Chapter 18: Santa’s Baby: Chapter 17

I know a thing or two about beds – since I’ve slept in more than a few over the past four years – and this one is fit for royalty. Five stars from me.

Hardly a surprise though, since this one belongs to Reuben Sinclair.

His mattress is huge and so comfortable it’s like floating on a cloud. His pillows are perfect and his sheets are the kind of high-grade cotton I love. But it’s mainly the scent of him I’m addicted to.

It’s clear which side of the bed is his. There’s a paperback on the nightstand, with an alarm clock and phone charger, but the sheets give more away than his nightstand does. They smell like him.

I can’t help myself lolling further over, even though it’s against some of my wackier principles. Sleeping in someone’s space has always held a sacredness to me.

I hate people sleeping on my side. Ever. Not even Josh ever did it on bestie nights. It’s just one of those things. My side is always my side, and Reuben’s should be Reuben’s – especially since he isn’t here to invite me into it, but I can’t resist. I hold his pillow tight and breathe him in. I don’t know what makes scents so powerful, but I get an animalistic rush at the thought of him lying here, sleeping.

Sleeping next to me.

I want him next to me.

I want to share this bed with him, and hear his deep breaths in the night. Feel his arms around me. Touch his naked skin while he’s far away in dreamland.

I’ve actually managed a decent few hours of shut eye since Reuben left for the grotto. As tempting as it would be to hole up here under the covers straight through until he gets home, I’m going to have to shift my butt. My mug is empty on my nightstand, as well as the water glass next to it. I need a pee and another round of painkillers to help combat my aches and pains from the glory wall. I always keep a stash in my handbag for such occasions.

Plus, I have a whole manor’s worth of curiosities to explore. The home of the man I’m obsessed with is here for the stalking. It’ll give me a lot more insight into him than an online grotto calendar and Reuben Sinclair search terms ever will.

There’s a robe on the back of the bedroom door that just about fastens around me. Maybe I should have taken the opportunity to drop into Belgravia this morning since I have little here with me. Just some half washed lingerie still discarded in the shower, and a dirty coat and stilettos downstairs.

I’m making my way downstairs when I hear my phone ringing. Crap. I don’t remember where I left my bag. Probably in the kitchen, on one of the worktops, or by the breakfast bar while I was drinking my hot chocolate. It cuts out while I’m dashing to the kitchen, then starts right back up again… behind me.

Turns out my bag is hung up in the main hallway. My gentlemanly client must have put it there for me. My phone is still ringing when I fish it from my bag, and my loved-up smile disappears when I see the name on screen. It rings out again before I can answer.

Josh.

Oh, fucking hell. FUCK.

There are eighteen missed calls from his number in the notifications window.

I didn’t check back in with him this morning after the glory wall. I forgot to update him on my next proposal!

I call straight back with my heart in my throat.

“Hey,” I say.

“Tiff?! What the fuck? Where are you? Are you ok?”

I could slap my own forehead. “Yeah, I’m cool. All good. Was just tired. Sleeping. Sorry, my bad. Should have let you know.”

“Should have let me know?! No fucking shit! I’ve been worried sick. So has Ella. We figured you were asleep, so called around your place to check, and you weren’t there. So, where the fuck are you?”

Bollocks.

I picture Josh in my apartment, searching for me, scared shitless to find I wasn’t at home. We have a key to each other’s places, and I didn’t send him a fucking D&S message when I finished last night. He didn’t know I was done and safe.

Fuck it.

“Where are you, Tiff?”

“I’m, um… busy. I’m on another proposal.”

“On another proposal? After the glory wall? Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah, something came up. An urgent one.”

“Really? Why the fuck didn’t you let me know? I got onto Orla a few hours ago and it looked to her like you were busy. Then she sounded weird. Said there were some things she’d investigate on your calendar, but hell knows what. She wouldn’t fucking tell me. Agency rules and all that, so I know she couldn’t give me more, but I was about to call the fucking police, Tiff. I thought you’d been fucking kidnapped!”

My gut lurches. Josh has spoken to Orla. About me.

Orla is one of the Agency team admins, managing entertainers, and schedules and clients. She can see calendars, she can see locations, and bookings histories, and FUCK. I feel like a criminal on the run.

“Why the fuck did you get onto Orla, Josh? I’m fine!”

“Because I figured she’d know where the fuck you were, or who the fuck had kidnapped you!”

“Urgh.” I rub my sore head. “Look, I’m sorry, Josh. Seriously, I’m sorry, alright? I should have let you know, but please, next time, don’t freak out and definitely DON’T get onto Orla! Why bring the Agency into this?!”

I hear him scoff.

“How about because they are the ones who know what the fuck you’re scheduled in for? It was either them or the POLICE!”

Remorse and fear are a nasty combination. If the situation was reversed and I’d been the one freaking out about Josh, I’d have sure as fuck have gone to Orla, and everyone else in the damn place I could get hold of, including the police, but at the same time, my pulse is racing… because if Orla looks too deeply…

“Look, I’m sorry, babe,” I tell Josh. “Forgive me, hey? I won’t do it again.”

