One Night Only
Lynsey M. Stewart
One Night Only
Copyright© 2019 by Lynsey M. Stewart.
All Rights Reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the author of this book. The only exception is brief quotations to be used in book reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, brands, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Editing and Proofreading: Jenn Wood at All About The Edits
Cover design: Kari March at Kari March Designs
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Contents
1. Stacey
2. Stacey
3. Stacey
4. Stacey
5. Matt
6. Stacey
7. Matt
8. Stacey
9. Matt
10. Stacey
11. Matt
12. Matt
13. Stacey
14. Matt
15. Stacey
16. Stacey
17. Matt
18. Stacey
19. Matt
20. Matt
21. Stacey
22. Stacey
23. Matt
24. Stacey
25. Matt
26. Stacey
27. Stacey
28. Stacey
29. Matt
30. Stacey
31. Matt
Epilogue
32. Chapter 1 of Stripped Bare
Also by Lynsey M. Stewart
About the Author
Acknowledgments
To Jenn J, thank you for your friendship and for believing in my words.
1
Stacey
‘Raining again, London. Really?’ I said to no one in particular, holding out my hand to feel the splash of raindrops before rooting around in my Gucci tote for an umbrella. ‘What are you doing to me?’
Exasperation laced my voice. I wanted to look my best. I’d woken up earlier than normal to wash my hair in a bid to ensure my red waves would still be in place, and not drooping around my shoulders by the time I left work. A blast with the hand drier in the ladies’ loo gave it an extra boost of oomph. I added fresh gloss to my lips, and a few spritzes of perfume behind my ears helped me freshen up.
‘Hope you have a good night, Stace.’ I turned to find Kelly, the new intern—adorable—waving as she breezed out of the office. She was enthusiastic and wanted to squash everything you needed to know about being a fashion journalist into her first hour on the job. Impossible, but still adorable. ‘Enjoy the show, you lucky cow!’
‘I’m sure I will, gorgeous. See you tomorrow.’
We’d arrived at work wearing the same cute shirt dress and as I watched her walk away, I realised she was also wearing a very similar biker jacket and leopard print scarf. Fashion trends had a lot to answer for. I liked to keep up with the latest styles despite sometimes detouring out of fashion to write more investigative journalism pieces. Anna, the Editorial Director of Upfront, the women’s magazine I worked for, had given me the opportunity to stretch my writer’s wings. My first assignment was about the recreational use of cannabis by young professionals. Eye-opening, to say the least. I got a taste for writing about something other than affordable cashmere sweaters you could buy in the supermarket, and although I was still called upon for fashion story ideas, I was thankful to be given a bigger scope.
I loved my job, and had enjoyed writing for as long as I could remember. At first, working for the fashion side of a women’s magazine was a dream come true but now I was approaching my thirties, I was beginning to wonder how long I wanted to write about knee-high boots and designer look-a-likes that wouldn’t break the bank. Anna knew I was getting itchy feet and didn’t want to lose me. Before I knew it, I was in her office, with an offer to interview a doctor who relaxed off-shift by smoking weed.
‘What are you waiting for, Stace?’ A hand slipped through my arm and I felt a yank towards Piccadilly station. ‘You left five minutes ago to ensure you wouldn’t be late.’ Vanessa, another journalist and regular de-briefing-on-life buddy, walked me towards the tube.
‘I was sorting the barnet out.’ I pointed to my hair as we huddled under my umbrella. ‘Rain is my nemesis.’
‘You don’t want to miss him, do you? Frizz will be the least of your problems if he’s already left work tonight.’ I closed my umbrella as we reached the safety of the station. ‘Don’t forget. Piccadilly to Central. Five stops. Twenty minutes. Go.’
‘How long have you been using the tube to be such an expert?’ I replied, cocking my head. Vanessa laughed. ‘Text you later. Much later. Maybe it will be early, like six in the morning as I start the walk of shame.’
My raised left eyebrow made her smile. ‘It’s about time you got some!’ She laughed. ‘Jesus, you haven’t seen him in days. What’s wrong with the man?’
‘He’s busy. Stocks don’t sort themselves, you know,’ I replied as I held out my hands.
‘I know, I know. Where would the London Stock Exchange be without him?’ She turned me by my shoulders and pushed me towards the Piccadilly line escalator.
‘He’s a very important financial analyst.’
‘Which means?’ Van shouted.
‘He analyses…things. Numbers. Stocks.’ I walked backwards, facing her as she laughed. ‘He’s the main cog in a very big machine!’
‘You’re nuts! See you tomorrow.’
