Harlequin E New Adult Romance Box Set Volume 1: Burning Moon\Girls' Guide to Getting It Together\Rookie in Love (39 page)

“Oh, no, dear,” Mum insists. “I’m sure it’s all very modern these days.”

“What about Jeremy?”

“He can still come if he wants. Anyway, perhaps Bryony will have come to her senses by then.”

I stare out the window as the bus turns a corner and passes a small row of shops. “Maybe.”

“I best go, anyway, sweetie. I need to fill Wendy’s sister in on what’s happened.”

We say our goodbyes and I slip the phone back into my bag.

By the time the bus reaches my stop, I’m feeling pretty good about myself.

I know it’s probably smugness that Bryony Hudson’s dream wedding plans weren’t so perfect after all, but at least I’ve finally told Tim how I feel.

And I’ve sorted things Liam, too. Even though it doesn’t feel like anything has settled down.

I hope Zara’s home so that I can tell her about everything that’s happened today.

This is mostly because I need a gossiping partner who isn’t my mother.

But also because I want to talk to her about what I’ve accomplished. I’m not sure that I’m confident enough to tackle something that scares me
every
day. But I did that today.

The flat is dark when I unlock the door and step into the living room.

“Zara?” I see her laptop on the sofa, still plugged in.

Her bedroom door is open just wide enough for me to make out the shapes of her furniture through the fading light of the back window.

She isn’t in there, but the scent of Lacoste Touch of Pink is still strong in the air. Along with her addiction to red lipstick, Zara can’t leave the house without a quick spritz.

I push the door open farther and survey the dark room, promising myself that I am not here to snoop. I am just concerned for my friend.

She would hate me being here, surrounded by all of her personal stuff. This is so much worse than glancing over her shoulder while she’s typing. I should get out of here.

But I don’t. I take another step across the oatmeal-coloured carpet and reach out for whatever’s sitting on top of her daisy-print bedspread.

It’s a magazine, its glossy cover so familiar. There’s Katy Perry, all raven-haired and perfectly made-up, smiling up at me.

I glance at the bold typeface.

“This Season’s Sexiest Shoes,” “The Boyfriend Code,” “Celebs on the Edge.”

And finally I see it. Up on the top left side of the page.

“How to Be a Confident Woman: A Step-by-Step Guide to Boosting Your Self-Esteem.”

This can’t be my copy. It’s too pristine, like a brand new issue.

I flick through the pages anyway, just to be sure.

And there’s Olivia Bright’s article still intact, not torn out like in mine.

What is Zara doing with this? I thought she hated the whole girly gossip-magazine culture.

With my fingers still gripping the glossy pages, I turn to study her dressing table. There’s her TV next to her jewellery box and perfumes.

The small ornate stool is tucked underneath, but I can still see the neat stack of magazines and papers perched on it.

I lift the stack and sit on the edge of her bed, flicking through the publications first. There are a few articles with her name printed at the bottom.

Smiling as I read over her work, I turn to the stack of loose papers next. Something feels wrong as I hold the printouts. This is a definite invasion of Zara’s privacy. What if she comes home right now and finds me sitting in her bedroom, going through her things?

But I read the printed words, anyway. Out of curiosity. They’re all tips and guides and lists of things, and they all sound just like…

I hold my breath when I see the byline on each one.

Olivia Bright.

This does not make sense. Zara hates Olivia’s article and brandished my whole ordeal as nonsense. Why would she have copies of Olivia’s writing in her room?

As calmly as I can, I replace everything I’ve touched and leave her bedroom.

I find my handbag and pull out my mobile phone. I have another missed call and voicemail notification, probably from my mum, but I ignore that for now and call Zara’s number.

After several rings, her cheery voicemail message plays, apologising for missing my call and asking me to leave my name and number.

I end the call and think for a moment.

If I can’t speak to Zara right now, then what about Olivia?

Zara can’t explain all that stuff in her room right now, but maybe Olivia can. Maybe Zara’s working for the same magazine and was too embarrassed to tell me. Back in Zara’s room, I pick up the magazine again and flick to the back, where the contact information is listed.

