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It’s just about the worst luck in the world.
Rebecca has, after oblique conversations with Keely, Sassy, and—unfortunately—her mother, given into her basest instincts. She has chosen to prioritize her own happiness above football, popular opinion, and, possibly, morality itself. Which is to say, she’s texted Sam and asked him to meet up with her in the park opposite her place at eleven in the evening.
She gets there at ten, sits on a bench, and buries her face in her hands. Then she extricates herself and turns on Olivia Newton-John—the AirPods are a gift from Keely, and surprisingly easy to get used to—because, well, there’s not reason not to be in a sexy mood, is there?
Is there?
The facts are as follows:
- Sam recently had his twenty-second birthday. Ted had a drinks night, and Rebecca didn’t attend, because—well. But Keely showed her the pictures on Instagram, and Sam looked so lovely in this thick cream sweater he had rolled up to his elbows. The point is, twenty-two is slightly older than twenty-one but still very young.
- Sam told Rebecca, by way of Ted, that he chose to stay in Richmond not because of her, but because of himself. But sometimes she wonders if that might still mean that it was a little because of her.
- Rebecca signs Sam’s paychecks. Weekly. Plus bonuses. Well, sometimes she gets Higgins to sign them for her.
- Rebecca has not felt this way about a boy since she was at university. Or possibly ever. And:
- Rebecca is selfish. Or, as Keely puts it, “Try getting it through your head that you might deserve to be happy.”
Ted would likely say something similar. Only Rebecca hates talking about the issue with Ted, even though he’s said he’s fine with it, because she’s still worried it’s not quite right, wanting Sam the way she does, and Ted is so good at wanting exactly what he already has. And maybe the fact that she doesn’t want to talk about it with Ted is a sign that she shouldn’t—
But then she spots Sam by the gate, and the tension melts out of her body in that way she’d almost forgotten.
She rises and says, “You came.” She can hardly believe it.
“Rebecca.” That smile. “Did you doubt me?”
And she puts a hand up to her face to hide whatever it’s doing—
Sam comes closer, his teeth and eyes white in the night; his body is truly like a magnet, and she allows herself to be drawn in, his hand coming up to her face, but then—
Over his shoulder, she sees someone strangely familiar—
“Oh God,” she says faintly. “Not here.”
Trent bloody Crimm, lately of the bloody Independent. And someone behind him holding up a phone. Which isn’t a camera, but it may as well be, and Rebecca’s flashing back to the worst of all the press with Rupert. She was wrong, she thinks. She can’t do this again, and she especially can’t do it to Sam.
“What?” Sam starts to turn. “What is it?”
Rebecca flees.
--
Once home and calmed by a drink—all right then, two—Rebecca hides her phone in the cutlery drawer and buries herself under the covers.
You bloody ostrich, she thinks to herself. Ostrich yourself, then. At least commit.
But of course she can’t sleep. She drags herself to the kitchen and leans over the counter to check her phone. Four texts from Sam. She swipes away the notifications before she can read them. Nothing from Keeley or Higgins, which would indicate that there is no major PR crisis happening as of yet. Although Higgins goes to sleep at half eight.
She wavers for a moment and calls Keeley.
“Oh no,” Keeley says at once. “Did it go that badly, then? Hang on, I’m coming over.”
“What?” Rebecca is baffled—no, truly. “I’m all right. Don’t—no, you don’t have to.”
“Sweetheart,” Keeley says sympathetically. “If he’s not in your bed right now, it went badly. I know how you two are. I’m using the London Lady Chauffeurs app.”
“That’s not it,” Rebecca insists. “It’s. I—no, wait, I didn’t even tell you what I was going to do tonight.”
Keeley tsks. Rebecca can hear street noise in the background. “Rebecca. Come on. What happened.”
Rebecca sighs. “Trent Crimm was there.”
It’s like he had been tipped off, but Rebecca didn’t tell anyone about the meeting, and she knows that Sam didn’t tell.
“Trent Crimm?” Now Keeley’s typing furiously, probably trying to find out what kind of mess Rebecca’s cooked up this time.