I waved as I disappeared down the escalator, listening for the heavy sounds of the next tube train pulling into the station. I loved the thrill of London, always had. The fast pace of life and the ability to have an adventure at any time of the day or night was exhilarating. I’d lost myself in the exciting lights of the West End, found myself on the eclectic streets of Camden, and fallen in love with the culture of Soho.
Unfortunately, living the London life to its fullest had its limits. My credit card took a beating and when my best friend, Skye, opened a café in Brighton, where you could drink coffee and play old-school board games, I left my overpriced flat, AKA glorified bedsit, and moved in with her. I had to admit; the commute was a killer at times. One hour on the train from Brighton to London at six a.m. was not for the fainthearted. Dodgy smells, weird overheard conversations, and quirky travelers made it an interesting journey. But it meant I got the best of both worlds. Busy city life during the week
and serene beach walks with my best friend at the weekends.
Bliss. My life was bliss.
The platform was busy. Rush hour was treading through, and as the wind gathered speed with the next tube arrival, I let it take my hair with it. I squashed into the carriage—an elbow in one rib, a laptop bag grinding into my left knee. Smoothing my hair down with my free hand, I held onto the handrail above as I thought about tonight’s plans with my boyfriend of…ooh, about twelve weeks, Tim.
Tim and I met through my boss, Anna. She was holding an early Christmas party in October—far too busy to actually do it at Christmas—and threw us together over canapes and Buck’s Fizz. She said he was ‘nice’ and ‘reliable’ and as I was approaching thirty, that wasn’t to be sniffed at. I laughed at what I thought was her trademark sarcasm but realised she was absolutely right about him five seconds after we were introduced.
Tim described himself as a financial analyst and proceeded to talk about the crunching numbers, fast-paced anxiety, living the dream, and the joy of driving a Lamborghini…on and on. It was like a strange game of tennis. He batted between extreme positivity of a lifestyle he thought I should be impressed with and the depths of despair when he said he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep. I remembered feeling the frown lines appear across my forehead the more he talked. Such a shame, to be living such a fast pace, and although I’d only just met him, I felt intrigued by his story.
The next day, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see him again because I could see the editorial storyboard mockup with the headline, ‘London’s Power Hungry: The Truth,’ or because I genuinely liked his sad little face.
Twelve weeks later—I was still none the wiser.
People interested me. Stories held my attention. I found opportunities for article ideas in every corner of my life. The mundane train commutes, lunch in Piccadilly square, Saturday morning rush hour at Skye’s café, and North Laine Sunday afternoon shoppers in Brighton. I carried notebooks. Wrote down illegible sentences on napkins. Dictated into my phone. I had enough ideas to last me five years’ worth of monthly editions of Upfront.
But I still hadn’t determined if Tim was more than just an idea for an article or something more.
OK, yes, we were taking it slowly. That was sensible, right? I had a busy career and he certainly did. We hadn’t met friends or endured afternoon tea with the family. We hadn’t been on a weekend mini break or talked about where we would spend the next holiday. It was…casual. I hadn’t seen him for a week. Texts were dwindling, balancing between sparse and nonexistent. I hadn’t seen so much as a peek of his naughty bits. I hadn’t even seen a flash of his ankle, for God’s sake.
It all felt a bit too casual. Which is why I’d planned this surprise, to meet him after work with an evening of culture and fine dining. This Essex girl could be classy when I wanted to be and let me tell you, I’d gone all out.
I closed my eyes and counted the stops in my head. St Paul’s was next. Heart of the London Stock Exchange. I smoothed my hair down for the final time and repositioned myself nearer the doors. It was so busy, I could at least rely on being pushed out onto the platform like a ginger party popper.
‘Excuse me. Thank you. Excuse me, please. Fab. Thanks.’
I dislodged the laptop bag from my knee, navigated my way through the crowd, and stepped out onto the platform. Finding my way out was easy. In London, you followed the crowd. A swarm of men and women in suits ranging from stylish to needing a good press filtered through the station. They were going both ways. In and out. A power-hungry conveyer belt. Perhaps the Stock Exchange really doesn’t sleep?
The sound of a saxophone carried over people’s heads as we jostled for the exit. Standing at the bottom of the escalator was a guy in sunglasses, ripped jeans, and an old leather flying jacket. His long grey ponytail was poking out from underneath his trilby hat where a Queen of Hearts playing card was sticking out from the band.
‘You’re really good!’ I shouted over his saxophone. Jazz was a favourite of mine. My mum used to love Ella Fitzgerald and the copy of her greatest hits was treated like a shrine.