Underneath the London head office address, I see the name of a features and submissions office in Leeds.

I know it’s a long shot that she’ll even be at the Leeds office. Women like Olivia Bright live in the capital and own stylish apartments, much more glamorous than Tim’s.

But this is my chance to meet her. Surely fancy magazine editors work late — later than HR admins at window companies, anyway.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my coat and hurry outside.

I’m back in the city centre and standing outside the Leeds address in less than half an hour.

I have no idea what to say as I step inside the small reception area. I am instantly greeted by the ordinary-looking brunette behind the desk.

“I’m looking for someone. A writer. Olivia Bright.”

The woman nods. “She said someone was coming by. It’s for her new article, isn’t it? I’ll take you up.”

Before I can tell her I’m not who she thinks, the woman is on her feet and gesturing for me to follow her.

Well, I might as well play along now.

She takes me to a standard office space, not unlike the one I work in, only much more crowded with furniture.

There’re about half a dozen people sitting at desks, frantically typing, and a couple more having a chat by the water machine.

“Here we are.” The woman stops at one of the desks, blocking my view of Olivia.

I take a step forwards, holding out my hand in greeting. It drops back by my side when I see the person sitting there.

It’s not Olivia Bright. It’s Zara.

Chapter Twenty

This is not real. That’s the only possible explanation. Because there I was, expecting Olivia Bright, and my best friend is sitting at her desk.

“Megan?” Zara’s eyes dart around the office as the receptionist leaves. “What are you doing here?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

She keeps her voice low. “Look, we can’t talk about this here.”

I’m still hoping that there’s an explanation. Like maybe Zara just works for Olivia Bright. Maybe she answers her phone and files her paperwork. Because Zara Thomas and Olivia Bright are not the same person. They can’t be.

“Why not?” I ask. “Are you embarrassed?”

She sighs, sinking lower in her chair. “I should explain.”

“Go on, then,” I press when she doesn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry, Meg. I never expected anything to come from it when I started using the pen name.”

Oh, my God. Oh, my God. This is real. This is happening.

I want to get into bed and pull the covers up tight above my head so I can’t hear her.

“And then writing like I was somebody else became kind of fun,” she continues. “The magazines liked it. A lot better than anything Zara Thomas ever wrote.” She pulls a face at the mention of her real name.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice comes out as a whisper.

Zara sighs, dropping her gaze. “I don’t know. I guess when you came home from work that day, telling me all about this new article that you thought was so amazing, I couldn’t shatter your hopes by telling you it was all rubbish.”

“But you did tell me that,” I point out.

“You didn’t believe me, though. And I knew you wouldn’t. Not while you still had this idea of ‘Olivia’ in your head.”

“So why didn’t you support me, then? If you knew I was going to do it anyway?”

“Keep your voice down,” she urges, watching a woman to her left whose head is turned in our direction. “Look, I never wrote any of that stuff expecting anybody would take it seriously.”

I wait until the woman turns back to her computer to speak. “Oh, because that would be such a joke to you, wouldn’t it? How can you even write like that if you don’t believe a word of it? You’re nothing like Olivia.”

Her eyes instantly scan the office at the mention of the name. “Why?” she asks when she’s satisfied nobody is watching us. “Because I don’t do most of that stuff myself?”

“You’ve never even been to La Senza!”

“La Senza?”

“I thought I had to buy my underwear from somewhere really posh. I thought that’s what it meant,” I wail. “But you lied to me. It was all fake.”

“I didn’t lie to you.” She shakes her head softly. “I just didn’t tell you.”

“You never tell me anything! You’re always so secretive. I’m supposed to be your best friend but it’s like you don’t trust me.”

“Of course I trust you.” She lowers her voice again as a woman with long red hair passes us.

“Is everything okay?” the woman asks, her eyes flicking over me.

“Fine,” Zara assures her. “I’ll have that piece on your desk before we leave tonight.”

“What are you doing here?” I say when she’s gone. “Is this where you’ve been disappearing to?”

“The magazine is taking me on as a regular features writer,” Zara says after a pause. “They’re really interested in Olivia.”

