BooksBarbecue
Back Look At Me Now
Chapters (43)
  1. Cover
  2. Epigraph
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. Acknowledgments
  41. More from Simone Goodman
  42. About the Author
  43. About Boldwood Books

It begins to rain. I’m tempted to leave him to get soaked to his core – a good old downpour to wash Alex clean of his dirty-dog habits would do no harm to me or Matilda – but, no. That’s best left for karma to deal with.

‘You’d best come along with me, Alex. You can call a cab from mine.’ I glance at the sky. ‘Come on. It’s about to bucket down.’

We leg it the short distance to my flat, before the rain hits. At my front door, I’m fumbling with the keys as Alex stands too closely behind me, reeking of cigarettes.

‘I’m not sure this piece would have made it to print anyway,’ he says, the first of us to speak since we left the canal.

‘Hmm, yes,’ I agree, not really listening.

‘The editor might have tanked it.’

‘Yes,’ I repeat, still fumbling.

‘I mean, Faith, with her looks, I’d get her on the cover any week.’

Why won’t this bloody key turn?

‘We get a tonne of interest for Poppy, too – she’s developing a cult following. Have you checked out their Twitter and Instagram accounts? They have thousands of followers already.’

In the days of Gracie Porter’s Gourmet Get-Together, I’d received the odd email and handwritten letter. I wasn’t aware Faith and Poppy were doing these things. How do I go about posting tweets and finding followers? I’m a social media virgin. I’m not even on Facebook.

That Alex says such things to be hurtful doesn’t make them hurt less. Faith is extraordinarily attractive and Poppy is as sweet as a button. I have my good points –although right now I’m struggling to think what they are. It’s never been a popularity contest between us. Alex is being a savagely verbal brute.

‘Alex, we may not get on, but let’s agree to be grown-up. Let’s drop the put-downs and snide remarks, both of us,’ I counter, hoping this calls a quid pro quo to our little tiff.

As he says nothing further, I assume it has.

I finally turn the key and invite him into my flat. I show him through to the kitchen, where Jordan is sitting at the table, eating cat food. To be perfectly precise, Jordan is at our table eating Pussy Paws cat food out of the can, with a teaspoon.

Before I can ask Jordan exactly what he’s doing and explain to Alex that this isn’t what it looks like, a distinctive noise erupts behind me.

‘Alex, don’t!’ I cry out. But it’s too late.

Flash, click.

Flash, click.

Flash, click.

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