Poles Apart
Page 30
Angie wrapped her arm around Lucie’s shoulder. “She’s not on her own, silly. We’ll all share a taxi. Don’t worry, we know about safety in numbers, Emma,” she scolded playfully.
I looked at Lucie to make sure she was okay with this and wasn’t just doing it because she thought I wanted alone time with Carson. Jenny turned around and passed her a fresh drink she’d just bought.
“You’re really staying?” I asked Lucie. She nodded and sipped her drink. “Okay, well you all stay together. No wandering off and I’ll talk to you all tomorrow. Thanks for a great night, girls,” I said, hugging them all one by one.
Once I’d said my goodbyes to everyone, Carson took my hand and led us through the crowd to the front door of the bar. As we stepped out, I was almost blinded by the flash of a camera. The light was so bright I had to put my hand up to shield my eyes. Beside me, Carson groaned loudly and then his arm wound around my waist protectively. The click and flash of a camera continued to go off furiously in front of me.
“Emma, where’s your necklace Carson bought you?” someone shouted.
I squinted and looked around, confused, until I saw someone I recognised. The guy from the club last night, the one who was asking me loads of questions about Carson. He was holding out a little black rectangle thing towards me as the photographer he was with continued to snap shot after shot.
“I didn’t want to wear it in case it got lost,” I said weakly, not really understanding what was going on.
“Did you have a nice night?” the guy asked.
I looked at Carson, unsure as to what I should do. Was I allowed to answer his questions? What was the protocol for being papped outside a bar, whilst drunk? I didn’t want to say anything and cause him any more trouble.
Carson smiled and nodded, leading me off in the other direction. “We had a great night,” he confirmed.
I kept pace with him, clinging to him tightly as they walked in front of us, still taking pictures while walking backward, holding the little black thing out to me again.
What the heck is that? I studied it, suddenly realising it was a little tape recorder.
“So, you two met at a strip club?” the guy asked.
I gulped at that question. This was going to look really bad for Carson.
“Guys, seriously, come on, don’t ruin the night for her. It’s her birthday. Can’t you give me a break for one night?” Carson said dejectedly.
The guy ignored him. “What does your management think about you dating a stripper, Carson? Your family? What about your friends?”
Carson frowned. “She’s not a stripper!” he snapped.
“She works part-time in a strip club, lap dances a couple of times a week,” the guy replied, smirking.
I groaned. I shouldn’t have let Carson drive me home. I should have stayed inside with Lucie. Now he was going to be getting negative press and they were going to be talking rubbish about me in the papers. I could see it now: ‘Carson’s bit of rough’, ‘Scraping the barrel with a stripper’. Rory was going to go crazy when he read that. He didn’t know what my job entailed; I didn’t ever want him to know.
“Just back off!” Carson ordered while putting his hand over the camera lens, his other arm tightening on me. Tears welled in my eyes; I felt dirty, cheap and nasty all over again. Carson grabbed his keys from his pocket. A car beeped and unlocked two cars away, and I didn’t even have time to see what type or colour it was before he opened the door and pushed me in, slamming the door behind me.
My heart sank. Would he stop coming to the club now? Once he was slaughtered in the papers for going to strip clubs and fraternising with lap dancers, would I ever see him again? His management would probably make him stay away for his ‘image’. I would be lost without him. He climbed in the other side of the car, starting the engine as they took more pictures of us in the car together, banging on the windows, and still shouting their questions.
“DON’T CRY, EM. WHAT’S WRONG?” Carson whispered as we sped down the road. He took my hand, glancing at me worriedly.
I sniffed and wiped my face, turning away from him, watching the buildings whizz past. “Nothing. That was just weird.” My voice broke around my lie.
He sighed. “Yeah, I know. I get used to this kind of thing happening. I’m sorry I dragged you into it, too,” he said, rubbing the back of my hand lightly with his thumb.
I laughed humourlessly. He was sorry? I was the one with the dirty, nasty job, and yet he was apologising to me? “You don’t need to be sorry. That was my fault. I’m the one who’s gonna make you look like some kind of dirty pervert that takes lap dancers home for the night,” I muttered, chewing on my lip, fighting the tears threatening to pour down my cheeks.
“Emma, just ignore them. They were just trying to get a story; it happens all the time. Everything’s fine,” he insisted, tugging on my hand, trying to get me to look at him. I looked over at him apologetically. He was watching the road but kept glancing at me quickly, smiling reassuringly. He squeezed my hand. “Everything’s fine. I don’t care where you work. What does it matter where you work? You’re Emma Bancroft to me and nothing else. You could sell fried chicken for a living, and I’d still come eat at your restaurant every weekend,” he teased.
I giggled and rolled my eyes at his little joke about chicken. “Again with the fried chicken?”
