“You better get it back, Lottie. I fucking mean it!”
He reaches out to grab me, but I shake his hand off. Beck is a lot of things, an arsehole being the first, but I know he wouldn’t get violent with me. I just don’t want him near me because his touch repulses me.
I walk out of the flat, feeling overly pleased with myself as I hear Beck screaming in the flat about his precious belongings. Sure, some could say this is cold, illegal even, but I consider it compensation for how epically he’s fucked up my life over the past six months, and for the two extra years of my time he wasted.
“Fuck you, Beck!” I yell out merrily, voice filled with cheer as I spot the cab out front, ready to take me back home to London.
I guess it’s true what they say: revenge is a dish best served cold.
I pace around my Notting Hill flat, looking for anything to keep me occupied until it’s time for me to pick up Emilia at her place. The blank cream walls practically scream for some color, but since I’ve been back, the only thing I’ve been able to do is trash the floors with my mess of clothes. I guess most people would tidy up, considering it looks like a small grenade exploded in my bedroom, but I can’t be fucked. Why clean all that mess up if I’m just going to destroy it again tomorrow? I guess that’s probably the wrong way to look at things, but oh well.
I laugh thinking about what Stana, my cousin, would think of the way I’ve left the place in less than a month since I’ve been back. I’ve had this apartment for three years, and not once was it as clean and sparkling as it was when she moved in at the beginning of the year. But then again, I wasn’t here to mess it up.
How so much has changed in seven months.
Relationships ended, some started, new friendships, some old.
It’s been a roller coaster, that’s for damn sure. When I left this very apartment and moved with my then-boyfriend, Beck, to Edinburgh, I never thought I’d end up right back here in less than a year. I also never expected the lad I thought was my future to have been cheating on me for the last year of our relationship.
But I guess that’s life, isn’t it? I also never thought I’d convince Stana to leave her life back in LA and move to London, but here I am, wrong again. The girl packed up in January and came to London, then took care of my flat for me while I was away—that is, until six weeks ago forces back in LA pulled her in again, leading her back there.
But tonight, she’s finally coming home. Emilia, Stana’s first friend in London and the sister of Stana’s boyfriend, Alistair, is helping me pick up Stana in less than an hour. To say I’m excited is the world’s biggest understatement. Plus, we may or may not have some surprises for Stana up our sleeves.
It’s been months since I’ve seen the girl, and well, I’ve managed to understand why she’s so desperate to get back here. The friends Stana made while I was in Edinburgh have so graciously welcomed me into the fold after everything in my life went south.
So, despite the horrific year filled with the world’s shittiest boyfriend and a traumatic life upheaval, twice, I have to say things could be worse. It’s better I know Beck is a lying, cheating tosser with good hair now rather than two years down the line. I’m only just twenty-five, and I’ve still got my entire life ahead of me to figure this shit out.
My mobile chimes and I realize that all my overthinking and reminiscing has in fact made me late to pick up Em from her place in Shoreditch.
Fuck!
I grab the black Valentino Rockstud purse my parents gave me for my birthday last year—I’ve never been one to own designer, but I’ve got to say, it’s fucking nice—and then I snatch up my hot-pink combat boots and hastily jam my feet into them. My fishnets get caught, almost tearing in the process, but thankfully we escape unscathed.
I don’t have time to do a double take in the mirror, just hoping my shoulder-length bleach-blonde hair isn’t sticking up in all different directions.
I spot the vintage Mercedes keys sitting on the side table, and my insides dance at the thought of driving this beauty. My parents have been living in France for the past three years, so they don’t exactly have a lot of use for the old car. I could possibly risk certain death if they find out I’ve driven it to collect Stana, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay.
I pull open the door to my flat and walk through the old building’s hallway, a slight smell of damp clinging to the air, yet as soon as the main door is opened, all is washed away. The dimly lit streets of Notting Hill greet me, the scent of brisk night air invading my nose.
My shoes ring out with each step on the paved sidewalk, tall black streetlamps illuminating my way and the grand white Victorian terraces surrounding me. All of it reminds me how much I’ve missed West London. I take a moment to myself, breathing in the familiarity and accepting the small moment of serenity before moving on. It’s time to bring Stana home.
I’m going to get our girl.
After a quick trip to the airport, Em and I force a confused Stana into Saint Street, the bar her boyfriend owns. To say the two of them need some alone time would be an understatement, and I know Stana—she wouldn’t have shown up without a push from Em and me. So that’s how I’ve ended up at the underground bar, music playing as happy patrons share drinks and laughter.
“I gotta say, we make a great team.” I grin at Em, thankful that our plan worked. After Stana’s abrupt exit from London last month, things between her and her boyfriend, Ali, were a bit up in the air. But from the look of the two of them slipping out of Saint Street, it is clear we’ve done a pretty good job.
I sip my mineral water, my poor stomach still upset from last night’s dinner. As much as I’d love to down a pint and call it a night, I just can’t. My back is sore as I lean into the wooden chair, wishing we’d secured one of the red velvet booths in the corner. Those have always been my favorite.
The décor at this place is one of the main factors that drew me to it years ago. Velvet booths line the walls with brown wooden tables in front, while small tables and chairs surround a stage the lads play at most Wednesday nights. But my absolute favorite thing has to be the bar. It’s big, it’s shiny, and it’s gold. Mirrored glass and top-shelf liquor. It’s like being transported back in time.
“We should be professional matchmakers,” she replies, cutting into my thoughts as her eyes scan the crowd and stop at the exit. I look up, then smile as Ali and Stana slip out together.
“Have you seen Reeve tonight?” I ask Emilia, giving the room a once-over to see if I can spot him.
“Seen him, yes. Spoken to him, that is a big fat no. I just need time; I’ll get over it. I mean, I’m not the first girl to be told a guy isn’t interested in them. I’ll live.” Em looks away from me, her body language indifferent, but I don’t think she knows her acting skills aren’t exactly award winning. Anyone with a brain can see she’s waiting on a guy who might never come around. My heart breaks for her because even though I haven’t known her long, it doesn’t take much to see how great she is.
Not wanting her to feel bad, I nod, pretending I buy her story. Lord knows I don’t want to get into the nitty-gritty of my own failed relationships, so why should I push her into it?