sexy golf coach.
“My entire game has fallen to pieces,” she says, pulling a face. “I’m no longer aiming to hit the ball in the hole. I’m just aiming to look thin and attractive and the ball can go where the hell it likes.”
As she gets changed back into her own daywear I come out of the fitting room, holding a pile of clothes.
“I can’t possibly wear that,” comes a muffled voice from Erin’s room.
“If you just try it—” I can hear Erin saying.
“You know I never wear that color!” The voice rises, and I freeze.
That’s a British accent.
“I’m not wasting my time anymore! If you bring me things I can’t wear—”
Tiny spiders are crawling up and down my back. I don’t believe it. It can’t be—
“But you asked for a new look!” says Erin helplessly.
“Call me when you’ve got what I asked for.”
And before I can move, here she is, walking out of Erin’s fitting room, as tall and blonde and immaculate as ever, her lips already curving into a supercilious smile. Her hair is sleek and her blue eyes are sparkling and she looks on top of the world.
Alicia Billington.
Alicia Bitch Longlegs.
I meet her eyes—and it’s like an electric shock all over my body. Inside my tailored gray trousers, I can feel my legs starting to tremble. I haven’t laid eyes on Alicia Billington for well over a year. I should be able to deal with this. But it’s as though that time has concertinaed into nothing. The memories of all our encounters are as strong and sore as ever. What she did to me. What she tried to do to Luke.
She’s looking at me with the same patronizing air she used to use when she was a PR girl and I was a brand-new financial reporter. And although I tell myself firmly that I’ve grown up a lot since then, that I’m a strong woman with a successful career and nothing to prove . . . I can still feel myself shrinking inside. Turning back into the girl who always felt a bit of a flake, who never knew quite what to say.
“Rebecca!” she says, looking at me as though highly amused. “Well, I never!”
“Hi, Alicia,” I say, and somehow force myself to smile courteously. “How are you?”
“I had heard you were working in a shop, but I thought that must be a joke.” She gives a little laugh. “Yet . . . here you are. Makes sense, really.”
I don’t just “work in a shop”! I want to yell furiously. I’m a personal shopper! It’s a skilled profession! I help people!
“And you’re still with Luke, are you?” She gives me mock concerned look. “Is his company finally back on track? I know he went through a rough time.”
I cannot believe this girl. It was she who tried to sabotage Luke’s company. It was she who set up a rival PR company that went bust. It was she who lost all her boyfriend’s money—and apparently had to be bailed out by her dad.
And now she’s behaving as though she won.
I swallow several times, trying to find the right response. I know I’m worth more than Alicia. I should be able to come up with the perfect, polite, yet witty retort. But somehow it doesn’t come.
“I’m living in New York myself,” she says airily. “So I expect we’ll see each other again. Maybe you’ll sell me a pair of shoes.” She gives me a final patronizing smile, hoists her Chanel bag on her shoulder, and walks out of the department.
When she’s left, there’s silence all around.
“Who was
that
?” says Laurel at last, who has come out of the fitting room only half dressed, without me noticing.
“That was . . . Alicia Bitch Longlegs,” I say, half dazed.
“Alicia Bitch Fatass more like,” says Laurel. “I always say, there’s no bitch like an English bitch.” She gives me a hug. “Don’t worry about it. Whoever she is, she’s just jealous.”
“Thanks,” I say, and rub my head, trying to clear my thoughts. But I’m still a bit shell-shocked, to be honest. I never thought I’d have to set eyes on Alicia again.
“Becky, I’m so
“My entire game has fallen to pieces,” she says, pulling a face. “I’m no longer aiming to hit the ball in the hole. I’m just aiming to look thin and attractive and the ball can go where the hell it likes.”
As she gets changed back into her own daywear I come out of the fitting room, holding a pile of clothes.
“I can’t possibly wear that,” comes a muffled voice from Erin’s room.
“If you just try it—” I can hear Erin saying.
“You know I never wear that color!” The voice rises, and I freeze.
That’s a British accent.
“I’m not wasting my time anymore! If you bring me things I can’t wear—”
Tiny spiders are crawling up and down my back. I don’t believe it. It can’t be—
“But you asked for a new look!” says Erin helplessly.
“Call me when you’ve got what I asked for.”
And before I can move, here she is, walking out of Erin’s fitting room, as tall and blonde and immaculate as ever, her lips already curving into a supercilious smile. Her hair is sleek and her blue eyes are sparkling and she looks on top of the world.
Alicia Billington.
Alicia Bitch Longlegs.
I meet her eyes—and it’s like an electric shock all over my body. Inside my tailored gray trousers, I can feel my legs starting to tremble. I haven’t laid eyes on Alicia Billington for well over a year. I should be able to deal with this. But it’s as though that time has concertinaed into nothing. The memories of all our encounters are as strong and sore as ever. What she did to me. What she tried to do to Luke.
She’s looking at me with the same patronizing air she used to use when she was a PR girl and I was a brand-new financial reporter. And although I tell myself firmly that I’ve grown up a lot since then, that I’m a strong woman with a successful career and nothing to prove . . . I can still feel myself shrinking inside. Turning back into the girl who always felt a bit of a flake, who never knew quite what to say.
“Rebecca!” she says, looking at me as though highly amused. “Well, I never!”
“Hi, Alicia,” I say, and somehow force myself to smile courteously. “How are you?”
“I had heard you were working in a shop, but I thought that must be a joke.” She gives a little laugh. “Yet . . . here you are. Makes sense, really.”
I don’t just “work in a shop”! I want to yell furiously. I’m a personal shopper! It’s a skilled profession! I help people!
“And you’re still with Luke, are you?” She gives me mock concerned look. “Is his company finally back on track? I know he went through a rough time.”
I cannot believe this girl. It was she who tried to sabotage Luke’s company. It was she who set up a rival PR company that went bust. It was she who lost all her boyfriend’s money—and apparently had to be bailed out by her dad.
And now she’s behaving as though she won.
I swallow several times, trying to find the right response. I know I’m worth more than Alicia. I should be able to come up with the perfect, polite, yet witty retort. But somehow it doesn’t come.
“I’m living in New York myself,” she says airily. “So I expect we’ll see each other again. Maybe you’ll sell me a pair of shoes.” She gives me a final patronizing smile, hoists her Chanel bag on her shoulder, and walks out of the department.
When she’s left, there’s silence all around.
“Who was
that
?” says Laurel at last, who has come out of the fitting room only half dressed, without me noticing.
“That was . . . Alicia Bitch Longlegs,” I say, half dazed.
“Alicia Bitch Fatass more like,” says Laurel. “I always say, there’s no bitch like an English bitch.” She gives me a hug. “Don’t worry about it. Whoever she is, she’s just jealous.”
“Thanks,” I say, and rub my head, trying to clear my thoughts. But I’m still a bit shell-shocked, to be honest. I never thought I’d have to set eyes on Alicia again.
“Becky, I’m so
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