He laughed and raised my hand to his mouth, kissing my knuckles softly. We lapsed into silence. I didn’t know what to say, but to be honest it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, so that was one thing to be thankful for.
I looked at Lucie to make sure she was okay with this and wasn’t just doing it because she thought I wanted alone time with Carson. Jenny turned around and passed her a fresh drink she’d just bought.
“You’re really staying?” I asked Lucie. She nodded and sipped her drink. “Okay, well you all stay together. No wandering off and I’ll talk to you all tomorrow. Thanks for a great night, girls,” I said, hugging them all one by one.
Once I’d said my goodbyes to everyone, Carson took my hand and led us through the crowd to the front door of the bar. As we stepped out, I was almost blinded by the flash of a camera. The light was so bright I had to put my hand up to shield my eyes. Beside me, Carson groaned loudly and then his arm wound around my waist protectively. The click and flash of a camera continued to go off furiously in front of me.
“Emma, where’s your necklace Carson bought you?” someone shouted.
I squinted and looked around, confused, until I saw someone I recognised. The guy from the club last night, the one who was asking me loads of questions about Carson. He was holding out a little black rectangle thing towards me as the photographer he was with continued to snap shot after shot.
“I didn’t want to wear it in case it got lost,” I said weakly, not really understanding what was going on.
“Did you have a nice night?” the guy asked.
I looked at Carson, unsure as to what I should do. Was I allowed to answer his questions? What was the protocol for being papped outside a bar, whilst drunk? I didn’t want to say anything and cause him any more trouble.
Carson smiled and nodded, leading me off in the other direction. “We had a great night,” he confirmed.
I kept pace with him, clinging to him tightly as they walked in front of us, still taking pictures while walking backward, holding the little black thing out to me again.
What the heck is that? I studied it, suddenly realising it was a little tape recorder.
“So, you two met at a strip club?” the guy asked.
I gulped at that question. This was going to look really bad for Carson.
“Guys, seriously, come on, don’t ruin the night for her. It’s her birthday. Can’t you give me a break for one night?” Carson said dejectedly.
The guy ignored him. “What does your management think about you dating a stripper, Carson? Your family? What about your friends?”
Carson frowned. “She’s not a stripper!” he snapped.
“She works part-time in a strip club, lap dances a couple of times a week,” the guy replied, smirking.
I groaned. I shouldn’t have let Carson drive me home. I should have stayed inside with Lucie. Now he was going to be getting negative press and they were going to be talking rubbish about me in the papers. I could see it now: ‘Carson’s bit of rough’, ‘Scraping the barrel with a stripper’. Rory was going to go crazy when he read that. He didn’t know what my job entailed; I didn’t ever want him to know.
“Just back off!” Carson ordered while putting his hand over the camera lens, his other arm tightening on me. Tears welled in my eyes; I felt dirty, cheap and nasty all over again. Carson grabbed his keys from his pocket. A car beeped and unlocked two cars away, and I didn’t even have time to see what type or colour it was before he opened the door and pushed me in, slamming the door behind me.
My heart sank. Would he stop coming to the club now? Once he was slaughtered in the papers for going to strip clubs and fraternising with lap dancers, would I ever see him again? His management would probably make him stay away for his ‘image’. I would be lost without him. He climbed in the other side of the car, starting the engine as they took more pictures of us in the car together, banging on the windows, and still shouting their questions.
“DON’T CRY, EM. WHAT’S WRONG?” Carson whispered as we sped down the road. He took my hand, glancing at me worriedly.
I sniffed and wiped my face, turning away from him, watching the buildings whizz past. “Nothing. That was just weird.” My voice broke around my lie.
He sighed. “Yeah, I know. I get used to this kind of thing happening. I’m sorry I dragged you into it, too,” he said, rubbing the back of my hand lightly with his thumb.
I laughed humourlessly. He was sorry? I was the one with the dirty, nasty job, and yet he was apologising to me? “You don’t need to be sorry. That was my fault. I’m the one who’s gonna make you look like some kind of dirty pervert that takes lap dancers home for the night,” I muttered, chewing on my lip, fighting the tears threatening to pour down my cheeks.
“Emma, just ignore them. They were just trying to get a story; it happens all the time. Everything’s fine,” he insisted, tugging on my hand, trying to get me to look at him. I looked over at him apologetically. He was watching the road but kept glancing at me quickly, smiling reassuringly. He squeezed my hand. “Everything’s fine. I don’t care where you work. What does it matter where you work? You’re Emma Bancroft to me and nothing else. You could sell fried chicken for a living, and I’d still come eat at your restaurant every weekend,” he teased.
I giggled and rolled my eyes at his little joke about chicken. “Again with the fried chicken?”
He laughed and raised my hand to his mouth, kissing my knuckles softly. We lapsed into silence. I didn’t know what to say, but to be honest it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, so that was one thing to be thankful for.
