Girl After Dark Read online

  And then suddenly, I’m wide awake, and I realize that that buzzing sound isn’t coming from a swarm of bees, but from my phone, whirring and buzzing on my bedside table from notification after notification after notification.

  But I’m not worried, this isn’t the first time this has happened. And actually? It’s usually kind of a good sign …

  Wow, I think. My ‘Shattered’ blog post last night must have been really popular! I just knew I was speaking to every other girl who’s had her heart broken. It must have really struck a chord …

  I look excitedly at my phone, scrolling past what seems like hundreds of Facebook notifications, Instagram messages, emails, but on top of that, there are also twelve missed calls from Katy, too.

  Weird …

  She doesn’t usually call this early in the morning. I hope she’s okay?!

  And that’s when I make the mistake of logging into my blog and reading over the very most recent comments, all left in just the last few minutes:

  xxSarah Mayxx: Oh my god! VintageHoney is a total slut!!!

  Max_W_1986: Woah, what a babe! I never thought I’d get to actually *see* what I’ve been fantasizing about all this time.

  Jennifer_Carlito: I’m disgusted. My daughters are twelve and fourteen years old. They looked up to you. How could you do something like this?

  That’s just the first three. The comments continue — hundreds of them, thousands even, all saying variations on the same thing.

  What the hell is going on? I think, my head swirling with worry and confusion.

  And in the sea of unread emails, I spot one from [email protected], too. I open it, feeling a sinking sense of dread before I even read it.

  Dear Melissa,

  We are sorry to change our plans at such short notice, but we are now unable to run your interview in the next edition of Teen Vogue, as planned.

  Best,

  Clara Edwards

  They’ve pulled my interview? I think in panic. Why on earth have they pulled my interview?! And what’s everyone going on about? What do they think I’ve done???

  And I’m about to hit reply to find out what’s going on when, just then, my phone springs into life: it’s Katy calling, thank goodness.

  “Oh my God,” she says, the moment I answer. “I’m so sorry. I mean, I knew he was a total slimeball but I never thought he’d stoop this low.”

  “Wait, wait,” I say. “What are you even taking about? Everything’s gone crazy, Katy. What’s happened? What’s going on?”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “No, no, I don’t. Please tell me! Everyone seems to hate me and I don’t even know why.”

  There’s a long pause, and I hear Katy sigh then take a deep breath before continuing.

  “Okay, brace yourself,” she says solemnly. “I think you might have sent a certain video to Will? Something that you wouldn’t want anyone else to see?”

  Oh no, I think. Not that. Please … Anything but that.

  I remain silent and wait for her to say it — for her to say the thing that I’m suddenly dreading more than anything else in the whole wide world …

  “Well, he’s put it online, Melissa. It’s already going viral.”

  Viral?!

  That’s all I need to hear.

  “I’ve gotta go,” I say, feeling myself grow suddenly dizzy.

  I hang up, my fingers trembling as I open my laptop, hurriedly click on Google, then type in my blogger name: VintageHoney.

  But instead of the usual links to YouTube and my website, links to gross weird sites fill up my screen. There are mixture of cheap gossip sites and worse — a number of actual porn sites, all promising sleazy ‘amateur’ clips.

  And on each and every one of them, there’s apparently the same clip, prominently displayed and titled: VintageHoney Bares All!

  I click on the very first link, which takes me to some creepy site called Amateur Nude Babes, then press play.

  Sure enough, there I am: dressed in my pretty satin underwear.

  I give the camera a cheeky little wink and then begin to dance, my fingers timidly tracing over my slim body, then over my breasts, before hooking beneath my bra straps as I begin to slide them slowly off my shoulders.

  I slam the laptop closed, my heart pounding.

  I don’t need to see any more.

  After all, I know just how far this video goes. I’m the one who filmed it.

  And now the whole world has seen … well … everything.

  So that’s how it happened: how I lost my reputation, not to mention my livelihood.

  Because suddenly nobody wanted to know me anymore. I got dirty looks in the street, from all the girls who used to excitedly ask to take a selfie with me. And the only offers I was getting now were from x-rated websites, all wanting me to strip off — and more. To go even further than I’d gone in that stupid video that I didn’t think anyone but Will would ever see.

  In fact, it’s been a whole week now since I’ve dared set foot outside my flat. I just can’t take the sneers anymore, the giggling, the eye-rolling. Nope. I’m just going to hole up here and wait for the whole thing to blow over, even if it takes the rest of my life.

  Just then the doorbell rings.

  The very same sound that used to bring me so much happiness: cheques, samples, gifts, fan mail … Now filling me with dread.

  But, after debating for a while whether to even answer the door, I’m glad that I do. Because it’s Katy, carrying bags of shopping; all the everyday essentials she’s guessing (correctly) that I’ve run out of.

  I feel an intense rush of tenderness when I see my friend. “Thank you so much,” I say feeling the tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I lead her into my flat, which is way more messy than she’s ever seen it before. “I don’t know why you’re even being so nice to me,” I sigh, sadly.

