Girl After Dark

by Charlotte Eve

  And the one before that:

  I’ve left you so many voicemails. PLEASE call me back? xxx

  And the one before that:

  Please don’t be upset by this. Stuff like this happens all the time in New York. It’s just gossip - a storm in a teacup. Nobody will care in a few days. I certainly don’t. You know I love you xxxxx

  And the one before that:

  Melissa, I’ve just seen all the news items about you. I’m so sorry. I know this was the last thing you wanted. Don’t worry. We’ll get over this together. I love you xxx

  Oh God, I think, as my eyes fix on the word ‘together’ in the last message I read. He’s right. Together. We’ll get over this together. I’ve been such an idiot. I had no right to assume that I knew what was best — for me, for Carson, for us — without even consulting him.

  Relationships are about two people, facing the world together. And that takes courage. But it’s also where you find strength. And I’ve been too silly and weak to realise that. Deep down, I can see that he was always going to react like this. What we have is way stronger than gossip. But my stupid pride, my hurt and shame, got in the way. Carson deserves more than that. He doesn’t care about gossip, but I realise now that when he says he wants a serious, focused girl, he means one who can stand up and face the world with pride — just like he does.

  I look at the time on my phone. It’s fast approaching midnight.

  I need to get out of here.

  I quickly grab my bag, and hastily kiss a puzzled Jonathan goodbye. “I’ll explain everything later!” I shout over the music. “But I can’t stay a moment longer!”

  “But they’re playing Azealia Banks?!” he calls after me, confused, as I race out towards the exit of the club weaving through the dancing crowds.

  Seconds later, back outside on the street, I manage to flag down the first taxi to head my way. I jump in and tell the driver Carson’s address in an excited rush.

  And before I realize what’s coming out of my mouth, I say the words: “and step on it!”

  It’s such a cliche, but who cares?

  This already feels like the climax of a movie anyway.

  I just have to get to Carson, and I can’t wait a moment longer.

  §

  The clock on the dashboard of the taxi says three minutes to midnight as we pull up outside Carson’s building.

  I fumble in my purse and pull out some notes, thrusting them into the hand of the driver.

  “Thank you!” I shout over my shoulder as I slam the door of the cab shut and race into the lobby of the building, impatiently jabbing at the button that summons the elevator. And as I wait for it to arrive, I glance over at the large ornate clock on the wall: now announcing two minutes to midnight.

  The elevator doors open, finally, and I dash inside. And as I rocket upwards, I pull my phone out of my bag to check the time once more: one minute until midnight.

  The doors swish open on Carson’s floor and I sprint down the corridor, arriving breathlessly outside his door.

  I hammer on it insistently until it swings open and there he is: dressed in a simple grey cotton t-shirt and jeans.

  We lock eyes for a moment, then fall onto each other in a hungry kiss. And as our lips touch, I can hear the bells of the nearby church chiming midnight.

  “I was going out of my mind,” says Carson as he leads me by the hand through his apartment and over to the sofa.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “Please let me explain.”

  We sit down and all the while, from the moment we kissed at his front door, we haven’t stopped touching. Our hands are intertwined, our knees are pressing together. After two fraught days apart, he must feel the same way I do; I just can’t bear to have any more distance between us right now.

  I’ve been so desperate to see Carson that I haven’t thought about exactly what I’m going to say, even though I know I need to explain why I acted the way I did — so rashly.

  I want to start right back at the beginning, but the problem is, this story begins with Esme’s first email to me, and although I know she doesn’t deserve to be protected, I just can’t quite bring myself to tell Carson that it was her that did all this to us. He knows her flaws better than anyone, but she’s also been his mother for many years, and I don’t want to hurt him any more than I already have.

  And anyway, it doesn’t really matter who leaked my identity. It was my reaction to it that drove a wedge between us, and that’s what I need him to understand right now. So that’s where I begin.

  “I’d been working so hard all that afternoon, you see,” I say, “I didn’t even have my phone with me. So you, and pretty much everyone else in the world, saw the news before I did. It felt just awful, Carson. I can’t even explain …”

  He nods sympathetically and strokes my face tenderly.

  “When it happened the first time,” I continue, “it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. And I just couldn’t believe it was happening again. Except this time, it was ten times worse. I had so much more to lose. My book deal, my family’s respect … and of course, you.”

  At this Carson halts my lips with a kiss.

  “But you would never lose me,” he says. “I’m always going to be here for you.”

  “I think I knew that, deep down,” I say. “But, as the cliche goes, it’s not you, it’s me. It just felt like trouble was going to follow me around for the rest of my life. That there was always going to be gossip and scandal. I felt like bad news, and I thought you deserved more than that …”

  “But I love you, Melissa,” he says, his face flickering between confusion and hurt.

  “And I love you too,” I say. “I thought I loved you too much to hurt you, in fact. I thought I had to let you go to protect your career, your reputation, everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve. I thought I knew best — that you could never be truly happy with me.”

  I pause and look deep into his eyes.