“The Independent,” Rebecca confirms. “Only. Not so lately. Perhaps this will be the thing that gets him a staff writer position at the Sun. Oh God, Keeley, I left Sam there with him.”
“Oh please, do you think he would go to a trash pile like the Sun, the posh—” Keely breaks off. “No, this is probably what will get his newsletter off the ground. Listen, my Lady Chauffeur is two minutes away. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She hangs up. Rebecca opens the drinks cabinet back up and then, resolvedly, closes it again, because alcoholism is one of the things she associates with Rupert and she will not, will not.
The person she most wants to talk to is Sam. But she can’t text Sam, because she left him to face Trent Crimm alone. And if he is away by now, she’ll become wildly anxious that their texts are going to leak somehow, when independent journalist Trent Crimm goes public about the rendez-vous he witnessed in the park. And will probably publish photos of, courtesy of the bloody photographer that he’d been walking around with. It must have been a photographer, because—the logic goes fuzzy here—don’t journalists always go round with photographers? And the picture will be in tomorrow’s Sun or Daily Mail, if it isn’t already, and Rupert and his new wife will be laughing about Rebecca and her thirstiness over breakfast—the new wife will call it that, because she’s so bloody young—
Rebecca refreshes the sports page of The Independent, even though everyone knows that Trent Crimm doesn’t work for them anymore. She does that about five more times. Then she goes over to the sofa—further from the drinks cabinet—and collapses in an elegant pile.
“Darling,” Keeley says when she finds her, sweeping her hair back from her forehead. “You left the door unlocked.”
“Oh, let me be robbed,” Rebecca says, perhaps a touch melodramatic. “My career is over, I suppose.”
“Is it?” Keeley is doubtful, which seems unsupportive. “What did he see? Tell me what you saw.”
“Sam,” Rebecca says, miserable. “I saw Sam. He was coming towards me—and then—I saw Trent Crimm and some bloody photographer—”
What had the photographer looked like? He had had a mustache, hadn't he?
Wait.
“They got photos?” Keeley’s eyes are big in that way where she’s trying to keep them down to size. “Rebecca, that’s—no it’s not, it’s all right, we’re keeping you calm. Photos of what, exactly?”
“No, hold on,” Rebecca says absently. “It’s—oh, no, it can’t be.”
Keeley breathes in and out and then says, “Darling, did you have to fuck him in the park?”
“No,” Rebecca says. Then pauses. “What? No. I’d never—well, not since—but that’s nothing. It seems like there’s probably nothing to worry about.” She laughs. “It’s quite a funny coincidence, isn’t it, actually.”
Keeley pats Rebecca’s head very hard, like she’s trying to locate the tumour Rebecca’s grown. “Can you tell me,” she says, “what the fuck you’re on about.”
“It was Ted in the park,” Rebecca tells her. “It’s all right.”
“My God,” Keeley says, adjusting to the news with admirable speed. “I didn’t know Ted had grown his hair out. How’d you mistake him for Trent Crimm?”
“No, no,” Rebecca says. “He was with Trent Crimm.” Strange time of night for them to have been meeting, she thinks, but why not? Possibly Ted was giving Trent Crimm some career-upheaval advice. The thing that matters is that she didn’t leave Sam alone in a park with Trent Crimm; she left him in a park with Trent Crimm and Ted, which is much different. It means that Sam was not outnumbered. And it means that Rebecca still has a chance to stop this thing in its tracks.
“Keeley, darling.” She smooths out a wrinkle in the other woman’s satin harem pants. “Shall we visit a friend?”
--
Keeley calls another Lady Chauffeur. This one is named Diane and turns out to be a rather sharply dressed older football enthusiast who recognizes Rebecca on sight and starts off , flatteringly, on a long rant about the mistreatment of women in football.
“No good at all, dear,” she says, slapping the dashboard. “I only hope you don’t let them get to you because, well, those kinds of journo parasites will only take more and more out of you. I’m just bloody happy you showed them all wrong. Well done getting promoted. I mean, I swore to my wife I’d be against Richmond till the end, but we’ve both got a bit of a soft spot for the underdog. And for elegant blondes. Oh—I hope you don’t mind me saying.”
