Chapter 1
Chapter One
“Hey,Ella! How are you doing, sweetheart?” Mum asks me.
My parents are glowing onscreen, with the warmth of the Australian sun behind them. Their beautiful house looks so inviting in the background, and Mum’s tan really suits her. Sydney has always suited the pair of them, a dream come true. It’s lovely to see, always, but tonight I get a pang in my chest, knowing they are so far away. No matter how hard I fight it, the truth is the truth.
I’m a heartbroken girl who wants her mum and dad.
I have to hide it. No tears, whatsoever. I don’t want my eyeliner to run and give the game away.
“I’m good,” I lie, knowing how much they worry about me. They have always been so protective.
I was an unexpected surprise when they were into their forties, having given up on ever having kids. They’d doted on me as the only child, and they’d fought back hard when they reached retirement age, saying I was too young to be left behind, but I’d insisted. Hard. I had my own life to lead, and it shouldn’t stop them living theirs.
I was twenty-one when they emigrated. Old enough to be living my own life without them handholding me. Fine. No big deal. Video call is always just one click away, and it’s cool. It’s great. It’s almost like being in the same room.
Or so I’d thought…
Now, here, at twenty-four, I want nothing more than to be right there beside them. I want to admit the truth and be a kid again in their arms.
My new ‘life’ in London isn’t quite how I expected it to be when I packed up and moved down here with Connor last winter. I’m glad Mum and Dad’s dreams have panned out better than mine. Except I don’t have any. Not really. They weren’t my dreams I’d been chasing when Connor and I upped and left for the bright lights of the city together. My dreams aren’t the reason I’m living here, in a crappy house share with people I don’t like.
It’s taken a horrible, hard look at myself to realise that.
I fell in love with Connor Preston on sight when he appeared in the year above me at high school. He was the hot, punky weirdo who stole my heart, and I’d caught his eye since we first crossed paths in the maths hall. I was already dying my hair jet black by then, and wearing gothic rosary beads with my school blazer.
Call it destiny… or fate being an asshole.
I’ve been following Connor’s dreams ever since then, because I believed in him. His dream of being a rock star, performing to crowds of thousands, with a huge record deal and massive hits around the globe. Fuck, how I’d supported him. Always. What a fucking idiot.
“How is the great musician?” Mum asks, as if on cue, and I can’t bring myself to tell them the truth.
I fake my best smile. “Out at a gig at the moment. Should be finished soon.”
“Is it a good one? Plenty of people there?”
“I hope so, yeah. Down in Camden.”
I’m not lying on that front. He is down at a gig in Camden. I still remember his schedule by heart – the ever-loving girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend now. He’ll be there, onstage with his guitar in his arms, singing about how hard life is when you really want to make it. So soulful. So fucking selfish.
I force the anger aside.
Dad’s grinning at me on camera. My heart pangs again, I feel so far away from them. Video is never the same as real life, no matter how many times we make calls. It’s got less and less in the three years since they’ve been gone, and I’ve grown used to it, kind of. Only now, without Connor, it feels so much harder.
I’d fly over there right this second if I could do, but there’s no chance of that. Prices of flights are sky high in November, and as we get closer towards Christmas they’ll only get worse. I push the hurt away as best I can.
Mum and Dad tell me about how they’ve been doing, and give me an update on their friends I’ve yet to meet, and I do the same, talking about my new friends at work and how everything is going. I play it upbeat, but the minutes tick by slowly in terrible torment, because I’m hoping, praying, they don’t suspect that anything is wrong. The last thing I want is them worrying about me. The slam of the breakup is all but over now, anyway. The initial weeks feel like they’ve taken a lifetime, but they are coming to an end.
The remainder of Connor’s belongings are in a crappy rucksack in the corner of my room. The shit he didn’t want anymore. Like me. Tacky mementos from back home and some old boxer shorts with holes in them. I doubt his groupie lover, Carly, would want to see him in them.
I get a lump in my throat as the inevitable subject comes up.
“If only you could get here for Christmas,” Dad says. He sighs. “Maybe next year, hey? Or maybe we could come to you, for your birthday.”
Fuck no. Not here. I’d hate them to see this shithole.
“I’ll be over to you,” I tell them. “Definitely next year. Promise. As soon as I can.”
I always make excuses why I can’t get over there. Bleating on about Connor’s gig schedule, and how hectic it is for me at work, but this year is more painful. This Christmas, I’ll be on my own. I’d love to wake up on Christmas morning in Mum and Dad’s place. I’d love more than anything to sit around together on their terrace by the pool and pull crackers with them. I’d love to say goodnight to my mum in person, going up to bed with a hot milk in my hand that she’d made for me, like she always used to.
If only I had the money to get there, but I have no money. Fifty-seven pounds in my bank account to last me until the end of the month. Three weeks of nothing but pasta. Amazing. At least I don’t have to share it with my prick of an ex anymore.
