I stare at the words until they blur into grey smudges. How the Hell is this happening? Hasn’t the last week been bad enough?
Swallowing hard, I click on the phone number listed in the email signature. My phone rings for a few seconds, then there’s a click on the other end of the line.
“Vivian White, Anna Bardet Couture,” a cheery female voice says. “How can we help you today?”
I clear my throat. “This is Layla Thompson. I was due to fly out to visit your HQ today, but I just got to the airport, and they said that my flight had been cancelled?”
“Ah.” There’s an awkward pause. “Yes, Anna said you might call. I’m surprised you’re just finding out now, didn’t you get our email?”
“No. I’ve been a bit off-the-grid.”
There’s the sound of shuffling papers. “Well, Miss Bardet has decided to go in a direction which doesn’t include collaboration with your brand at this time. Sorry for any inconvenience! We wish you the best of luck with your future business endeavours.”
For a few seconds, I struggle to find words. In the end, I just choke out, “Why?”
SEVENTY-THREE
LAYLA
“As you know, trends come and go,” she says breezily. “It’s difficult to make statements with any certainty in this industry, and—”
“Yes, but why?”
There’s a long pause, then a sigh. “You’re on that Single Guys podcast, right? Anna loves that show, she listens to it all the time in the office. It’s where she first heard about you. I gather that she’s unimpressed with your recent… comportment regarding your co-stars on the show.”
My throat feels like it’s burning. “I didn’t cheat on them.”
“Ma’am, I don’t know anything about the situation. I don’t even like podcasts. All I know is that Anna is very temperamental, and she does not change her mind on these matters. She can be very… hard-headed. I’m sorry.”
To her credit, she actually does sound apologetic. Maybe this is normal for her. Maybe she’s used to turning down crying small business owners because her boss got pissed off about Twitter drama.
I take a deep breath, nodding. “Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am. Have a nice day.” She hangs up. My phone beeps in my ear as the line disconnects. Slowly, I lower it to my side, looking around the airport. The bright lights and crowds of people shimmer around me.
It’s happening again. Once again, people are lying about me. They’re spreading rumours, and making stuff up, and I can’t talk back. At least when I was sixteen, it was only the school making fun of me. The guys have let me become a worldwide laughing-stock. Hell, this has probably been good for them. I bet their engagement has skyrocketed, while I’ve just been left to struggle and fight all by myself. Again. Because I was stupid enough to trust them.
I look down at my suitcase. I don’t know where to go. I can’t bear to see the guys right now, but I don’t have anywhere else. I don’t have any friends. Just a few weeks ago, I had three boyfriends; I had listeners tweeting and messaging and emailing me; I had more customers than I’d ever seen before. I’ve spent my whole life thinking I was unlikeable, and for the first time in almost thirty years, it felt like people genuinely liked me.
And now I’m alone again.
A wave of shame washes over me. How did I let this happen? How did I let the guys put me in such a terrible position? Yeah, they hurt me, and — intentionally or not — started a scandal which hurt my career. But I’m the one cowering away, afraid of going home. I’m the one who hasn’t done any real work in a week. Who’s spent days crying in a hotel room, too scared to check my own email. That’s not on them, that’s on me.
It’s not like I haven’t been through this before. I know what it’s like to be bullied. I have years of experience. I’ve handled it once, and I can handle it again. I’m not going to let people break me down into pieces. I won’t.
Something inside me hardens. I can’t wallow in self-pity anymore. I need to face this head on.
I feel like I’m in a dream as I drag my suitcase to the nearest airport restaurant. I can’t face my hotel room yet. I know if I let myself be alone, I’ll break down. And I am so sick of feeling sorry for myself. Instead, I make my way up to the bar, sit gingerly on the barstool, and order a white wine.
“Do you have a pen I can borrow?” I ask the bartender when he delivers my drink. “I need to write something down.”