“Oh please,” says Rebecca, who rather hopes Diane will keep going.
“Will you at least tell me if Ted knows we’re coming?” asks Keely, long-suffering.
Rebecca passes Keeley her phone so she can see the screen.
Ted, she’d written, mind if Keeley and I come visit?
meet you there boss!! hey why’d you run off, we were real sad to miss you ☹️ ☹️ ☹️
Just bring him if he’s still with you, I need to speak to him
sure thing stephen king
“Are you sure he knows you mean—oh!” Keeley drops the phone on her foot and hisses, bending down to extricate it. “Sorry,” she says. “You just got a text from Sam while I was looking at it.”
“Sweep that away,” Rebecca says. “I can’t look at them yet.”
“That’s quite mean,” Keeley says, frowning. “He’ll think you’re ignoring him.”
Rebecca makes a gesture as if to say, Well…
Keeley scowls.
“That Sam Obisanya?” asks Diane. “He’s quite all right, isn’t he? But the missus likes Jamie Tartt best because of his little headbands.”
“They’re cute, aren’t they,” Keeley says with a wistful sigh, and Rebecca gives her a sharp look because really, what’s going on there.
“How’s Roy,” she says pointedly.
Keeley sighs, even more wistfully. “Amazing,” she says. “D’you see my problem?”
Rebecca does.
--
“Game face?” Rebecca asks Keeley when they’re standing on Ted’s doorstep, and waits for Keeley to inspect her for cracks.
“Super fierce, Rebecca,” she approves.
“Good,” Rebecca says. “Now, Ted will probably play good cop, so I’d love for you to just stand behind me and look vaguely threatening while I convince him that it’s really in his best interest not to do anything with the story.”
“Oh, Roy’s bloody great to have around for that,” Keeley says. “Should I text him?”
Rebecca ignores her and rings the bell. She expects Ted to answer it, but she keeps her face stony in case Trent Crimm is there with him. But when the door opens, it’s Sam.
“Rebecca,” he says. He’s not smiling either, which, from Sam, is something like a death glare.
She feels faint suddenly. “Sam.”
“Ted said you wanted to talk to me,” he says, sounding a little hopeful.
“Ah.” She laughs, light and fake. “There may have been a comical misunderstanding over text, it seems. I thought I was coming over here to intimidate Trent Crimm into keeping this story out of print.”
“I’m not really a working journalist anymore,” says a voice from inside Ted’s apartment.
“Y’all made it!” says Ted, appearing behind Sam. “Come on in, Keeley. This is great, I never have parties.” He looks at Sam and Rebecca. “Feel free to keep using the stoop. Or my bedroom, but sound carries from there, so we’d all just be sitting on my couch trying not to listen.”
“No need,” Sam says. He steps out, standing across from her. “Rebecca didn’t want to talk to me after all. It was a comical misunderstanding. I think I’d better head home.”
“Sam,” says Rebecca, helpless. “No. Stay.”
“I’ll just close the door now,” Ted says.
Sam puts his hand in the doorway, leaving Ted stood there holding the door. “No. Rebecca, you should go inside. I understand if you don’t want to be with me. But I have to be honest about my own feelings, and the truth is, when you say you want to be with me and then run away, it makes me feel bad. Really bad. Like, I think I understand what it was like for Dani when he killed that dog. So I need you to let me go.”
Rebecca swallows. It feels like her stomach is the cavern from Alice in Wonderland and her heart is falling, falling, falling. “I can’t.”
“You can’t?” Sam says. “Then why run?”
“I love that this talk is happening,” Ted says, looking from one of them to the other. "The only thing is that I have the air conditioning going."
“I’m scared,” Rebecca says, blinking. “I’m scared of the way I feel for you, and I’m scared of what other people are going to say about it. I don’t care what they say about me, really, I’ve come through the worst, but I can’t bear for them to think the worst of you.”