‘Thanks, darlin.’ His thick cockney accent made me smile. I noticed he had a rolled-up sleeping bag and a rucksack beside him. I knew the neatly folded pile of cardboard boxes would most likely be his mattress for the night, and it was freezing outside. Next to him was a cute Jack Russell curled up on a blanket, trying to get warm. I bent down and stroked behind his ears. He showed immense interest, pushing me backwards to the floor.
‘Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?’ I asked as I checked my watch. It was approaching half six. January was bitter in London and would only get worse as the night wore on.
‘I’m going to try my luck at St Mungo’s shelter tonight. Hopefully they’ll have room.’
‘Get there early and you should be fine. Here.’ I took out my purse and gave him a ten pound note. ‘Get something warm to eat.’
He immediately lit up. ‘Thanks, darlin.’
‘My pleasure. Play some jazz for me, OK?’ I said, smiling and as I got on the escalator and he started to play a perfect bluesy rendition of ‘Summertime.’ I took my phone out of my pocket—it was always on hand in case of an idea—and typed into my notes, Homeless crisis – Are we doing enough? because I wished I could do more. My first Christmas in London was spent serving dinner at one of the homeless shelters. I helped out as often as I could. There’s a framed picture of me on the wall at Whitechapel Mission, wearing an apron that said ‘Kiss the Cook’ across my chest. I’m throwing my head back in laughter, clutching onto the arm of a lovely volunteer called Will. Otherwise known as William. The Prince and future King of England. He said I was as mad as a box of frogs. How could I take that as anything but a compliment?
My phone still in hand, I sent Tim a text, casually asking if he was still at work.
Please be still at work.
Tim: Just leaving
Mission accomplished. Major fist pump.
Tim’s office wasn’t far from the tube station. Thankfully, it had stopped raining, but it was cold. I pulled my scarf around my ears to stop the bite, and tried to readjust my hair. As I waited to cross the road, I spotted Tim emerging from the immense glass entrance to his office. He was wearing a suit and a long wool overcoat to protect him from the weather. I wondered if it was normal I didn’t feel a boom or even a pitter-patter when I looked at him. Perhaps fireworks grew over time?
I wasn’t sure I was feeling anything until he stopped next to a woman he’d left the office with, and proceeded to push a loose tendril of blonde hair behind her ear. A move that was a tad too familiar for a colleague, tender even.
Strange. Wait…what’s he doing now? Is that a…thumb stroke…to her cheek? I don’t think he’s ever stroked my cheek. with his thumb or otherwise.
I crossed the road on the green man—totally on instinct, but safely nonetheless—tipped my head, squinted for a better look, and caught their…
Mother fudging kiss.
‘Are you serious?’ someone shouted…and that someone appeared to be me. Tim turned and his face dropped to the ground. I almost heard the splat, the roll of his eyeballs across the tiled terrace.
‘Stace?’
‘Are you even serious?’
‘What are you doing here?’ Tim asked, pushing his kissing partner away by her face. I would have laughed at his pathetic attempt to cover his tracks, if I wasn’t so annoyed. Not with him particularly, but because of the soul-destroying waste of time that seemed to be on a repetitive loop.
Twelve weeks we’d been seeing each other. Fair enough, I’d spent six of them being less than enthused about our potential to be the next Meghan and Harry, but that clearly wasn’t the point. I couldn’t shake off the question that circled my head. Why did I waste my time on relationships that never got off the starting blocks?
‘Stace? What the fuck is going on?’
I crossed my arms. Ready to retre
at. Get away. Move on and swear off relationships forever. ‘I can’t believe this,’ I whispered to myself, before raising my voice to a normal level. ‘I was doing that cute girlfriend thing of surprising you out of work.’
‘Girlfriend?’ his kissing partner said. He put his finger to his lips and shushed her, and I was ready to flip the heck out.
‘No, no, no. Why are you shushing her? Don’t ever do that.’ I shook my head at him, then turned to her. ‘Don’t let him do that to you.’ I was fairly sure my nose was wrinkling. It always did when I couldn’t fathom a shit show. ‘That’s so disrespectful and…disgusting!’
‘Thanks,’ his kissing partner huffed as Tim placed his hands over his face.
‘You’re welcome, darlin,’ I replied. ‘No one deserves to be shushed. I’m Stace, by the way.’ I held out my hand. ‘The now ex-girlfriend, thank my stars.’
‘Jesus,’ Tim muttered.
‘I’m guessing he failed to mention me?’ His kissing partner shook her head behind him and I found myself nodding, pulling my lips together, the whole ‘now I get it!’ shebang. I already knew. Twelve weeks wasted. Another relationship that meant nothing. To me or Tim.
‘Urgh,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘Twelve weeks of my life I’ll never get back. You’—I threw my arms up—‘are a prize scumbag.’
‘We never said we were exclusive,’ Tim waffled out.
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