Girl After Dark (25 page)

So why do I check my phone?

It never brings me anything good.

Because, like so many times before, as I look at my emails it feels as if my whole world falls apart.

§

From: LondonWhispers.co.uk

Vintage Honey Found!

Have we got a Vintage Honey scoop for you!

Now a lot of you may have been wondering just where our disgraced YouTuber disappeared to after her decidedly NSFW leaked striptease video (link below). Well, the answer is: America!

In fact, we can exclusively reveal that not only is Vintage Honey (real name Melissa Lane) in New York - see pictures! - but, wait for it, she’s
also
the author of raunchy anonymous blog Girl After Dark that’s been setting the blogosphere alight with it’s naughty tales of sexual adventure and exploration!

Coming hot on the heels of her leaked sex tape, it seems like Vintage Honey is obviously
way
wilder than we thought!

What’s next for Vintage Honey (or should we just start calling her Melissa)? It seems like America is the right choice for her − in fact, why doesn’t she relocate to Los Angeles? We’re sure the Adult Entertainment industry would welcome her with open arms!

§

From: NYGoss.com

Girl After Dark Unmasked!

Can you remember a time before Girl After Dark?

Us neither!

It seems like this whole city’s been hooked on her tales of sexual discovery.

But now, we can exclusively reveal the identity of the mysterious GAD …

Those of you into YouTube Style gurus might remember a British blogger from last year called VintageHoney (real name Melissa Lane) who ended her channel in disgrace following the leaked release of a raunchy sex tape? Well, you guessed it! VintageHoney and Girl After Dark are one and the same!

I don’t know about you, but don’t you feel differently knowing all those hot posts should be read in a cute English accent?!

For more on the Vintage Honey scandal click here (NSFW)

And if you have any more information about what Melissa Lane is up to in New York - perhaps you were even one of her many conquests? - then do make sure to email in at: [email protected]

§

There’s nothing else for it.

I burst into tears.

It’s just too much to take. I don’t even bother to read the comments this time. I mean, I already know exactly what they’re gonna say. They’re going to say I’m a slut, an airhead, a tramp, a no-talent whore.

I want to scream, I’m so fucking frustrated.

It’s like my life is continuously looping around on itself, and nothing I do can seem to change that.

Why was I so stupid to think that things would work out this time?

I was kidding myself when I said I didn’t care what people think of me — of course I care.

And now the whole thing is definitely ruined: Carson won’t want me after this. I can hear his words ringing so clearly in my head:
“In my line of work, scandal isn’t really such a good thing.
” 

And this will definitely have ruined my book deal, too. Katy and the publishers won’t want me either. Their anonymous story was supposed to be about a normal, everyday girl. Not a disgraced internet sensation that the whole world hates anyway.

I know how damaging these scandals are, and I just can’t put Carson through it.

I pick up my phone and do the only thing I can right now.

I send a text:

I’m so sorry. But it’s over between us. It has to be. There’s going to be so much gossip. So much hate. It follows me wherever I go. And I can’t put you through this. I’m not the girl for you. I wish I was. But you need somebody good in your life. Not a fuck up like me.

Then I turn off my phone before I’m driven mad by the familiar cricket-like chirping of hundreds of new messages and notifications that always follow a scandal like this. Instead, I bury my head in my pillow, and finally give in to the urge to scream.

My scream turns into sobs.

And as I pull the covers over my head and curl myself up into a ball, all I hope is that I might be lucky enough to cry myself to sleep.

There’s a knock at the door.

At first I don’t answer it. It’s probably Dad again, asking for the millionth time whether I’m okay and whether there’s anything he can fetch me. I know he’s only trying to help. And I know that he’s only worried about me because I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours holed up in here … but still. I can’t face him just yet. I can’t face
anyone
.

But it isn’t his voice I hear, coming from the corridor. The voice I hear isn’t my dad’s gentle, questioning tone. It’s loud and insistent and I know it won’t take no for an answer.

“Melissa Lane! I know you’re in there, and you’d better make sure you’re covered up, because I’m coming in no matter what!”

There’s no mistaking
that
voice. It’s Jonathan, of course.

I silently curse myself for not sorting out a lock on the bedroom door. Dad would never actually invade my privacy, but Jonathan has no such concerns. He lets himself into the room and, when he sees me, his face breaks out into a sympathetic smile.

