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)
But still I type.
A little bird. The search bar autofills, and I select the first search: the latest post.
A Little Bird Told Us . . .
Loved up and super casual!
Check out the footage of our new lovebirds arriving at the private terminal in City Airport last night. Fin DeWitt looking snatched as ever—we’re kind of digging the haircut now, brutal chic and cheekbones for days! Meanwhile, his new wife, Mila, was casual in black leggings and Converse. We like your thinking, Mrs. D. Comfort over style for those long-haul flights.
Why not go the whole hog and call me frumpy.
Fin declined to comment when asked about Charlotte, his reality TV star ex, but was all smiles as he and that other piece of deliciousness, Matías Romero, helped a startled Mila into the waiting limo.
They make me sound like a piece of baggage.
To be fair, the accompanying footage makes me look like a bag too. Not that I look much better this morning. I’m wearing jeans and a hoodie I pulled from Fin’s walk-in closet. The place looks like a fancy menswear store, the kind that shuns price tags and mannequins and has amazing lighting.
But I digress, because A Little Bird’s latest post includes images of Fin and Charlotte dressed for some swanky event a couple of months ago. He’s dressed like James Bond, and she’s wearing a couple of Band-Aids masquerading as a dress that my own boobs would absolutely fall out of. The caption reads:
Fin DeWitt attending the Nexus Charity Ball, his companion, social media influencer Charlotte Bancroft, cutting a stunningly svelte figure in Tom Ford.
Companion. Fin made it sound more like a chance meeting, or even a series of them.
I think about the language used to describe me. Casual. Comfort. Startled. While snatched and delicious were reserved for Fin and his friend. I know I shouldn’t pay attention—the intelligence in me says I shouldn’t believe the media, even as the woman in me studies the image like an FBI profiler. Why are they standing so close? Could his arm be behind her?
“The betrayed will betray you, and the deceived will deceive you.” Fin’s words from the resort suddenly come back to me. He said this is what he learned from love. Whatever it means, it must’ve put him off trying to find love again. I can’t say I blame him.
Pushing the recollection away, I scroll to the comment section while knowing I should just move on. But it’s like a grazed knee I can’t resist picking.
181 comments
Innit4theD: That’S his new wife?!?!
Fast&Curious: What’s wrong with her? She looks like a regular girl to me.
AmaraKarna: Exactly. I’m thinking there’s hope for me and him yet!
BadKarmaKitty: Except he got Married.
AmaraKarna: That man can’t keep it in his pants. I give them 6 months.
Aunti_Depressant: Poor Charlotte. She’ll be crying into her new TV contract.
AnonEmouse: No wonder he left her. She looks like she could hula-hoop with an onion ring.
Susie_Choosie: Skinny shaming is a thing.
AmaraKarna: I wish someone would skinny shame me.
Thots.an.Prayers: The new Mrs. D has got Back!
Taylor_Drift: She’s got front too. Do you reckon she’d give me the name of her plastic surgeon?
Load more comments . . .
No thanks.
As I emerge from the bowels of the underground station, I blink into the sunlight like a newborn soul. And like a newborn, I want to wail. I didn’t sign up for this. For people to comment and pick fault with my clothing, my body—my bloody life! I have eyes in my head; I know I don’t look like the women Fin usually dates. Is photographed with or whatever.
Who do these people think they are? These journalists and anonymous commenters—don’t they understand words have power? That they hurt?
I felt bad when Evie was upset, when she described her experiences. But I didn’t really get it. I do now. Boy, do I get it.
Pulling my hood over my head, I put my head down and join the hordes of similarly unhappy souls, blank faced and gray looking, rushing to work or getting kids to school. Regular Londoners living on the edge of poverty.
It could only be worse if it were raining. Though I suppose I could also be in the city, being jostled by finance bros far too important to pause a moment in the sunshine. Or silently cursing tourists for cluttering up the sidewalks with their suitcases while they gawk at their camera phones, not really paying attention to the things around them, just snapping images as proof of their being here.
It’s such a strange world we live in, everyone desperate to appear interesting to their peers.
I should take a leaf out of Fin’s book and not give a fuck. So that’s what I do. Fuck you, journalists! Fuck you, Charlotte! Fuck you all for trying to make me feel less than.
I denounce my insecurities forthwith!