“Please let me make that decision,” Sam says. “Because I made it when I fell in love with you.”
Oh, God, Rebecca thinks. “I’m afraid I made it too,” she says. Then she falls forward into his arms, and the only sound for a moment is Ted sniffling quietly from the door.
--
Rebecca is hoping to bring Sam back to hers for a long-chat-and-other-things, but he whispers that Ted’s made this really amazing-looking cake that they might get to try if they stick around, and Ted, who is still listening, confirms this with a “more the merrier!” Trent Crimm and Keeley appear to be at the tail end of a very intense conversation about—Love Island?—when Sam and Rebecca walk into the room, holding hands. She can feel Sam’s fingers tense in hers, unsure what she’s going to do.
“Well, Trent Crimm,” she says. He looks up and raises his eyebrows. “I suppose you know Richmond’s latest gossip item now. I’m very proud of my relationship with Sam, but we’re not quite ready for it to be public, so you ought to know that if you publish it, I’ll make sure you never work again.” She kept her voice steady all through that; well done, Rebecca. Sam squeezes her hand.
Trent smiles meanly. God, Rebecca hates the press. “I’m afraid I don’t go in for gossip,” he says, pushing at his glasses. “But, ah, congratulations to the two of you.”
Rebecca feels Sam relax into her. So he had been nervous, too. That’s a bit of a relief.
“What d’you call publishing an article about someone’s panic attacks,” Keeley asks, “if not gossip? I’m curious.”
Trent looks ashamed, which, bloody good. Rebecca winks at Keeley in a way that means, I wish I could give you a high five right now. “I’ve—I’m not entirely proud—”
“Oh, don’t hurt yourself,” Ted says, dropping a hand on the back of Trent’s chair. To Keeley, he adds, “The only one Trent owes any explanation to is me. And I’m satisfied. Now, that good enough for you?”
“Maybe,” Keeley says, suspicious. “Do we get to eat some of that cake?” She points to the counter, where a gorgeous cream-and-chocolate thing is sitting on an enormous cakestand.
“What do you think?” Ted punches Trent’s shoulder in this strange, playful way. Rebecca’s not quite sure what to make of it. “You feeling generous enough to share your birthday cake with this group of party crashers?”
“Since you made a cake large enough to feed a small army,” Trent says drily, “that may be for the best.”
“It’s your birthday?” Sam sounds delighted. “Happy birthday!” He seems unable to resist dropping Rebecca’s hand and going over to clap Trent on the back. Which, since Trent’s sitting and Ted’s standing behind him, results in a bit of a tangle. Trent sits rigidly still in the middle of it, face frozen in polite horror.
Ted hands out generous slices of cake, and they settle themselves into the living room. Sam and Rebecca join Keeley on the couch, and Ted drags a chair over from the kitchen table to sit next to Trent.
“We were trying to find a place in London where you can see constellations,” Ted explains, “because Keeley told me this thing about wishing on your star sign on your birthday—”
“It really works,” Keeley says. “I did it when I was on holiday in Italy when I was twenty-three, and I had the best shag of my life the next week.”
“That was just because you were twenty-three years old,” Rebecca tells her, and Keeley says, "No, Italian women are—”
“—and it turns out there’s really no place in this city where you can see Cancer, but I remembered how nice this park near your place was, Rebecca, and we could see Orion’s belt. Oh, shoot!” Ted turns to Trent. “I wanted to say you should try wishing on that, but I forgot with all the drama. That and forgetting the candles for the cake.”
“Oh, what a pity,” Trent says, voice flat. “Good thing none of this is real.”
“Come on,” Ted tells him. “You only need to believe, like, three percent, to get a placebo effect.”
“I didn’t know you were a statistician,” Trent says. “Shall I make a wish on my next bite of cake?”
“All right,” Ted says, “but you better really do it. I’ll be watching.” Trent’s next bite seems to take about twenty seconds, and Ted, as promised, makes intense eye contact with him throughout. Rebecca looks away, oddly uncomfortable, and feels Sam shift next to her.
The doorbell rings.
