Sofie
Mario is holding the mirror so I can check out the back of my hair. I shake my head from left to right and watch it bounce and up and down, trying to get more natural volume to it.
I grin at my reflection and give him the thumbs up.
“I love it. Thanks, Mario.” I wait for him to dust me off with his giant brush from bits of hair before I get out of the chair.
Getting my hair trimmed, washed and blow-dried is one of my favorite treats. It makes me a feel like a million dollars. I don’t do it all too often, but when I do it I love it and revel in the positive vibes of the experience.
Of course lately, others have helped me feel a million dollars, but visiting Mario in his tiny hairdressing salon still does it for me in a different way from the way the boys make me feel fucking special by sending me a fucking hot pink limo.
“There’s a glow about you today, bella. You in love? Who’s the lucky man?”
I feel color rise to my cheeks and am not quite sure how to respond. It’s too early to be talking about the whole one girl, three fucking guys thing. But I’m also not a very good liar.
So I don’t exactly give a direct reply to his question.
“Life’s good,” I say as I pay. Before I leave, I get my perfunctory kiss on each cheek. Strong aftershave attacks my sense of smell.
Mario is Italian through and through.
“Ciao, bella,’ he calls after me as I leave his salon.
There’s something about Europeans, particularly Italians. There’s an air of sexiness about them, even when they’re simply doing normal things like looking at you or just being smartly dressed.
If Mario wasn’t fucking gay I might have started something with him a long time ago. Of course he’d have to change his aftershave, it’s too fucking overpowering.
As it is, I never stood a fucking chance.
Outside the sunlight assaults my eyes and I reach for my sunglasses.
That’s better.
On the spur of the moment, I stride to the local café on the corner. As I sit at a little table on the sidewalk under a sun umbrella, I feel like a celebrity. My face is covered by one of those oversized sunglasses and no one will recognize me, I’m sure of it.
I know it’s stupid to think someone might disturb me here in my moment of quiet. In fact it’s fucking absurd to think along those lines, but hey, can’t a girl have a fucking dream?
It’s normal for girls to dream of finding prince charming and becoming a princess, wasn’t it? I didn’t even want to become a fucking princess. I’m perfectly happy dreaming of simple celebrity status. And who could blame me?
Over the last few weeks I’ve been treated to a fucking private jet, rides in limo’s and dinners at exotic locations with guys that worshiped the ground I walk on.
Who the fuck could blame me for going a little overboard in the dream department?
I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t get swept up in the moment.
When my double shot espresso arrives, I also ask for a glass of water. Apparently Italians always order a glass of water with their coffee.
On the empty table beside me is an abandoned glossy women’s magazine and I pick it up to flick through it.
Large, slightly out of focus pictures of various alleged celebrities fill each page making outrageous claims, from alleging several of the photographed women were pregnant, to mentioning crazy diets they were on and discussing alleged affairs.
I don’t read any of the articles. The headlines are a fucking turn off already.
As I turn the pages I decide that perhaps celebrity status is highly overrated and maybe it was just as well to be plain old Sofie. Sofie who happens to be dating three fucking hot guys. Maybe that is even better than being a celebrity in itself, since not all celebrities date three gorgeous guys at the same time.
Were we dating, or what were we doing?
My mobile buzzing in my pocked rouses me from all the navel gazing. About time I got back to the real world.
You have one new message.
I click it open.
Instantly, my heart performs summersaults and starts to race off a million miles an hour.
Greg.
How come I hadn’t deleted this fuckwit’s number from my phone? Argh.
How fucking stupid am I?
I made a mental note to myself to block, un-friend and un-follow Greg from every social media site known to man or woman.
Seeing I can read the first few lines, I may as well read the whole fucking message.
Hey Sofe
You might think you’ve won because u saved that foster home…but you haven’t saved urself…I’ll have the last laugh.
My finger hovers over the delete button. I swallow and bite back the tears. I re-read the words again and again until they’re etched in my memory. I can’t help it.
When I can’t stand it any longer, I press delete. I might be deleting vital fucking evidence, but I don’t care. I don’t want that sort of shit on my phone.
Negative energy is the last thing I want following me.
I wipe my eyes and finish my coffee. My mood’s a little darker now. I go pay and head home.
On the way, I practice my positive power of thought and do not allow myself to give that fucking prick Greg another thought.
I’ve learnt one thing during this break up process. Greg’s not responsible for how I feel. I will need to learn to stop reacting to his silly, childish messages.
It was a silly, childish message he had sent, was it not?
When I get back home, I meet Chloe in the kitchen. She’s experimenting with some new recipe for muffins.
“Smells fucking delicious,” I say as soon as I walk into the kitchen.
She shoots a glance in my direction, without interrupting what she’s doing.
“What’s the matter with you?”
I shake my head.
“Nothin,” I lie and come a little closer to see if I can lick the bowl to get a taste of her creation.
She smacks me on the fingers.
“Wait till I’ve spooned out the mixture, then you can turn into a little girl and lick the bowl.”
I grin.
“And you can only lick out the bowl if you tell me what’s troubling you.” She holds up her spatula, “and no fucking lies.”
That’s the thing about a BFF; they know you better than anyone else. I couldn’t hide anything from Chloe.
“Greg,” I grumble and sit on the bar stool near the bench top where she’s working.
At the mention of his name, she instantly stop what she’s doing.
“Where’s the little shit?” her eyes dart to the front door.
I shake my head.
“I didn’t see him, he sent me a text.”
As if to prove my point, I hold up my mobile. Suddenly, deleting that message seemed like a bad idea. What if I needed it as evidence down the track?
Chloe frowns.
“Did he call?”
“No. He sent a text.”
My best friend shakes her head.
“Fucking low life. You should delete his number from your phone and fucking block his call.”
I frown. I have deleted his number but I haven’t blocked it.
“Does that help?”
Chloe nods. “Of course. Once you block a caller their message or phone call won’t get though to you.
Wow. That’s great news.
“How do you—” I start but Chloe interrupts me.
“Later, I’ll teach you later. More importantly, you just got one massive flower delivery. The guys sent you one hundred roses. They’re in your room. You’re one lucky girl.”
Roses. There are roses in my room just for me and she only tells me now?
I jump of my stool and head to my room.
I catch my breath as I take in the most exquisite long-stemmed red roses I’ve ever seen.
They’re divine.
Slowly, I walk toward the massive bunch and take out the card I see hanging on one of the long stems.
The bunch is so massive roses are spilling out everywhere.
Dear Sofie
Please meet us tonight.
Eli, Lucas and Oliver.
Fuck.
What an amazing bunch of flowers.
What an amazing bunch of guys.
Roses. Red roses.
Roses are my most favorite flower in the whole wide world, maybe even in the whole entire universe.
I lean forward and breathe in the delicious scent of my flowers. It’s intoxicating. Briefly, I’m lost in the scent of the flower, the memories of hot sweaty bodies and sexual lust.
Meet them tonight.
Wow.
Meet all three of them tonight. This would be one special fucking night.
I leave the flowers and turn to my wardrobe. What the fuck am I going to wear? It would need to be sexy, alluring and mind-bogglingly revealing.
As I try on different dresses, skirts and tops, I realize I’ve not once thought of Greg and his stupid message again.
Good. I breathe a sigh of relief.
I can do this. I’ll simply ignore fucking Greg and his stupid attention-seeking messages.
I have more important things to think about. I need to get ready for a date and I won’t let that prick ruin my night.