Page 13 of The Whole Package

‘Jay.’ I cut him off. ‘I need you to do my hair. Make it different – so different no one knows who I am. Short and . . .’ I could feel my voice drying up. ‘Dark.’

Jay stood and began pacing. I knew he thought this was a terrible idea. The grief talking. The panic taking hold.

‘Short and dark,’ I repeated, clearing my throat.

‘And then what, Harriette?’

I shrugged, realising I had no idea. ‘And then . . . I really don’t know.’

Chapter Five

Two hours later, I was shoving my fur hat and coat back on. The world spun around me, but I felt completely stuck. Jay talked to me, but I didn’t take in a word he said. I caught a glimpse of my new bobbed hair in the mirror, and all I thought was that it made my skin look paler. I felt like Rapunzel in Tangled after she had a serious glow-down, but I didn’t care. My life was over. How could I ever recover from this?

I paid Jay, kept my head low and slipped out of the salon. But as I crossed the road, I spotted photographers hanging around my car, looking to grab me. I immediately turned and kept walking.

I could text Adam, I thought. He’d pick me up, I knew that. But the idea of being linked to that one-pump chump made me feel worse. So, I kept walking until I reached Euston and ducked inside for a coffee. I knew it would be terrible, overpriced, but I wanted the train station’s anonymity. As I stood in the queue, I heard over the Tannoy:

The next train to Glasgow Central will depart from Platform Two.

My ears picked up.

Glasgow.

Home.

Without thinking, I swivelled on my heels, ditching the rank coffee, and found myself at the ticket office, paying for a first-class ticket to Glasgow in cash. I didn’t want Rupert to know where I was going, and I knew that Scotland would be the last place he’d look; after all, I’d spent most of my adult life pretending the country didn’t exist. Then, in the blink of an eye, I found myself sitting in the carriage, waiting for the train to move. I felt completely numb. Honestly, I could’ve watched the train explode, and I’d probably just sigh.

I pulled out my phone. My Instagram notifications were flooding the screen, and I desperately swiped them away to see if Rupert had messaged. Nothing. I wondered what he was doing – whether he’d fled the house and set up camp with Penelope, or had he boarded the next flight to Dubai to outrun the press? My stomach cramped.

‘How ye doing, hen?’

I looked up from my phone to see a young guy standing in the aisle beside me, squeezing himself awkwardly into the empty seat across the table. He was in his mid-thirties, maybe, with a broad set of shoulders stretching his New Balance hoodie. He had dark stubble, thick brown hair shoved messily beneath a black baseball cap. He was handsome, but not like polished London handsome. He looked like he’d definitely been barred from at least one pub in his lifetime, but would still help an old woman carry her shopping home, that type of guy.

His eyes flicked over my face briefly – warm brown, long lashes. Jesus, he had an annoyingly attractive face for a man who dressed like he sold cocaine outside a vape shop.

‘Sorry.’ I cleared my throat, glancing up the aisle for a steward. ‘Sorry . . . Sir, emm, this is actually the first-class carriage.’ I spoke quietly, not wanting to embarrass him, even though he was already sticking out like a nun in a strip club.

‘Aww, fuck. You’re joking!’ He stood up quickly. ‘What a dick I am!’

I managed a small smile. ‘Not at all,’ I said, glancing back at my phone.

‘And here’s me thinking it was the quiet carriage! What a fucking idiot, man!’ His voice rang through the carriage, and I prayed he’d keep it down before someone recognised me.

‘Not at all,’ I said again, still staring at my phone.

Notifications filled the screen. My DMs were pinging by the second.

The guy reached for his bag, stepped out of the row, took a few paces – and paused.

‘Hold on.’ He patted down his tracksuit pockets and pulled something out. ‘No way! Surely not!’ He turned back and leaned over the table.

I looked up and noticed he was holding his train ticket out towards me. ‘Top right,’ he insisted.

My eyes moved to the top of the ticket, where it read in bold: FIRST CLASS.

My cheeks flushed so hard they could have powered the fucking train.

He sank back into the leather seat with a smug grin, chewing casually on some gum.