Dirty Bad Strangers (21 page)

“Thanks,” I said, flatly. “Thanks a fucking bunch, Chelsea.”

“Just being honest,” she snapped. “Nothing compared to what the papers would do.”

My heart dropped at the realisation of the inevitable. She was right. Vile, but right. Someone like him could never be with someone like me, they’d never let him hear the end of it.

“Shit, Gem,” Tessa soothed. “What do you want to do?”

The answer was simple. Blindingly simple.

“I want to go fucking home.”

***

Gemma

Chelsea stomped on ahead as though I’d taken a shit in her handbag. Her extensions swished like a cat’s tail, shoulders rigid as I lagged behind. Tessa stayed by my side, uttering the occasional tut at Chelsea’s dramatics, but little else. She disappeared into the kitchen as soon as we were through the door, leaving me to face the jealous wrath of the blonde-haired monster.

“He was here?! Jason fucking Redfern was here, with you? My fucking God. I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

“How is this happening to
you
?
I
met a guy on chatline,
I
met up with him,
I
fell in crazy deep with some stranger I’ve never seen. Nothing’s happening to
you
, Chelsea.” I dropped myself onto the sofa, tensing against the inevitable ache. Sore pussy, sore ass, sore fucking everything. “This is a horrible nightmare.”

She paced the room. “Sure it is. I bet you’re happy now, aren’t you? Make you feel good, does it? Snaring my hot footballer? Stealing him from under my nose?”

I couldn’t help but gawp at her. “I didn’t
steal
him from you, he wasn’t even yours to begin with, you just jumped on him in a shitty club and lied to the papers.”

“You knew I wanted him!”

“I can’t believe this.
I’ve
just found out that the guy I’m seeing is some famous footballer, married to a bloody girl-band singer, and
you’re
trying to make this about
you
! I really like him, Chelsea, don’t you get it? I
really
fucking like him. Not for a ticket to free handbags, and designer bloody clothes, and front row seats and my face on the news, I
actuall
y like
him.
”

“Well congratu-fucking-lations, Gemma. I hope you’re really fucking happy together.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Tears. Jesus Christ. I watched her pouty lip tremble. “It should be
me
and Jason Redfern.
Me
as the footballer’s wife.
Me
on the front covers. Not you.”

“Yeah, I get it. I’m fat and ugly and ginger and no fucking good for anything. Piss off, Chelsea.”

She didn’t even pretend to disagree. “You must have known it was him. It must have been obvious.”

“Of course it wasn’t fucking obvious. You think I’d have thought for one second it would be some famous guy at the end of the line? Some famous guy in my flat? In Blackfriars?”

“He’s so fit, Gemma, you must have known! He’s Jason fucking Redfern!”

“Lots of people are toned, Chelsea, they aren’t all Premier League fucking footballers!”

“Not
that
toned. Nobody is
that
toned.”

I shrugged. “I thought he drove a Land Rover, worked for a haulage company...”

“Nice surprise, then, isn’t it?” she spat. “It’s a fucking
Range
Rover by the way. He drives an R8, too, and an Aston fucking Martin. He has a twelve bedroom fucking mansion in Surrey, and he’s captained the England squad for the past six fucking years, Gemma. He’s hot, he’s loaded, he’s fucking perfect! He’s JASON FUCKING REDFERN!”

My stomach lurched. “I don’t want any of it. Just him.”

She laughed a spiteful laugh. “If you say so.”

“I DO!”

Tessa picked the right time to return with the coffees. I sipped mine with my eyes closed, fighting the need to vomit while Tessa tried to smooth Chelsea’s ruffled feathers. I blanked it all out, past caring what the hell either of them thought. I could still feel his touch on me,
in
me. My dirty bad stranger, my lover in the half light. Why couldn’t he just be a trucker? A trucker would have been fine. A trucker would have been
great
. Not a football player, please God no.

“Earth to Gemma! Hello!”

I groaned at Chelsea’s determination to keep harping on. “What?”

“You and him, is it serious? Do you love him?”