I meet her eyes. “Is that what you’re going to do? Feed lies to women on a weekly basis?”

“Come on, Megan.” She sighs. “Why are you being so sensitive about this?”

“Because it’s just something else that you’ve deliberately hidden from me. Were you ever going to tell me the truth, or were you hoping I’d never find out—like that morning when I saw you with Gary?”

“Gary doesn’t have anything to do with this. And I never meant to keep anything from you. I’m not like that.”

“Aren’t you?” I ask. “So does everybody here call you Olivia? Do they think you’re
her?
” I take in her appearance, from her trademark red lipstick and pinned-up hair with the blond streaks flying loose, to her Olivia-like high-waisted blue skirt and dove grey top with lace sleeves.

She’s even starting to look like her—not the Olivia Bright I imagined in my head, but a version of her. A version who is not Zara Thomas.

“Yes,” she admits, dropping her gaze and picking at a hangnail. “I mean, they know it’s a pen name, but they don’t know that I’m the Zara Thomas who sent them countless submissions, which always went ignored.”

“Is that why you’re doing it? Is that why you’re pretending to be her?”

“I’m not pretending,” she insists. “Not really. It’s still me writing. It’s just that I’m writing about things that I wouldn’t normally.”

“Things that you don’t care about,” I correct. “How can you write guides for women that you don’t even follow yourself?”

“You don’t understand.”

“No, you’re right.” I lift my head assertively. “I don’t know what I expected to find when I came here, but it certainly wasn’t this.”

As soon as I’m back outside again, I turn my pace into a run. I run all the way through town until I’m almost back at the bus stop.

Stopping to catch my breath on an empty bench, I think about what I should do.

I can’t go home. Zara will probably follow me there, anyway.

I can’t go to my mother’s. Tim will probably be there. Or Wendy. Or the whole bloody family, including Bryony’s medical sciences teacher.

Scarlett’s flat isn’t too far from here. Maybe she’d be up for a visitor.

Just as I’m searching in my bag for my phone, someone emerges from the car park opposite.

I squint as the dark figure walks towards me.

“I thought it was you.”

I look up into Liam’s round brown eyes.

“Oh,” I say. “It’s you.”

He sits down beside me. “You could sound at least a little bit happy about that.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve had a falling out with my flatmate.”

“Is it some woman problem or something I might be able to help with?”

“It is not just some woman problem.” I shoot him an icy glare before opening my mouth to explain everything. I stop when I realise that doing so would mean telling him about Olivia Bright and “How to Be a Confident Woman.”

I have no desire to make myself look like an even bigger idiot.

“She’s a writer. And she started using this pen name and didn’t tell me,” I explain vaguely.

“Should she have told you?” Liam wrinkles his brow in confusion.

Okay. I’m going to have to provide him with a few more details.

“I read one of her articles and went on about how amazing it was and she never once said she’d written it.”

“And that’s bad, is it?”

“Of course it’s bad!” I bite down on my bottom lip. Maybe I still haven’t quite shared enough information with him. “It was a sort of…guide. And I was following it. And Zara kept telling me it was rubbish and trying to talk me out of it.”

“What’s it a guide about?”

I wasn’t expecting him to ask that question. Perhaps I can get away with looking at my boots and pretending I didn’t hear him.

“Because if it was sex tips, I can see how that would be awkward.”

“What?” I stare at him with my mouth slightly open. “Of course it wasn’t sex tips. What kind of writer do you think she is?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “What sort of guide is it, then?”

My selectiveness deafness can’t work a second time, can it?

“Just, you know, the silly girly kind about where to buy underwear and stuff.”

I’m hoping the reference to underwear is going to make him blush and drop the subject, which I wish I hadn’t brought up in the first place.

“What’s the problem with that?” He doesn’t break eye contact.

“She buys her knickers at Primark for a start! Her life is nothing like the image she paints in that article.”

He fixes me with an intense stare. “Is that really what you’re angry about?”

I force myself to look away from him, catching my own reflection in the shop’s window behind us. Zara’s right about never knowing who you might see. I really should start wearing lipstick.