CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
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EMMA
The moment we’d just had, the confession about his dad, the way I had him in my arms took my breath away. I felt selfish thinking about how good it felt to hold him, to touch him.
I didn’t want to let go. But as I felt the moment pass, how he composed himself and stiffened in my embrace, I knew it was time to step away.
Releasing my hold, I stroked his face. “Are you okay?”
I waited for him to answer, but he didn’t. He just looked at me, his gaze burning my insides.
I couldn’t help myself, I had to keep touching him. As gently as I could, I brushed the hair off his face, traced his eyebrows and followed to his cheek. The stubble tickled my palm, but I kept going. As his lips parted, I wanted to touch them with my thumb like I wanted to do with my lips. But his hand moved up and stopped me. He kissed my fingers.
“Thank you,” he muttered, before walking away.
How could I have been so stupid and insensitive? It was his moment, yet I’d got carried away. Not only that, I’d allowed my feelings to be accessible, poised and ready to be broken.
Tears burned in my eyes, threatening to fall. When I heard voices at the door, I wiped my eyes and promised myself that, as soon as the premiere was over, I would be going home. Amanda was right. This was going to tear me apart, and I was sure my fragile heart wouldn’t handle it.
Only one more day to go.
When James and Helen came through the door, I already had a plan.
“What’s the plan for today?” I asked, pushing my bagel away. I wasn’t hungry anymore.
“Tonight is the premiere, and I want you to be there with me,” he said, his face serious. I couldn’t read what he was thinking.
“But I don’t have anything to wear,” I complained, trying to lighten the mood. I felt like it was my fault, and I couldn’t bear knowing that he regretted inviting me here.
“I kind of thought you wouldn’t, and I don’t think it would be appropriate for you to go in your trainers.” A smile almost cracked his lips. “So, I’ve asked Helen to call a stylist to come over and get you all dolled up. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not. But one question. What on earth is wrong with my trainers?” I smiled back, relieved that everything was brushed under the carpet.
“What’s not wrong with them?” As he answered, he left the room chuckling.
He came back with Helen, barefoot and shirtless, holding a dress shirt in his hands.
Dear Lord, what’s he doing to me?
This was my penance. The need to run my hands over him, feeling every muscle, the contours and the warmth of his body was raw. My body ached to touch him. His closeness was punishment enough.
Helen took a seat in front of me, providing me with the perfect distraction.
When I remembered Helen from New Year, I saw her as tall, athletic, and most of all, fashionable, but this day, she was the complete opposite, dressed in jeans, a white knitted jumper, and cowboy boots. Her hair, white and plaited, hung over her right shoulder. She looked more like a sweet granny who would sell homemade flapjacks at a church bake sale. This Helen put me at ease straightaway. Subconsciously it made me happy that she would take care of me, maybe even make me some hot chocolate and whip out some ginger biscuits. Hey, a girl could dream.
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I was wrong about Helen Kopanski. She wasn’t the soft grandmother she seemed. On the contrary, she was a former US Marine with a small army of hairdressers and a beauty therapist who came to conquer, tug, pluck, and wax every inch of me.
I never considered the thought of how painful being beautiful meant, and instantly hated the person who invented non-hairy women, or wax for that matter. What kind of sadistic twat thought of wax? It was a product that should have been used as a torture tactic for war criminals.
“Stop wriggling and shouting!” Helen commanded as a skinny Asian woman ripped the wax on the back of my thighs.
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one pinned face down to a pretend bed with a burning, sticky liquid at the back of your legs, knowing there’s going to be a searing pain as harmless hair gets ripped out of your body.”
“If you think that’s painful, wait until we get your bikini line done.”
With the ease of a wrestler, she flipped me over. Helen told me to cover my mouth.
“Why would I want to do that?” I asked, thinking out loud.
“You seem to have a low pain threshold, and besides, it will stop you from shouting.”
It took me a while to comprehend what she was saying, but by that time, the wax was pulled off.
That day I broke a record for the number of profanities said in one single sentence, and I could swear seagulls back in Scotland heard me and flapped their wings with shock.