I can’t stand the call any longer. I’m welling up. I pretend I hear something at my door, turning around onscreen.
“Is that Connor?” Mum asks, hopeful she’ll see him.
“No. A delivery, I think. I ordered a takeout.”
“Go get it,” Dad says. “We’ll catch you soon. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I’m holding my breath as we wave our goodbyes and I hit the end call button. Takeout would be a luxury. I’d love a hot spicy pizza with a side of chicken wings. I look at Connor’s fucking rucksack and want to throw it out of the window. Piece of shit.
My credit cards are maxed out from trying to support him. Years of investment for nothing. I’m working as many hours as I can in a job I hate, stacking shelves in a supermarket for minimum wage. I’ve been paying bills we should have both been paying between us, if he’d ever had enough money for them.
It’s my own fault, though. We always make our own choices, and I chose him every step of the way. That’s my own bad to have to live with. Seven years of life wasted on someone who cast me aside like a piece of nothing when something better came along. Carly isn’t just a groupie. She has connections, or says she does. Whatever.
I close my laptop and put it on the bedside table. Moping will only lead to more tears, and I have to function. I go downstairs. So, what’s dinner going to be? Pasta, or pasta, or pasta? Ben has left half of the pans over the worktop again in our grimy shared kitchen, spatulas filthy and unwashed. Jackass. I’m still in my work uniform as I clear up his mess, trying my best not to get any grime on my shirt. I can’t be fucked to wash it again tonight. I can’t really be fucked to do anything.
I’ve always found rage easier than tears, so I take it out on the kitchen mess with a scourer, scrubbing like a savage. FUCK YOU, CONNOR. JUST FUCK YOU.
I hate how I miss him. His cocky smile, his guitar strumming, his laughter when we were rolling around in hysterics at stupid YouTube videos. But now – three weeks in – more than anything, I miss sex.
I miss fucking him all night long. I miss the way he used to be a filthy freak of a sex god as we got twisted up in dirty games. How he’d make me come over and over with every session, like a woman possessed.
Toys will never, ever fill the void, and I’m really not up for a relationship yet. Not even dating. It’s another bullshit angle of the breakup I’ll have to live with for now. I’ll add it to the list.
I eat my pasta on my bed, then fire my laptop back up. I check out flights to Sydney yet again, and then I check out my available credit. I’m over the limit practically everywhere, so not even the dubious credit agencies will give me a shot.
There is no doubt about it. I need more money.
I could work more shifts at the supermarket, but I already do seven days and two evenings on top. I was so caught up in being Connor’s manager when he made it big that I didn’t bother going to uni, so I have no career ladder to climb. So, what’s left? What have I got going in my favour?
There’s only one answer to that. I’ve been toying with it for nearly a week now, since the tears stopped flowing like a river.
I catch sight of myself in my wardrobe mirror, thanking my lucky stars that I was blessed with Mum’s looks and not Dad’s. I have her frame – long legs, tiny waist, huge tits, and the same big, blue eyes that she has. Mine look a lot more striking with my dyed jet-black hair than hers do with natural blonde.
I’ve been a goth since before I met Connor, so I’m a perfectionist with thick cat flicks and fake lashes, and I can pout like a dream in deep red lipstick.
So, how to put it to good use?
I log into one of my dirty online chat groups. I used to read out some of my conversations to Connor, but now they are all for me. I browse through the content, remembering some discussions about sex work and building up a paying fanbase, and then I notice one of the online member icons. Ebony. I’ve known Ebony through chat threads for years, and we’ve had some private conversations – enough that I know what she does for a living.
I call up a chat window.
Hey.
Such an idiot introduction out of nowhere, but she types right back.
Hey, how are you? How is the rockstar doing?
Jesus Christ. Did I really talk about him so much that everyone in the world asks about him? I guess I did.
For the first time since he left me, I’m honest about reality.
He left me for a pretty little redhead groupie called Carly.
There is no sad faced emoji in response, or any there, there, you’ll soon feel better. Just one word…
Cunt.
It makes me laugh, because yes. He is one. For the past twelve months he’s been nothing but a cunt, ego growing every five seconds.
You planning on meeting anyone else? she asks me. Or still at the sobbing your heart out phase? It’s a shitter. I know. I’ve been there.
I let my fingers do the talking.
I don’t want to meet anyone else right now. I can’t be fucked to even think about it. I pause, weighing up my words before I hit send. What I do want to do is getfucked, though. And I also want to earn enough money to spend Christmas in Australia with my parents…
She knows what I mean.
She knows why I’m messaging.
I’m contemplating typing out another conversation angle, so I don’t sound like such a blatant bitch, digging for info, but I don’t need to. Her reply is another blunt one.
Want a video call? I’ll tell you all about it.