  “But I was wrong,” I say. “I had no right to make that decision for you, for us. If I love you, and you love me, then all the rest is just background noise.”

  He takes my hand in his, his fingers softly brushing my skin, his eyes burning as he lifts my hand to his mouth and tenderly kisses my fingertips.

  “I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through, the past few days, Melissa,” he says. “I wish I could’ve been there to comfort you. But I’m so grateful for all this craziness, because it’s made you understand what’s most important. You’re right, Melissa. All that matters is you and me. And together we can ignore all the background noise.”

  I thought there were no tears left — that I’d cried them all out over the past few days. But I’m suddenly so overcome with emotion, with relief and with love, that I feel my eyes welling up and then a single hot tear spills down my cheek.

  He leans in to kiss it away, and before I know it, we’re kissing madly, passionately, our hands in each others hair, our bodies — these bodies which have been kept apart — now so eager for each other.

  He takes me by the hand and leads me, through his apartment, to the bedroom, which is lit just by a single candle, our bodies covered by flickering shadows as we undress each other — silently.

  I feel the goosebumps of anticipation flash out over my skin as we peel away the layers of each others’ clothes, our eyes locked, the electricity building between us, the silence pulsing, the shadows flickering.

  Then he closes up the small amount of distance remaining between us with a single confident step, and it feels so intimate, this moment: our shared nakedness, our beating hearts, our tender silence ...

  I shiver as he kisses me, his lips so soft, his tongue slipping easily into my mouth, his hands moving through my hair, my own now caressing his body, stroking his broad back, my nails raking his skin, my body shuddering as his fingers slip between my legs, discovering my hot, throbbing wetness.

  I’m melting beneath his touch, yearning for him now, wan
ting to give myself up to him completely.

  It’s never felt quite like this before — so gentle, so loving.

  He picks me up and lays me on the bed, as if I’m the most precious thing in his world, his strong body covering me completely, his mouth grazing my collarbone, his hands cupping my breasts, his cock grazing the inside of my thigh as I part my legs wide for him, bucking my hips, needing him so badly.

  We’ve still not spoken — our bodies are doing all the talking now — and it’s not long before they’ve joined together, his thickness pushing deep inside me, slowly but surely, my hands now cupping his sculpted butt, urging him deeper and deeper inside me.

  As his kisses move to my breasts, his tongue circles my nipples, coaxing them to attention, and his pace builds as he pushes us both closer to the edge with each fresh thrust of his hips.

  I know it wont be long before I’m coming, and I just can’t hold the words back any longer.

  So I hold his head tight between my hands, searching out his eyes with my own as I say the words that break our silence: “I love you so much.”

  “I love you too, baby,” he gasps, and he does — I know it. He does, he does, he really does.

  I cry out as I come, shuddering hard from the sheer force of my pleasure, and sure enough, Carson comes too, just seconds later, my own pleasure once more sending him over the edge, as he throws his head back, driving himself deeper into me and then, with a gasp, he fills me with his warmth.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say to Katy. This time I can’t see her reaction, because this was a conversation that felt too serious for Skype. This time, I picked up the phone and dialed her number. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I? You must have seen the news.”

  “Of course I’ve seen the news,” Katy replies, “but I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “The book deal,” I explain. “Now everybody knows that Girl After Dark isn’t just some girl next door. She’s a disgraced style blogger instead. Doesn’t that ruin your vision? Remember, there’s plenty of people who still hate Vintage Honey for what happened, especially in England.”

  “Are you kidding?” Katy laughs. “This is bigger than ever! The editorial team flipped when they realized who you really were! Loads of YouTube gurus have been publishing books lately, and the sales have been out-of-this-world.”

  “Really?” I gasp.

  “Totally!” she replies. “In fact, they couldn’t believe I’d hidden your true identity from them all this time. So your secret was definitely safe with me — I didn’t even tell anyone else at the firm.”

  This is totally not what I’d been expecting — I’d been steeling myself to call Katy all day, and I was so sure I’d let her down. But this? This is something else. I still can’t quite work out where this all leaves me — and more importantly where it leaves the book.

  “They’re now more desperate to publish your story than ever,” she gushes, as if in answer to my question. “Melissa, this is way bigger than just Girl After Dark now. Don’t you see? Whatever you might think, people loved Vintage Honey, and they went crazy for Girl After Dark. But bringing both of those things together in one book would totally double our readership! This is publishing gold!”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” I say, my head still spinning a little from all this new information.

  “It’s the perfect story for our modern age,” Katy continues. “The internet tried to destroy your reputation as Vintage Honey, but you didn’t let it get you down. You bounced back, and found true love. It even has a happy ending, right?”

  “I guess so …” I say, thinking about Carson, about our magical night last night.

  And it’s true — it does all finally seem to be working out.

  But then I feel another pang of embarrassment, as I wonder just what my family are going to think of all this. After all, I was working on a way to tell them slowly; to wrap up the news of the book so that it would look like something my parents might be proud of.

  Neither of my parents are particularly internet savvy, but they both know what it is — they’ve even both got Facebook accounts.

