Chapter 2
Dani
Luke, Ha! He was in for a shock when he did get home. There’s a lot to be said for social media because, without it, I’d be none the wiser and he’d still be making a mug of me.
I was so pissed off with him, but that was because I really loved him. Like really. He was only my second serious boyfriend and I had invested a lot in him, mostly because he came along after my father died. He ended up becoming my rock and the one person I could turn to. Or so I thought!
I had met Luke in Maddox Club in London’s West End. An exclusive club that I was approved entry into, thanks to mummy’s rich friend who part owned it. I was beginning to realize that there were perks to having that woman as my mother.
I’d walked in with my friend Marsha, a part-time model who seemed to do very little work. She was wearing mostly just her skin; complete with an orange fake tan glow and a few bits of very expensive fabric covering her small but nonetheless impressive assets. I was wearing a purple velvet body-skimming dress that made me feel like a million dollars. I paired it with my 5-inch Louboutin’s which were an eighteenth birthday present from my godmother, Prissy. Despite being in her early fifties, she always managed to keep on top of what was hot and what was not. I sashayed into the club with Marsha and ordered a glass of champagne and Luke pounced almost as soon as we walked through the door. He had raven black hair, tight-fitting grey trousers and a shirt that showed off his athletic body. I thought he was a footballer at first, which was a complete no-go for me, but he told me that he was into international communications. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant at the time, but I soon found out that it was code for drug dealer!
Stupid fuck! He showered me with roses, and champagne and impressive romantic meals. He had swag and was so sure of himself; it was hard not to be swept along with it all. He told me that he was twenty-six and he was sick of messing around with easy women. He said that I was the kind of woman he’d dreamt of all his life and that he was over womanizing and all of the drama that went with it. We’d been together for twelve months and everything had been great until he posted a picture of himself in Ibiza, tongue hanging out in lust as a busty brunette sat on his knee stroking his face, his hand squeezing her left tit. Bastard! It still kills me to think about it. I had been virtually living with him and he dared to treat me like a casual fling. I’d cried myself to sleep for three nights in a row and I’d probably dropped a kilo or two to boot because I hadn’t eaten a thing. I felt physically sick but I longed to forgive him and kiss his full luscious Tom Hardy lips, and feel his muscly arms around me. He made me feel safe and protected, but try as I might to imagine myself moving forward, I just couldn’t, because I doubted that I’d ever be able to forgive him.
He was due back from Ibiza on Wednesday morning and I would be leaving for Germany on the same day, which I was now starting to think was the best option all around. I’d really gone overboard in response to that picture and the repercussions terrified me.
I’d let myself into his flat with the spare key that I had, and I had charitably sprinkled his plush cream carpets in the lounge and master bedroom with birdseed, and then I had watered them generously before switching the heating on full blast so that he’d have a divine green lawn growing right in front of his stupid little eyes when he returned from his holiday. I’d also unpicked the hem of his black Iliana curtains and stuffed a few prawns inside before sewing them back up. That would stop him bringing bitches back to his pad when it reeked of fish! I owed him money for the green I’d smoked but he could kiss goodbye to that! I’d also flushed all of his bags of speed down the toilet. Something I was seriously regretting now because I hadn’t a clue how much stuff like that was worth.
I’d been so angry after seeing a picture of him all over that perky brunette like a rash. ‘Livin’ it up in beefa’, said his Instagram.
Well, the last laugh was on him and his new Wimbledon green carpet and apartment that reeked of Eau De Crevette.
I would change my phone number once I was in Germany and then he’d have no way of getting in touch with me. Problem sorted and a lesson well and truly learned, I hoped!
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