“More guests?” Trent cocks his head at Ted, but Ted looks blank.
“Maybe Beard needs his spare key,” he says, rising. “Left one here a few months back, was very insistent I have one.”
“Oh no, that’s probably Roy,” Keeley says. “I texted him ages ago that I’d ended up at a bloody couples mixer and I need him to come.”
“What, Roy Kent?” says Trent.
“Couples?” says Rebecca. She looks around, counting.
“Let’s leave soon,” Sam whispers to her.
“Yes,” Trent says, as Rebecca does her sums. “Just don’t go to the press with this, will you?”
Her face freezes in a confused smile.
“It’s after fucking midnight,” she hears from Ted’s doorway. “Where’s Keeley? She promised me cake.”
--
Rebecca does end up getting Sam in her bed, although it’s later than she would have liked.
“It’s all right if you’re tired,” he says, nosing at her neck. “We don’t have to do anything.”
“Think again,” she says, settling him on top of her, the way she likes him best. “It’s been far too long. I probably won’t let you leave this bed for a week.”
He huffs into her ear, kissing it. “Sometime in that week,” he tells her, “we will need to talk about what happened tonight.
“We do,” she says. “I mean, Ted and Trent Crimm? What on earth is that? The man’s a journalist.”
He laughs, but quiet. “Not that.”
Everything else. The part about Rebecca being scared of what they are. The fact that they were lucky tonight, but the press is going to find out about them at some point, and they need to prepare for when it does.
“I know,” she sighs. “I know. Just, can we, tonight, please…”
“Yes, darling,” he says, and lifts himself up slightly. She gasps, and he grins. “You know I can’t say no.”
--
“Well,” Ted says, shutting the door on the last of them. “Now we’ve told my friends, anyway.” He returns cautiously to the living room, where he’s unsurprised to see that Trent’s affected ice-man has melted and he’s buried his face in his hands. Ted leans over the back of his chair and tries to put his arms around him, although Trent seems intent on making himself as pointy as possible at the moment.
“What a horrible night,” he says, muffled. “I knew I shouldn’t get another year older.” He twists around to glare at Ted. “Roy Kent ate about half of my fucking cake.”
“You do complain I feed you too much,” Ted says.
“Birthdays don’t count,” says Trent, rising to start gathering up plates. He likes to have a task when he’s upset, so Ted doesn’t try to help him, just sort of stands there in a non-hovering-type-way. “That’s why I was going to let you fuck me tonight.”
Ted wishes he had some glasses so he could take them off and then put them back on. They’ve been sleeping together three months and Ted-on-top hasn’t even entered the conversation. In all honesty, Ted’s barely thought about it. Thinking about it now, though. “You were?” he inquires, in a voice that's trying for neutral.
“I was going to bring it up at the park at an opportune moment,” Trent says, “but you wouldn’t stop looking at constellation maps on your phone, and then we interrupted your friends’ little tryst and we had to come home with a weeping child—”
“Sam’s twenty-two,” Ted informs him, although his brain’s still stuck a few lines back. “Hey, it didn’t go so bad. I mean, we can still, you know, celebrate.”
Trent puts the stacked plates in the kitchen sink and turns on the hot water tap. “I knew that’s what they’d think of me,” he says. “It’s not a surprise. Why would it be? It’s true. I’m a bloodthirsty journalist. I—” his voice catches. “I’ve hurt you.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Ted says, coming over to cradle Trent’s face in his hands. “I think I know what you’ve done for me. And I get to decide whether I like it or not, huh? I meant what I said tonight. If I’m satisfied, it’s no one else’s business.”
“Oh fuck you,” Trent says, but that seems to mollify him enough that Ted leans in for the kiss.
“You gonna tell me what you wished for on that bite of cake?” he whispers.
Trent reaches behind himself to turn off the tap. “No,” he says. “I’m afraid that’s against the rules.”
“Trent Crimm,” Ted says, delighted. “Don’t tell me you’ve started believing in wishes and such.”
Trent raises his eyebrows. “No more than three percent,” he says. “But I’ve been reliably told that that’s enough.”