  So they’ll know about this latest scandal.

  Amongst the hundreds of messages are a few from my mum, pleading with me to get in touch with her. And it’s not like Dad even asked me why I refused to leave my room for the last forty-eight hours.

  And I know what their advice to me would be: it would be the same advice Jonathan and Carson gave me, too, that this is all a storm in a teacup and that it will blow over, soon enough.

  But putting my name, my real name to the story? Putting it into a book, something that will be on sale around the world, something that will exist forever?

  What will they think to that?

  §

  I pad sheepishly down the stairs, finally ready to face the music. Dad’s in the kitchen, sitting at the breakfast bar, but I can’t see his face. And as I enter, he gets up and pours me a coffee without speaking, placing it in front of me.

  I take a deep breath before I begin.

  “I guess we need to talk, eh, Dad?”

  “I’m glad you’ve finally surfaced,” he replies. “I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I just didn’t know what to say,” I explain.

  “I knew you’d come round in your own time,” he says, and when I finally venture a look in his direction, I see that his face is not angry, not judgmental, just concerned.

  “You must be so ashamed of me,” I say.

  “Why would you say that?” he replies.

  “Oh, come on, Dad,” I groan. “You’ve seen the gossip. You must have seen what they’re saying about me on the internet. My name. Your name. The family name …”

  “Yes, I’ve seen the gossip,” he interrupts. “But I’ve tried not to pay too much attention to it. Look, I work at a university, Melissa. You’d be surprised at the amount of times something like this happens, the sheer number of naked selfies that get leaked. Not to mention the number of girls who think their lives are ruined, and then get over it. And I know for a fact that you’re strong enough to get over this, if anyone is.”

  “But you must think I’m just … so … easy,” I say, hiding my face in my hands.

  “Oh Honey, I grew up in the seventies!” he laughs. “Free love and all that. What a young woman chooses to do in her own time, with her own body, is completely up to her. And actually, Honey? I was kind of worried you were a little too straight laced. It’s nice to know you can cut loose sometimes, too. Look, all the publicity will blow over in a few days, and nobody will remember any of this.”

  “But what if it doesn’t blow over in a few days?” I venture.

  “Oh, it will,” he says. “It always does.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” I say. “You see, I’ve been offered a book deal.”

  “Melissa!” he gasps. “That’s fantastic! I’m so proud of you!”

  “Yeah, but it’s not the novel we talked about,” I explain. “It’s about my story. My life. Everything that’s happened.”

  “Okay, so it’s not fiction,” he smiles. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not creative. You’re a great writer. And this won’t mean you can’t be taken seriously as a novelist afterwards, too. Do you remember the blogger, Belle de Jour?”

  “Of course I do,” I laugh. “Billie Piper played her in the TV series, right?”

  “Well, her real name is Dr Brooke Magnanti, and she was a guest speaker at Columbia just last year on her most recent scientific study. And I can assure you, we all took her very seriously as an academic, no matter what she got up to in her spare time.”

  “So, I’ve got your consent to go ahead with the book?”

  He laughs.

  “You’re a grown woman! You don’t need my consent. All you need to know is that I’m very proud of you.”

  “Thanks Dad,” I grin. “That’s one more problem down,” I add with a sigh.

  “So what about the ot
hers?” he says. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Not really,” I say, “unless you can think of a way to deal with Carson’s wicked stepmother?”

  “I have form with mothers-in-law. Believe it or not, your mom’s mom was quite the battle axe. But I managed to charm her in the end.”

  “I think I’m beyond charm here,” I explain. “She hates my guts. She threatened me — told me she’d ruin me if I didn’t break up with Carson. So I’m pretty sure it was her who leaked my real identity to all those gossip columns.”

  “Wow. That is wicked! This sounds like a different league from your grandmother.”

  “Tell me about it,” I laugh.

  I pull out my phone, quickly type her name into Google, and the first image result makes me shudder.

  It’s Esme, posing at a charity function, dressed in a white suit, just like the one she wore to our little meeting.

  “Look,” I say, holding out my mobile to show him the photo. “She looks like the evil queen from Snow White or something.”

  He takes the phone and studies the picture. His eyebrows are knitted, like he’s thinking carefully about the best thing to do, then says quietly, “Esme Amiel-Ashcroft, forty seven and philanthropist, eh? You’ve got your work cut out with her. Leave it with me …”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I smile. “I guess I need to go and write my book proposal.”

  “That’s my girl,” he replies, giving me a big comforting squeeze.

  I know he’s my dad, and he wants to help, but as I head back up the stairs to my room, I can’t help but wonder if I’m on my own with this one.

  To: esme.amiel-ashcroft@theashcroftfoundation.com

  Dear Esme,

  I will be at Project Parlour in Brooklyn at 5pm today. It’s in your best interests to join me.

  Melissa

  §

  It’s five minutes past five as I walk, head held high, into the grungy hipster bar where I’ve arranged to meet Esme. I know what you’re thinking. I thought you hated being late, Melissa. And believe me, I do. But I’m being fashionably late, on purpose.