minnie Mouse pyjama set. Last night’s makeup is smeared around my eyes, which are red, because I’ve been crying. Because I was just the victim of a home invasion.
“Yes,” I tell him, trying to keep my anger under control. “I do mind, actually.”
His face hardens. He turns towards the door, then pauses like he’s remembered something. “Oh. I think this is yours.” He hands me the clear plastic baggie.
I frown, taking it. There’s a Polaroid inside. “What is it?”
“It was under your pillow. Very dramatic.” He presses his lips together. “I have to wonder exactly how someone would manage to lift up your pillow and put something under it whilst you were sleeping. Unless the intruder was the tooth fairy, it doesn’t seem very likely, does it?”
I don’t respond, taking out the photograph.
It’s a picture of me asleep. I’m sprawled over my sheets, my mouth open, my arms both flung out. Tight bands suddenly squeeze around my chest.
“The note was a nice touch,” the man adds, grabbing his jacket from my coat rack.
“Note?” I say numbly. He makes a spinning motion with his finger, and I flip over the picture. Scrawled on the back in florid cursive are the words:
You look beautiful when you’re asleep, my angel. And soon, we’ll be sleeping next to each other forever. X
“Oh my God,” I whisper, staggering back into the wall. I can’t breathe. “Oh my God. Please, just—” I try to pass the photograph back to the policeman, but he steps away, putting his hands up.
“That’s for you.”
I frown. “You don’t need to take it?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know how much good it would do us, ma’am.”
“What do you mean?” I demand. “It’s evidence!”
He huffs a laugh under his breath. “Right. Do you know what the penalty is for wasting police time, Miss Saint?”
“What? I didn’t waste your time, this is your damn job!”
He gives me a nasty look. “And I’m sure the paparazzi who photographed our cars coming onto your property just happened to be hanging outside your house at four AM on a Tuesday morning?”
I’m gobsmacked. “Probably! It’s not my fault they make their living by invading my privacy! If I set all of this up, how exactly did I get a pile of come in my bed?!”
He shrugs. “You got your boyfriend to do it? I don’t know, ma’am, but I do know that my officers don’t appreciate being used in your publicity stunts.”
I gape at him.
There’s a scuffle behind me. Rodriguez and Julie both step out of the kitchen, whispering to each other. I snap my mouth shut and wave them to the door. “You. Both. Out. I’ll send you your severances. Enjoy unemployment.”
Julie runs a hand through her platinum curls. “C’mon, Briar,” she wheedles. “It was just a mistake. How was I supposed to know one of your creepy fans would try and break in tonight?”
I stare her down. Julie has been my PR manager for the last eight years. She’s a typical rich Chelsea girl: blonde, always made up, and constantly draped in a fur coat. During her time working for me, I’ve almost fired her about fifty times, but she somehow always manages to worm her way back into my life.
She apparently finds my silence encouraging, grabbing my hand. “Listen, will you forgive me if I get you a new security team?” Rodriguez looks hurt.
“No,” I tell her.
“But—”
“You got me this security team,” I point out. “And then you slept with my security team. So, no, I’m not letting you pick out my new guards.” I shake her off me. “You’re fired. Get out.”
She pouts. “But—”
My last fibre of control snaps. “For God’s sake, will everyone just get the Hell out of my house!” I shout. I’m shaking. The Polaroid drops out of my hand and flutters to the carpet.
There’s a few seconds of silence, then the front door opens, and everyone starts to file out. I swallow hard, feeling tears roll down my cheeks. I lift a hand to swipe them away.
There’s a sudden flash of light. I look up, and see the policeman facing me in the doorway, holding his phone up and snapping a nice little shot of my breakdown. He flashes me a smarmy grin. “‘Preciate it, Briar Saint.”
I step forward to grab the phone out of his hand, but he slams the door shut behind him.
I stare at the door for a second, breathing hard. Then all of the energy drains out of me, and I sink to the ground, wrapping my arms around my knees. The Polaroid lies on the floor by my elbow. The note on the back stares up at me.
Soon, we’ll be sleeping next to each other forever.
I bury my face in my hands. I’m so screwed.
