The Reunion (Fashionable Friends)

I hung up, imagining the look of shock my agent must be wearing. Any other girl on her books would have been dancing around and screaming like a banshee.

I couldn’t help but feel ungrateful. But it was more complicated for me; much more. I decided not to tell the boys, and I plastered on a casual smile as I headed back to the car, and my brain throbbed as I tried to figure out a solution.

“Everything okay?” Hugh asked as I got back into the car. “You’re beet red.”

“Yes, fine. Do you blame me for being flushed after what we just did?” I lied. “The call was just my agent. She found... an umbrella in her office, and she wondered if it’s mine. It isn’t. I don’t own an umbrella. The one she found was white.”

Dammit, Muriel, learn how to lie.

“Uh huh,” Hugh muttered.

“Cool story.” Cameron said playfully as if he didn’t believe a word of it but didn’t mind one bit. “Well, here’s Vic now.”

“We’ll let you get on then,” Hugh said. “We’re going to drive around for the evening, see if there’s anyone that needs help.”

“You’re good people,” Cameron said, at which I experienced a pang of guilt.

“Hey, I was wondering. Instead of going to your parents’ tomorrow, maybe you could both come to mine, maybe around six? No pressure, Muriel,” he said, holding his hands up innocently.

“That would be awesome.” In truth, I didn’t know whether I’d even still be in Georgia by the following evening, but I wouldn’t turn down an invitation to some more private time with my guys. Why couldn’t my heart and my brain ever be on the same side?

Chapter Eleven

Muriel Tennyson

We drove out to Ashford, and while Hugh used the newly-working mobile signal to phone contacts and find out more about the storm, I tried to think through my situation.

Being offered my own TV show was insane. Like, completely nuts. Out of all the wannabes in LA, a major producer had chosen me. And I absolutely considered myself as a wannabe.

Money aside, did I really want to do it?

Even without the complication of Hugh and Cameron, it would be a huge deal putting my life on display for millions of people to watch and discuss. Like everyone, I’d heard horror stories about reality TV stars getting edited to look bad and becoming hated overnight.

Also, it didn’t excite me like it should.

If it was the right thing to do, surely I’d be as excited as I was at the thought of doing fundraising for storm victims?

Still, I couldn’t pretend the money wasn’t significant. I could not afford to dismiss two hundred grand out of hand.

Most importantly of all, I had to remember my long-term goal of having my own designer clothing label. There’d be no better opportunity to promote myself; I could even make up some designs and wear them on the show.

I tried to imagine what Poppy and Jasmine would say if I asked them what I should do, but it was too easy and totally unanimous: “Do the show, stupid.”

“What has got you deep in thought?” Hugh looked over at me with a curious expression.

“Oh, nothing,” I said, trying to act casual. “Just looking forward to tomorrow, that’s all.”

He beamed in response. “Yeah, it’ll be fun.” Hugh put his arm on my shoulder, and I leaned back against it, comforted by his touch. “I’m glad you’re going to be here more often. And with your folks being so chill about things, I’m feeling surprisingly hopeful for once in my life.”

I laughed, but it was hollow.

Hugh had faith in something for once, and there I was weighing up whether to crush it.

As we drove through the streets, evidence of the devastation of the storm became more and more clear. I was incredibly grateful that my parents’ area had barely been affected.

We stopped in a street where almost every house had been damaged in some way, and Hugh jumped out with his notebook and camera.

“Don’t you have a photographer at the paper?”

He laughed ruefully. “I’m not at the LA Times, remember. I have to do all my own spell checking, too.”

He walked around taking photos, and I decided to do the same, figuring that I could post them on my Instagram as part of my campaign.

Houses with broken windows and debris strewn all about were all around.

As I took pictures of a half-collapsed house that was buckling under the weight of a fallen oak tree, a hand wrapped around my waist, and Hugh pulled me in tight, his body against my back. His chin rested on my shoulder. “Holy shit, that’s a beautiful photo.”

“Er, it’s not supposed to be beautiful, Hugh. It’s sad. A family’s home has been destroyed.”

“Sad things can be beautiful, you know,” he pointed out and kissed my ear. “And anyway, I’m just saying that you’re a good photographer. I can understand why you’re so successful on social media, even if I’ve never got to see your posts.”