God. I must look
dreadful
: red-eyed and mascara-streaked from constant crying, my hair hanging in limp, unwashed strands around my puffy face.

“Oh, Honey,” he says quietly as he sits down on the edge of my bed, reaching out to gently brush the tangles of hair from my eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you tell me what happened. I already know.”

“Yeah,” I whisper angrily. “You and everyone else in the entire world.”

“It’s not that bad, you know,” he says softly. “You’ve been in here for a whole two days. The internet’s moved on already. You of all people should know that. You should
see
what Kim Kardashian has done to her hair!”

Despite everything, I can’t help but laugh. And begrudgingly, I feel kind of glad that Dad let him in here, despite my insistence on keeping everyone out.

“Hey,” I reply. “How did you get in here anyway? I thought I told Dad not to let
anyone
in to see me.”

As I say that, my mind flits for the millionth time to Carson.

I wonder if he’s tried to visit, too?

I wonder if he’s tried to call?

But of course, I’m too scared to turn on my phone to find out, just in case he
hasn’t
.

“Well, actually it was your dad who called me,” Jonathan explains. “He’s really worried about you, Honey. You’ve been stowed away in here. You’ve not been eating. He asked me to come.”

“I’m fine,” I croak. “Just leave me alone.”

“Sorry,” he says cheekily. “But I’m just
not
gonna do that.”

“I ruined it again,” I sigh, hitting the covers in frustration. “I can’t believe I was so stupid. They called me a slut once and I only just managed to get over it. But now it’s happened again. It must obviously be true …”

“I know you and I know you’re not like that,” he says softly. “Those people are just jealous. They’re jealous of your lifestyle, of your adventures, of your looks, your honesty — the whole package. They’re nobodies and you’re a somebody. You can hide in this bedroom for the rest of your life, sure, and nobody will ever say anything bad about you. But they won’t say anything
good
about you, either.
Hater’s are gonna hate
, but you know what our patron saint Miss T Swift would say, right?”

I look up at him, unable to keep another smile from tugging at the corners of my mouth.

“That I’ve just gotta … shake it off?” I venture.

“That’s right,” he grins. “And you know what? That’s exactly what you’re gonna do tonight. Because I’m taking you out. You met my friends, Cami and Rita, right?”

I nod.

“Well, they just couldn’t
believe it
when they found out who you were! You’re like a
celebrity
to them! They’re just dying to meet you. And they’re totally gonna flip when they see you tonight. My friend Eliot is hosting at the club — we’ll get free drinks, the full VIP treatment. And don’t say you don’t feel like it. Because I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ve got full permission from your dad to do whatever it takes to get you out of this room! So don’t try me baby, cus I’m serious about this!”

I can’t help but laugh.

I guess my mind’s been made up for me.

“Okay, okay, I’m in,” I sigh, holding my hands up in surrender.

“Good,” he says firmly. “But Honey? Now don’t take this the wrong way …” He drops his voice to a theatrical whisper. “But you’ve kind of
let yourself go
.”

I don’t even need to check myself out in the mirror to know that he’s right. All my life, I’ve been religious about taking off my makeup before bed. And I haven’t even washed my face in the past two days. No amount of gossip or scandal is gonna bring me this low, ever again.

I give Jonathan a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, then run into the shower.

§

Jonathan wasn’t wrong.

We
are
getting the full VIP treatment.

I’m totally surrounded by people — all Jonathan’s friends — and they’re
all
treating me like I’m a celebrity: fetching me drinks, bombarding me with questions. One of them even asks me for my autograph!

I suppose there is a silver lining to all this. Because even if there are haters, there are also still obviously loads of people who
don’t
hate me, too … Who actually seem inspired by what I do. And I know I should focus on that.

But at the same time, I just can’t help but wonder whether any of this really matters at all.

Because I’ve still lost him, haven’t I?

After everything we’d talked about. About how he wanted me to be driven, focused, serious. How excited he was about me writing my book — the one that’s never gonna happen now. And most of all, about how important his career and his reputation were to him — and how damaging any kind of scandal might be. There’s no
way
that he’s going to want anything to do with me. And more than that, I love him too much to put him through all this.

Being with me means trouble, big trouble, and there’s no way that Carson can be the person he wants to be and focus on his career while helping other people … None of that can happen if
my
name is attached to his. I might have to go through life with a scarlet M stitched to my dress, but I’m not going to put Carson through that, too.