“We ALWAYS send D&S messages. ALWAYS. That’s what we promised each other.”

“Yeah, and I screwed up. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” I take a breath. “But I have to go. I’m at another proposal, and this isn’t great timing.”

“Isn’t great timing? Are you for fucking real? You’re the one whose timing’s gone all to shi–”

“Yeah, sorry. I know. Listen, I had an urgent proposal, literally started the second I stepped out of the glory wall. It was a really good deal. I said yes, the proposal started right there and then, and…” Fuck, I’m rambling.

“What proposal?” he asks. “What kind of good deal?”

His questions push a button they never usually push. My voice is a hiss of a whisper when I answer him.

“That’s fucking classified. Non-disclosure!”

“Seems to me that everything is becoming non-disclosure with you at the moment. We need to talk about what the fuck’s going on.”

I want to bang my head against the wall. It won’t just be about Caroline’s baby and Christmas now, I’ll get a proper grilling on all levels, because he’s right. I have been hiding things.

“Yeah, ok. We’ll talk. I’ll let you know when my calendar is clear, alright?”

“Alright. Fine. Send me a D&S when you’re done.”

I hate how hurt he sounds. He hangs up before I can even say goodbye.

Maybe I’d call him back if my heart wasn’t thumping like a bastard on other matters.

Orla.

She might be digging into my bookings right now.

I call up the Agency app and log into my account, calling her name up in the chat window.

Hey, sorry, Josh was freaking out. It’s all cool, just a misunderstanding. I took a client on at short notice, no biggie. It’s in the calendar.

I see the typing icon and my gut lurches.

Hi, Tiff. Good timing. I was just looking into your account. Is everything alright? Are you ill or something?

Ill? Fuck yes, I am. My jowls just went and fucking tightened and I’m gonna puke. My fingers are trembling as I type…

Yeah, I’m fine thanks, why?

I swallow the bile as the typing icon shows up again.

The postponements on your account. There are quite a lot of them.

The postponements on my account… what the…

No way.

My heart races. An instinctive rush of panic as I click my calendar to find my schedule has completely vanished after tonight. It’s clear. Right up until the founders’ proposal in a few weeks’ time.

You moved them? Orla asks. We haven’t had any client complaints, but if you are ill or need any support or anything, please do tell us. We prefer to manage it from this end.

I don’t know what the hell to say to that. I type, then delete, type then delete. I can’t tell her the truth. I’m still reeling with my lack of bookings myself, because I sure as fuck didn’t empty my calendar… and apparently the Agency didn’t either… which only means…

Shit. Sorry, Orla, I type. I should have brought you into it. I’m having some personal crap going on around Christmas. Just need some headspace, and want to make sure I’m fit for the founders.

My head fucking pounds as she types.

That’s no problem. You have a client booking now, though? Are you going to be ok with that? And have you managed to postpone everything else that needed postponing?

Again, I feel like a criminal as my jittery fingers type lie after lie…

I’m on a booking now. Just taking a break. Client is a newbie, but he’s going to be a big player, I think, so I’ll keep him happy, but some of my regulars got shunted. I’m sure they will be ok. I’ll be back and booming soon! Nothing else needs doing from your end, honestly. Thanks, though. You are a star.

Lies don’t suit me. Just as well she can’t see my face, or my burning cheeks would give me up in a heartbeat.

Great, she says. Let me know if you need anything. Speak soon x

I hope fucking not.

Telling white lies to Orla has made this situation all so real. She could have been such an ass to me for breaking cancellation rules like that, and not giving her updates. But I didn’t have any to give her. They weren’t my fucking updates.

Thank fucking God I’m one of their star performers, or I may have got ten times more of a bollocking.

I scroll through my empty calendar – so many appointments gone. Not a single gig between now and the founders one.

Not apart from today, of course.

My head is spinning with so many questions.

Are my clients gone for good?

Is the Agency going to find out?

Why did Reuben do this? Is he pissed at me? Have I fucked him off?

Has someone found out what’s going on between us?

More to the point – what the hell IS going on between us!?

And what’s going to happen to my income?!

Jesus Christ, I could do without this right now. I grab my painkillers and down a couple with some iced water in the kitchen, and then godfuckingdamnit, I feel the paranoia rising. I feel the shakes, hating the lack of control… because without Creamgirl… without my job…

I check the clock. About an hour to go before Reuben leaves the grotto.

I scroll through my postponed bookings, assuring myself that I have options at my fingertips right here. I could click and offer to reverse the postponements. I’d get a load of them back. My regulars.

The safe option.

It’s only been one night since they were messed around with. I could tell them it was an error or something. I could sort it out. I could ease my mind, and tell Orla I’ve changed my mind, no problem. I could tell her I’m feeling just fine now.

But I don’t click anything and I don’t type a word. Not yet.

I need answers from the original finger clicker the very moment he walks in through the front door. He is the boss after all, and I’d best have the sense to remember it.

All it would take is one click of Reuben’s finger clicking fingers, and my whole fucking life could come tumbling down.