Faking with Benefits : Chapter 73

“As you know, trends come and go,” she says breezily. “It’s difficult to make statements with any certainty in this industry, and—”

“Yes, but why?”

There’s a long pause, then a sigh. “You’re on that Single Guys podcast, right? Anna loves that show, she listens to it all the time in the office. It’s where she first heard about you. I gather that she’s unimpressed with your recent… comportment regarding your co-stars on the show.”

My throat feels like it’s burning. “I didn’t cheat on them.”

“Ma’am, I don’t know anything about the situation. I don’t even like podcasts. All I know is that Anna is very temperamental, and she does not change her mind on these matters. She can be very… hard-headed. I’m sorry.”

To her credit, she actually does sound apologetic. Maybe this is normal for her. Maybe she’s used to turning down crying small business owners because her boss got pissed off about Twitter drama.

I take a deep breath, nodding. “Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am. Have a nice day.” She hangs up. My phone beeps in my ear as the line disconnects. Slowly, I lower it to my side, looking around the airport. The bright lights and crowds of people shimmer around me.

It’s happening again. Once again, people are lying about me. They’re spreading rumours, and making stuff up, and I can’t talk back. At least when I was sixteen, it was only the school making fun of me. The guys have let me become a worldwide laughing-stock. Hell, this has probably been good for them. I bet their engagement has skyrocketed, while I’ve just been left to struggle and fight all by myself. Again. Because I was stupid enough to trust them.

I look down at my suitcase. I don’t know where to go. I can’t bear to see the guys right now, but I don’t have anywhere else. I don’t have any friends. Just a few weeks ago, I had three boyfriends; I had listeners tweeting and messaging and emailing me; I had more customers than I’d ever seen before. I’ve spent my whole life thinking I was unlikeable, and for the first time in almost thirty years, it felt like people genuinely liked me.

And now I’m alone again.

A wave of shame washes over me. How did I let this happen? How did I let the guys put me in such a terrible position? Yeah, they hurt me, and — intentionally or not — started a scandal which hurt my career. But I’m the one cowering away, afraid of going home. I’m the one who hasn’t done any real work in a week. Who’s spent days crying in a hotel room, too scared to check my own email. That’s not on them, that’s on me.

It’s not like I haven’t been through this before. I know what it’s like to be bullied. I have years of experience. I’ve handled it once, and I can handle it again. I’m not going to let people break me down into pieces. I won’t.

Something inside me hardens. I can’t wallow in self-pity anymore. I need to face this head on.

I feel like I’m in a dream as I drag my suitcase to the nearest airport restaurant. I can’t face my hotel room yet. I know if I let myself be alone, I’ll break down. And I am so sick of feeling sorry for myself. Instead, I make my way up to the bar, sit gingerly on the barstool, and order a white wine.

“Do you have a pen I can borrow?” I ask the bartender when he delivers my drink. “I need to write something down.”

He offers me a biro, and I nab a napkin, settling down to do what I do best: making lists. Sipping my wine, I start bullet-pointing my next moves.

First of all, I need to get back to work. I’m currently paying a warehouse courier service to quality-check, package, and ship all of my old orders, but I can’t rely on them forever. Something tells me truckers aren’t the best at checking lace hems for loose threads.

I’ll probably have a bunch of angry ex-fans demanding refunds, so I need to go and deal with that. I need to make a social media statement.

And I need to find a new apartment. ASAP.

“Excuse me,” a low male voice says at my side. “This seat taken?”

“Yes,” I say coldly, not looking up from the napkin.

“… are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“But—”

I cut a glare at the man. He’s youngish, in his twenties, with a boyish face and red cheeks. He smiles at me hopefully. “For God’s sake,” I bite out. “I’m not interested. I don’t want you to sit next to me. I don’t want you to buy me a drink. I don’t want to have a torrid hookup in an airport’s public toilet. So piss off.”

He blinks. “I’m not hitting on you,” he says slowly. “I’m here with my friends, and we don’t have enough chairs. Are you using this one, or can I take it to our table?” He points behind him. I follow his thumb, spotting the rowdy-looking table of guys in football strips, chatting loudly and swilling back pints.

I close my eyes. I am such a massive prick. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Bad day. Yeah, take the chair. I’m sorry.”

He scowls at me, grabbing the stool and lifting it away. “Bitch,” he mumbles under his breath as he heads back to his table.

My stomach sinks as I watch his retreating back. How is it possible that I’m now even worse at talking to men? After six weeks of fake-dating, I’ve somehow gone backwards.

I grimace. I don’t want to think about the guys. It’s their stupid advice that got me triple-rejected and bullied by every social media platform on the internet, for God’s sake. I’m on my own now.

And it’s time I faced what’s really happening.

Deciding to take the bull by the horns, I pull my phone back out of my pocket and go straight to the Twitter app. Bracing myself, I open up the notifications page — and stare as the messages pour through in real-time. They’re scrolling down my screen, too fast for me to read.

I frown. ‘Get Layla Listening?’ What the Hell is that? I click on the hashtag, and a ton more tweets come up. #GetLaylaListening has been used over a hundred times in the past hour. I scan through the tweets. They’re all messages to me, pretty much begging me to listen to the guys’ latest podcast episode.

For God’s sake.

I really don’t want to, but I follow orders and go to my podcast app, opening up the homepage for Three Single Guys. The top episode is entitled EPISODE 449: THE APOLOGY TOUR. The little red circle flashing next to the episode name shows the boys are currently recording live.

I stare at my phone, hesitating.

I don’t want to listen. Judging by my notifications, this ‘apology tour’ is aimed at me, and frankly, I don’t want to hear the guys’ side of the story. I don’t want to give them a chance to worm back into my life. I don’t want to forgive them.

But this isn’t just about them. It’s about me. They’re talking about me, discussing me in front of tens of thousands of strangers, affecting my business. I need to know what they’re saying. It doesn’t matter how scared I am. I’m not a tiny teenage girl anymore, eating her lunch in a toilet cubicle, overhearing the girls in my year gossip about me. I’m not that person anymore. I don’t know when I became a coward, but I am sick of it.

I can’t hide from this just because I’m scared. I won’t.

Swallowing back my sigh, I down the rest of my drink, shove in my earbuds, and stab the Play button.