I’m not the right kind of girlfriend for a distinguished human rights lawyer. I’d be better suited to a washed up, Z-list, ex-reality-TV-show contestant, desperate for another glimpse of fame, no matter the cost. And guess what? There’s a few of them in this club tonight.

I silently curse Esme.

She really wasn’t joking with that last threat, was she?

I shouldn’t have underestimated her — if only she’d just left us alone.

But I know how useless this train of thought is. It was only a matter of time. And if not Esme, then somebody else would have joined the dots. I should have realised that nobody can stay truly anonymous on the web. That’s just not the way it works.

So with all this going on in my head, it’s hard to focus on having a fun night out. Sure, the club is amazing, and all these people actually seem to love me — but even so. I’m just not feeling it. 

Don’t worry.

I’m not going to run away again this time — after all, I’d probably have to get to Papua New Guinea before I could find a place where nobody knows who I am.

And I’m pretty sure that there isn’t a branch of Topshop in Papua New Guinea. Which leaves me no other option, does it? All I can do now is stand proud. Proud … but alone and heartbroken.

Just then the DJ cuts the music and everyone looks around at each other puzzled. The only person who doesn’t seem to wonder what’s going on is Jonathan.

He flashes the biggest grin at me, his eyebrows waggling, as the DJ makes his announcement into the mic.

“This song goes out to Melissa, from her cousin Jonathan!”

At this, he grabs my hand and pulls me into the centre of the dance floor.

Then those familiar drums kick in and again I can’t help but laugh.

There’s no more perfect song for this moment than the one written by the patron saint of heartbreak, Taylor Swift.

And just like Jonathan promised me a few hours ago in my bedroom, we just Shake It Off.

§

We dance for what feels like hours. The music is fun: all my favourite pop divas, Taylor Swift followed by Ariana Grande followed by Beyonce followed by Madonna. I’d heard people talk about the healing powers of music, but I’d never really understood what they meant until tonight.

I must look a sweaty mess by now but I really don’t care.

Because all my worries feel like they’re finally melting away.

Well, all but one …

When I finally flop down exhausted at the side of the dance floor, well, maybe it’s all the free drinks I’ve been given all evening, but I find myself turning on my phone. I’m going to text Carson. I have to tell him how much I love him, even if I’m going to let him go. I just want him to know that this is the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make.

And as I hold down the power button and my phone sparks back into life, I’m prepared for it to go crazy with new messages and notifications. But I don’t care what any of them say.

I go straight to text Carson. But what I wasn’t prepared to see was his last message:

I understand if you don’t want to speak to me but please just let me know that you’re okay.

And then the one before that:

Hi, I called round earlier but your dad told me you weren’t well? I really need to speak to you! x

And the one before that:

I’ve left you so many voicemails. PLEASE call me back? xxx

And the one before that:

Please don’t be upset by this. Stuff like this happens all the time in New York. It’s just gossip - a storm in a teacup. Nobody will care in a few days. I certainly don’t. You know I love you xxxxx

And the one before that:

Melissa, I’ve just seen all the news items about you. I’m so sorry. I know this was the last thing you wanted. Don’t worry. We’ll get over this together. I love you xxx

Oh God, I think, as my eyes fix on the word ‘together’ in the last message I read. He’s right. Together. We’ll get over this
together
. I’ve been such an idiot. I had no right to assume that I knew what was best — for me, for Carson, for us — without even consulting him. 

Relationships are about two people, facing the world together. And that takes courage. But it’s also where you find strength. And I’ve been too silly and weak to realise that. Deep down, I can see that he was always going to react like this. What we have is way stronger than gossip. But my stupid pride, my hurt and shame, got in the way. Carson deserves more than that. He doesn’t care about gossip, but I realise now that when he says he wants a serious, focused girl, he means one who can stand up and face the world with pride — just like he does.

I look at the time on my phone. It’s fast approaching midnight.

I need to get out of here.

I quickly grab my bag, and hastily kiss a puzzled Jonathan goodbye. “I’ll explain everything later!” I shout over the music. “But I can’t stay a moment longer!”

“But they’re playing Azealia Banks?!” he calls after me, confused, as I race out towards the exit of the club weaving through the dancing crowds.

Seconds later, back outside on the street, I manage to flag down the first taxi to head my way. I jump in and tell the driver Carson’s address in an excited rush.