  “Hey,” she replies confidently, piercing me with one of her don’t be silly looks. “You did nothing wrong here, Melissa. Okay? Remember this. Will betrayed your trust. He’s the one who should be hiding at home right now. Not you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, again so thankful to have such a good friend.

  “And I was thinking,” she continues. “Can’t you just get it taken off the internet?”

  “Oh, I’ve tried,” I sigh. “But it’s no use. There’s nothing I can do. Those websites don’t care about me. They just want traffic. No. I’ll just have to dye my hair, try to get my old job back, and hope that nobody recognizes me ever again.”

  “Look,” Katy says, as always the voice of reason, “it’s not that bad. You’ve been making crazy money the past year or so, haven’t you? I know you’re smart enough to have put at least some of that away.”

  “Yeah, actually,” I explain. “I did put quite a lot of it away in savings. I’d done quite well, in fact ... I was saving up for a deposit, for mine and Will’s dream house. Stupid, eh?”

  “There you go, then,” she says with a knowing smile. “Do something with that money. “

  “But what?” I sigh. “Get plastic surgery so nobody knows who I am anymore?”

  “No. Just take a step back and think about it for a moment,” she continues. “You’ve got an option the rest of us don’t have, Melissa. Your dad … Your dual nationality … Why don’t you go to the States for a while, at least until this all settles down?”

  And while it’s still dawning on me just what she’s suggesting, the doorbell rings again.

  Before I can even say, “Don’t open it!” Katy has skipped over to the door.

  “Melissa?” she calls from the hallway. “I’ve got something here that I think you might need? Something more useful maybe than the emergency supplies I just brought round?”

  I barely have time to question what she means before I look up and there’s my mum.

  §

  “I’m so sorry I let you find out from the stupid internet, Mum,” I sigh. “I just couldn’t bring myself to call you and tell you
what happened.”

  “Oh darling,” Mum says, stroking my hair gently. “I just wish I could have been here for you. I had no idea you’d even broken up with Will.”

  “I didn’t know how to tell you that either,” I reply. “You always liked him so much.”

  “Yeah,” Mum says with a sad little laugh. “Well, it wasn’t the first time I’ve been wrong about a man, and it probably won’t be the last either.”

  “But how could I have got it so wrong, Mum?” I persist. “I really thought Will was The One.”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she replies, pulling me into her for the kind of warm hug that only she can give. “I did like Will, I really did. He was your first serious boyfriend! And he always seemed so sweet. But I never saw you ending up with him. Not really. He seemed, well, maybe a little … wet? A bit indecisive? He never seemed to study unless you were there working right next to him. I always saw you with somebody a bit more driven. Someone who suited you a little more.”

  “What about Dad?” I ask. “Did you think he was The One?”

  At this, Mum smiles as her mind casts back to her youth in the eighties: to meeting my dad.

  “Of course I thought he was The One, darling!” she laughs. “He came into my life like a whirlwind. I don’t think I’d even ever met an American before. He was so confident, so intelligent, and yes … so handsome. It didn’t work out, sure. We ended up going in different directions. He was never truly happy over here and I could never flourish living in the States. Life came between us. It happens. But you know what? In one big way, he’ll always be The One. Because without him, I wouldn’t have you!”

  She strokes the hair from my face and kisses me tenderly on the forehead.

  “And of course,” she adds lightly, “because all the men I’ve dated since have been a total disaster!”

  At this we both laugh.

  I’d be lying if I said I instantly felt totally better.

  But mum’s words are making me feel a little happier.

  “If I haven’t given up hope on meeting The One,” she continues, “then you shouldn’t either. You will meet him. And when you do, you’ll know. You’ll really know. And he will never betray you like this.”

  §

  Last Blog

  I guess that was a pretty big shock for you guys. It was a shock for me too. I’ve been thinking about how to say this for days. I’ve tried writing this blog post over and over again. I’ve written about how sorry I am that I’ve let you guys down and how sorry I am that I’ve let myself down, too. But you know what? The thing is, that’s not quite true.

  You see, I was the one who was let down, and from this moment on, I refuse to be ashamed about it anymore.

  The man who posted that video of me was my boyfriend, Will, and I loved him deeply. We’d been together for almost three years. I thought we had something special. Something deep. Something lasting.

  I trusted him when I made that video.

  That video was private. It was filmed just like my other videos, in the privacy of my own home, but unlike my other videos, I didn’t choose to share it with anyone but him. That was my right.

  But then he posted it online as an act of revenge. It was posted there specifically to damage my career, to ruin my reputation, and to destroy my friendship with you guys. I’m so sorry that it worked.

  Goodbye.

  Xoxo,

  Vintage Honey

  As my taxi races through the city streets, I look out the window, at the buildings, houses, offices, shops … and the people. Kids coming home from school, couples strolling hand in hand. Sure, the scene is normal, just like any city, on any weekday afternoon. Just like London.

  Except this scene seems magical somehow, sprinkled with glitter and fairy dust.

  As the taxi speeds me further away from JFK airport, I feel my worries start to drift behind me into the wind, the closer I get to the place that will be my new home, right here in New York.

  As soon as Katy suggested it, I knew she was right. I had to get away, and this was the perfect destination to escape to.

  Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like it was an easy decision.

  For a start, I’ve had to leave behind my Mum and Katy — the two people who’ve been there for me throughout this nightmare. I don’t know where I’d be without them and it breaks my heart that they’re now so far away.

  I’ve also had to give up the lease on my perfect flat in London, and put all my pretty things into storage.

  I’m normally a nightmare packer, unable to decide between about a million different looks for just a mini break, but packing to come here was surprisingly easy.

  Looking at my wardrobe, I realised how much my clothes defined me — defined VintageHoney. And I just couldn’t bear to be that person anymore.

  So I took only one small suitcase, and packed with the plainest, most simple clothes that I owned. Skinny jeans and plain black t-shirts.

  I’m starting over again, this time in monochrome.

  As I race towards my destination, I feel a pang of loneliness, thinking off all that I’ve left behind. But at the same time, I feel ready … ready to start again from scratch.

  §

  As the taxi pulls up outside Daddy’s apartment building, I notice him on the sidewalk, pacing up and down, obviously waiting for me. His brow is furrowed as if he’s lost in thought, but when he glances up and catches sight of me a huge grin spreads across his face. As I rush out of the cab to hug him, I notice little flecks of white in his once-jet-black hair and more stubble on his cheeks than I ever remember him having.

  But even though he looks a little older and scruffier than usual, he’s still my dad, and I feel so glad to be finally wrapped up in his big strong arms once more.

  Before we go any further, I should probably explain my family situation properly, right?

  Okay, here goes …

  My mum is British, while my dad is American (with Greek heritage). He was a Rhodes scholar and they met in Oxford back in the eighties. It must have been so romantic. Like Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath, they married when they were still students, which was practically scandalous back then. They had me soon after they both graduated. Probably too soon, because the marriage didn’t last too long afterwards. Dad did plan to stick around, to help bring me up, and for a while that was what happened. He was a great dad, so fun while I was growing up. But he was sad too, sad and lonely: even I picked up on it and I was just a little girl.

  So, after a few more years, he moved back to the states. I guess he’d never really felt at home in Britain.

  Mum and Dad remained friends though, and at least once a year, he’d make sure to come and visit, to stay with us.

  When I was younger, I used to pretend they were back together on those holidays. But as I’ve grown up, I can see that they’re so much better apart. And I got to spend every summer in America, too. Everyone in school was really jealous of that. Particularly when Dad got a job teaching English at Columbia University, and moved to New York. His girlfriend, Gretchen, would always take me shopping at the coolest stores. So I’d come back home to England in September with these really awesome clothes that nobody else in my school had.

  But as we stand there hugging on the step, it hits me that I haven’t seen him in almost two years (if you don’t count Skype, which I don’t).

  “It’s been too long, Honeybee,” he murmurs as we hug, as if able to read my mind.

  I hadn’t named myself VintageHoney for no reason, you see. Honey was my childhood nickname. My dad’s half Greek and often enjoyed reminding me that Melissa meant ‘honey bee’ in Greek. It kind of stuck; so much so that he rarely called me by my real name. I guess using the name had made me feel close to him, even when we were so far apart for so long.

  I fight back the warm prick of tears — it’s a real mixture of emotions. Relief to be back with him again, guilt that I’ve been so busy over the last couple of years that I’ve not been able to visit sooner, no
t to mention the swirl of memories and emotions concerning the events of the last few weeks.

  “I’m sorry I’ve not visited, Daddy,” I begin. “I’ve been busy …”

  But then I feel the rest of my words get swallowed up in a sob, and before I know it, I’m balling my eyes out into his rumpled cream linen shirt.

  “Hey, hey,” he croons softly, gently stroking my hair. “We don’t need to get into all that right now. Come on now, let’s get you inside.”

  He takes my single suitcase from the sidewalk, easily carrying it — and me — into the apartment, one big warm arm slung comfortingly around my shoulder.

  As I snuffle back the tears, I catch sight of way more mess than usual in his apartment: discarded takeaway containers, books and newspapers strewn all over the coffee table, but I’m too tired all of a sudden to ask him why everything is so messy, when Gretchen’s usually so neat and tidy.

  He leads me gently up the stairs to the room I always stay in. And when he pushes the door open, I’m taken aback.

  This is so different from the childish bedroom he’s kept for me all these years. The room is totally minimalist now: white walls, wooden floor, white bedding, a white lacquered desk and matching chest of drawers, a single chrome clothes rail and a large rectangular mirror, leaning against the wall.

  “Wow, Dad—” I begin.

  But he cuts me off before I can even say thank you. “I though it was about time we redecorated this room,” he explains. “And I figured you might want a … how can I put it? Blank canvas?”

  “It’s absolutely perfect,” I whisper. “This is everything I need …”

  I pause.

  “Actually, Dad?” I add, with a sheepish smile. “There is one more thing … What’s the wi-fi password?”

  I’m so jet-lagged, I just can’t seem to get myself to sleep. And I promised myself I wouldn’t — I promised myself I’d leave all that mess behind me in London — but I’ve been doing it again: googling myself.