I nearly spat my coffee. “Love?! I’m not even sure what being in love feels like.” An icky feeling, I assumed, with a violin accompaniment. Not the kind of flutters he gave me. Hot flutters, dirty, hot, needy flutters. “I like him. More than I’ve ever liked anyone else. Much more.”

“It’s a low bar,” Tessa said. “Seeing as you only normally screw once and run away.”

“I don’t run. I just never want to see them again. He’s different.”

“Of course he’s fucking different!” Chelsea snapped. “He’s
Jason Redfern
. You can’t be with him, Gemma.
Chatline chubby snares football hunk, read all about it.
The papers will tear you a new asshole, they’ll rip you to pieces!”

I had a pretty good idea what that would feel like... “Well, I guess I should message him, then. Tell him I know I’m too fat and ugly, now that I know he’s a Premier League superstar. Maybe I could set you up? Get him round here for a candlelight meal, just you and him. Maybe you can bag him this time. Maybe he’ll realise he really does need a new footballer’s wife.”

Chelsea’s eyes flew wide. “Are you being serious?”

Tessa slapped her arm. “Of course she’s not being serious! Jesus, will you stop being such a bitch?”

“I’m not being a bitch. I’m hurt,” she said. “Betrayed and humiliated.”

“How the fuck can you feel betrayed?” I said. “Nobody did anything to you.”

“It hurts, Gemma! You’re standing on my dreams!”

“You’re welcome to them,” I hissed. “I don’t want them! I just want the man I’ve been seeing, without all the celebrity shit that comes along with him.”

“You’re fucked, then!” Chelsea said. “You’ll just have to call the whole thing off and find some other pervert to play dress-up games with you.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you? That’s so typical of you, Chelsea, you’ve always been the same.”

“Time out!” Tessa snapped. “We’re supposed to be on the same fucking team here, no pun intended.”

Both Chelsea and I rolled our eyes. I took out my phone, contemplated sending a message before I realised I hadn’t a clue what to say. I was aching, sore, tired and reeling. My hands were shaking around my coffee mug, head spinning.

“I’m going to bed,” I said. “I need some sleep.”

“It’s not even teatime,” Chelsea said. “We haven’t sorted any of this crap out.”

“There’s nothing to sort out. It’s my crap, I’ll deal with it.”

“And call it off? With him?” Her mouth pursed in that mean little line again.

Thoughts piled in. Thoughts of cameras, and journalists, and a sea full of bitches like the ones in the queue at Kings. Bitches like Chelsea. Bitches like his wife, most likely. His
wife
.

An impossible, stupid fantasy. An impossible situation.

But it hurt. Oh, God, it hurt.

“What choice do I have?” I snapped, battling back tears behind the anger. “Like you said, I couldn’t possibly be with someone like him, and even if I could, I’m not you, Chelsea, I don’t want that shit. I don’t want any of it!”

I lay on my bed, rooting around my brain for sensible Gemma. The Gemma who doesn’t get emotionally involved and definitely doesn’t want a relationship. If she was in there she was hiding, crouched amongst the beautifully filthy memories of my time with my Jason. I couldn’t shake them off, couldn’t shake
him
off. I rolled over to grab my laptop. Maybe Google would help bring sensible Gemma back.

Jason Redfern
news
. I pressed Enter.

Liverpool win sees Redfern all set for another season.

Redfern tops the polls as England’s favourite defender.

Victory for Redferns as cheating lies come to light.

April Redfern wears Armani. Shrugs off cheating rumours.

A decade of April and Jason. Why England is Redfern crazy.

I
was fucking Redfern crazy.

April Redfern was gorgeous. Ridiculously gorgeous, in fact. She smiled out from every article, a shining beacon of perfect teeth and perfect hair. A perfect body, too. Chelsea had a point, what did a guy like him see in someone like me?

I flicked through an album of photos on some shitty entertainment website. April smiled at Jason like he was the only man in the universe. Every photo showed the same adoration, the same perfect smile. My heart dropped. Jason Redfern was as beautiful as his wife. Not in a model way, like the bronzed Adonis you’d find on an underwear advert. Jason was rugged, more human somehow. His eyes were dark and serious, his mouth often pitted in an expression just short of a scowl. He seemed like a guy with the weight of the world on his shoulders, not the Jason I knew, with the dirty, careless laugh at the end of the line.

