Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Friends. Love. Business. Baba. Things just seem to be falling into place. And all because of Fin?
“I’m pleased to see business is picking up for you,” Evie says as we turn toward the door.
“Me too,” I say, pulled from my musing.
“I would’ve ignored those horrible notes on the message boards even if Fin hadn’t given me your card.”
“Message boards?”
“The online forums,” she prompts as we continue to walk out of the brightly lit orangery.
“Um.” I roll my lips inward as a sense of foreboding creeps like a spider along my spine. “I’m not sure I really follow.”
“They weren’t all horrible. There were people who came to your defense.”
I angle my head her way. “Are you talking about the wedding forums?” The places brides hang out virtually. They discuss venues and menus and the latest dress styles. Wedding etiquette and honeymoons and where the best alteration service is for when the bride finds herself pregnant before her big day.
“Yes. You saw the posts, right?”
“I tend to see those as conversational spaces purely for those planning their big day.” And those paying the bills. “They’re not really the kind of space where a service or a vendor should hang out.” It’s not very professional. I’d looked, of course, in my early days, but I always felt a bit of a creeper. When I established myself, I decided no good could come from looking. I mean, everyone is entitled to their opinion.
“Right, that makes sense. No matter. I didn’t put any stock in what was said, and I’m sure most sane people did the same. Sometimes you can’t even believe what you see with your own eyes.” Her smile takes on a brittle edge. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain why.”
Pulse Tok and A Little Bird Told Us. And people’s hurtful opinions.
But still, I wonder.
I leave Evie in the hotel foyer, my mind spinning a hundred different ways as I hurry down the steps and out into the swanky Knightsbridge side street. I’m not far from Fin’s place, but that’s not where I’m heading as I pull out my phone and call Ronny, who picks up almost immediately.
“Meels, no one calls these days,” she says, forgoing a greeting. “Texts are where it’s at.”
“Ronny, when you were doing your market research, you said you looked at wedding trends. Where did you find your information?”
“Trade publications,” she answers. “Online mostly. I also joined a few of the wedding forums to see what people—brides, mainly—were talking about. Those places are weird, FYI—all DH this and MOB that.”
“Dear husband and mother of the bride.”
“Yeah, those acronyms. How long do you reckon before DH changes from dear husband to dickhead?”
“No idea. Did you see anything about me?” I hurry on.
When she doesn’t immediately answer, I know. Did a disgruntled client try to ruin my business? I mentally run through the events around that time as I pull my phone away from my ear to look at the signal strength and battery life. Not bad. I need to find a wine bar with a bucket-size glass before I delve into this myself.
“What did you read, Ron? About me?”
“I thought you must’ve pissed a client off, because there were some comments dishing shit about you. I didn’t tell you, because the thread was from months ago. Only . . .”
“Only what?” My heart thumps ominously.
“I registered for an alert on a couple of the threads. Just to keep an eye on them, I suppose. A hunch. And, Meels? The chatter started up again.”
“In what way?”
“The same people dissin’ you. But others come to your defense. Past clients, I think.” A pause. “Where are you?”
“Knightsbridge. Why?”
“I’ve just finished work. I think we should meet up. Last night, I did a bit of digging. And, well, I have some stuff I think you should see.”
“Ronny, quit with the cloak-and-dagger stuff,” I say, trying to keep my words light, when my heart feels like it’s being squeezed.
“I followed one of the usernames saying shit about you. I looked at other shit she’d posted—other places she’d left a digital footprint, I suppose. And I found her on Bookface and read this weird comment about a forum she’s in.”
My blood suddenly runs a little cold.
“The forum. What’s it called?”
“StarsInHerEyes,” Ronny replies.
That’s the one I remember coming across on my own internet stalking session while on the resort. The one with the locked thread with Fin’s name.
“And fuck me, that place is like being on the dark web.”
“You joined the forum?”
“Yeah. There’s an initiation—for real. I had to send, like, proper fan stuff. They’re all devoted or something.”
“Devoted to who? What did you send?”
“Get this. A screenshot of you and Fin. I crossed out your eyes and gave you buckteeth. Pretty mild compared to some of the shit I saw on there.”
“What?” He does have a fan club. A fan club of stalkers. Who all hate me?