“Thanks. It was pretty hard saying no to the guy, but it was the right thing to do.”
Now, if only my raging hormones would agree with me.
I think I need a long, cold shower.
SIXTEEN
Lincoln
I never drink like this. What is wrong with me? I’m just like my parents, getting hammered because I’m too scared to face uncomfortable emotions. I should be better than that.
As soon as Tash and Millicent leave, I come to my senses. I didn’t even think about how poor Tash must have been feeling. She does not deserve someone who is so mentally fucked up right now. The woman is sweet and caring and beautiful. But any feelings I have for her right now are confused. I still love Rachel, despite everything she did to me. And if she suddenly returned with the girls and begged my forgiveness, there’s a big chance I would take her up on it.
But would I, really? Should I? Trust is kind of a big deal with me, and it’s been well and truly betrayed with Rachel keeping such a monumental secret from me. For four fucking years! Who does that?
It’s been two months since I’ve heard from her or the girls, and it’s killing me. I’ve contacted a lawyer to try and figure out what to do, but everything is moving so slowly. I’ve called Rachel’s parents in the UK—since Rachel disconnected her mobile from Australia—but they wouldn’t tell me anything the first time I spoke to them, and now they won’t even answer the phone.
I’ve contemplated flying over there and forcing them to let me see the girls, but I’m contractually obliged to remain in the country until the tour is over. Even before today, I had to stay for rehearsals. I tried to explain to Max what happened, but while he was sympathetic, he wouldn’t let me leave.
For now, I’m doing everything I possibly can to get access.
It’s so damn hard, though. The least Rachel could do is let me Skype them. Surely, they would have asked about me. What would she have told them? Every day I wake up and struggle to get out of bed, wondering where they are and what they’re doing. I still can’t process that they’re not biologically mine, but I don’t even care. I wonder if their real father knows. Has Rachel reconciled with him? Are they all now one big happy family in London? I hate that I don’t know anything.
And on top of that, everything in our house reminds me of them. I’m kind of looking forward to getting away and staying in hotels for a while so I can pretend they’re all still waiting for me at home.
Man, I’m messed up. And I resent that Rachel timed her departure so it would essentially ruin the experience of my first proper tour. But at least I’m staying occupied.
I look at my watch. It’s almost 2am. I’m going home to sleep.
I throw all my stuff in the back of a cab and say goodbye to the guys. I hear them talking about continuing the party back at one of their houses, but I’m not interested in joining them.
By the time I get home and take all my equipment inside, it’s almost three. But now the last thing I feel like doing is sleeping. I open my laptop and scan social media. Rachel has blocked me from all her accounts, so I can’t look at any photos of the girls she might be posting.
I mindlessly scroll through Instagram, looking at the latest offerings. And then I see a picture Tash published yesterday. It’s a photo of her meals stocked in a supermarket with her standing beside them, pointing and grinning.
I instantly click the heart icon and stare at her face for a moment. Something stirs in me that I didn’t think was possible. A tiny, tiny thread of hope that I might one day be happy again. And if I could end up with someone as talented and beautiful as Tash, I would be very lucky.
I still feel bad about how I treated her tonight, so I google online florists that can deliver at short notice.
After selecting a bouquet and paying a ridiculous amount in delivery to ensure it gets to her house this morning, I turn off my computer, feeling a bit better.
The sun is just peeking over the horizon by the time I finally collapse into bed.
The combination of having done a big show and drinking more than I’m used to, along with the emotional toll of the last few months, finally hits me. I close my eyes and black out, welcoming oblivion.
SEVENTEEN
Tash
One downside of having a young child is that even when she stays with my parents overnight, I still wake up early the next day. Millicent decided to go back to her place to sleep last night, and I’m wide awake at 6am, despite not getting to bed until around two.
I’m not hungover, because I didn’t drink that much, but I have that slightly weird floaty feeling you get after a big night out and not much sleep.
I make myself a strong coffee and sit on the couch, enjoying not having anything to do for a couple of hours. I told Mum and Dad I’d collect Daisy at ten, so that’s four hours alone to contemplate the events of last night.
Part of me wishes I had let Lincoln kiss me. I could have just taken it for what it was, a guy who was hurting and needing a bit of love. But I knew we’d both regret it today. I don’t think I could separate my emotions, and I would be left wanting more.
But then I feel like I might have been doing him a favour, performing the rebound role to help him get over Rachel. It was kind of selfish of me to deny him that chance. Plus, at least if he’d chosen me, he wouldn’t have had to worry about some other less suitable woman taking advantage of him.
Except what makes me more suitable than anyone else?
My reverie is interrupted by a knock at the door. I don’t usually get anyone coming over this early.
When I answer, I see a delivery guy standing there, holding a large bunch of colourful gerberas. No one ever buys me flowers! And to have them delivered at 7am on a Saturday morning would not be cheap.
I take the bouquet and sign for them, not opening the card until I’m in the kitchen.
I’m so sorry about last night. Please forgive me.
Lincoln.
My heart feels like it’s going to burst. How did he organise these at such short notice? A sad thought occurs to me, and I wonder if he still wakes up super early, too, as a residual side effect of living with the twins for three years.
What’s more likely is that he continued partying and hadn’t yet gone to bed when he ordered them.
I think about his behaviour last night. Lincoln was drunk and a bit morose, but he was never disrespectful. There was no reason he should feel bad enough to send me apology flowers.
As I don’t have his phone number, I write him a message via Instagram, thanking him for the gift.
He doesn’t reply, so I run myself a bath and enjoy the last bit of quiet I’ll have for a while.
My daughter will be home soon.
***
Daisy and I have a chilled-out day together. I half-nap while she colours pictures of Disney characters in one of her activity books and watches cartoons on TV.
At 6pm, there’s a knock at the door. I assume it’s Millicent since she often drops by on weekend evenings, and I’m thinking she’d want to debrief about last night.
But it’s not her.
It’s Lincoln.
His hair is all tangled like when I met him on the plane. And his scruff is a little wild, but it makes him look sexier than ever.