I sighed aloud, maybe that’s what I wanted to see. Maybe I wanted to see the unhappiness, the validation of his
we hate each other
story. Jason and April Redfern sure didn’t look like they hated each other.

I clicked on a news story from weeks earlier. Burlesque night. Jason held tight onto April’s hand as they made their way through waiting journalists for their
restaurant date night
. He’d taken her to dinner, then left to stalk me outside Explicit. Make sense of that one, Sherlock.

I jumped as my phone buzzed, heart pounding.

Jason: Last night was perfect, dirty girl. You were perfect. Tomorrow night, no blindfold. I hope you’re ready. x

A kiss. He typed me a fucking
kiss
. My heart nearly stopped. No fucking blindfold? I typed a reply at least three times before I opted for ignorance.

As ready as I’ll ever be. What time? xx

I stared at his picture as I waited for a response, one of him mid-action on the football field, hair wild as he came in hard for a tackle. How on earth could he be that man?

Jason: 7 p.m. Just like the first time, dirty girl. Door unlocked, only this time you’ll be waiting with your eyes open. I mean it, Gemma. I want you to know me. x

My thumb hovered over the call button. One simple call.
Are you really Jason Redfern, Jason? Are you?
I wimped out enough to type an ok.

An online football encyclopaedia was my next stop.

Full name: Jason Robert Redfern

Age: 33

Place of Birth: Barking, London, England

Height 1.87m

Playing position: Defender

Current team: Kensington Rangers. 2005-current. 423 appearances.

National team: England. 2006–current. 78 Appearances.

I read all about my dirty bad stranger, and it was quite a read. The article didn’t skim any details of his rise to the top of the ladder. Signed for Tottenham United as a youth player at thirteen, he’d looked all set to break the Premier League as an early star. But Tottenham had dropped him from the squad at eighteen, after only two appearances in the first team. Change of manager, apparently. I clicked through to some early references, telling the sad story of Jason’s dad’s death the following summer, and then a slow tale of triumph against the odds as Jason made his career in the lower divisions, clawing his way up the ranks until he was signed by Kensington at twenty-two.

Older pictures of Jason showed the same serious eyes, the same heavy brows of someone determined to prove their worth. He was unstoppable,
a demon on studded wings
, so they called him. He looked like it, too.

Then came the personal history. His marriage to Cherry Electric singer, April, to the backdrop of champagne and glossy magazine deals. Their perfect celebrity pairing, all smiles and celebrity endorsements and personal appearances.

And then scandal.

My breath hitched.

Another kiss and tell, years earlier. A woman called Serena, professing how Jason’s interest in perverted sex led her to dogging sites and seedy hotel rooms, where he paid her to have sex with other men.

His PR team had come out fighting hard, and there was no real evidence. She seemed to disappear from the media without trace, bar an appearance in some z-list cookery programme a few years later, but there were whispers. Whispers of drink and gambling and perversion. Whispers of expensive call girls and bad investments. Whispers of affairs.

Yet still the Redferns smiled pretty for the cameras, and still the country loved them for it.

Maybe this was his modus operandi. Maybe there were a hundred chatline girls out there, just like me.

The thought made me run cold.

Finally, I checked out the response to Chelsea’s tall tales. It wasn’t pretty. Cherry Electric die-hards were baying for blood, calling Chelsea every name under the sun and then some. They’d picked out photos of her looking less than her best, and lined them up against April Redfern looking far, far from her worst. The result was a bitchfest. A spiteful, hate-filled outpouring of venom, slating everything from Chelsea’s hair, to her willowy body, to her teeth and even her shade of foundation. Crazy. She could be an idiot, for sure, but she was a pretty idiot. For a moment I felt sorry enough for her to go back outside and make amends, but it passed quickly. She’d done more than enough bitching in my direction for one evening.