Margot dipped her head in agreement. “Anything I’ve said to you in here is mild, compared to what the gossip blogs are saying. If you are offended by my frankness, then might I suggest never going online again?”
Skye’s lips parted, her eyes fixed to the older woman. Her brain was in overdrive, her stomach in knots.
“Think about it, Skye. Is this really the life you want for yourself?”
Once Margot had leftthe sunroom, Skye closed the door then refilled her champagne, sinking into the sofa and staring out of the windows at the view. The morning was not overly warm, but in here, the effect of the sunlight on the windows was glorious. Despite that, Skye’s blood felt like ice in her veins.
Margot’s parting remarks played over and over in her head like a terrifying soundtrack, and though she knew she’d regret it, Skye had never been one to shy away from her fears. She pulled her phone from her pocket and, armed with the champagne, did the one thing she could:
She googled her own name.
Days ago, she’d been a nobody. Now, the two words ‘Skye Smith’ brought up hundreds of articles—many of them reprints of the same piece, photos of her and Matthieu dancing, kissing, talking, looking so naturally intimate, almost impossible to look away from. But the photos weren’t the problems, so much as the comparisons drawn between herself and Clare. Many of the articles included photographs of Matthieu’s ex, as well as snaps of the two of them together, happy, laughing, very much in love.
Skye’s skin prickled with goosebumps. They weren’t a real couple, but her jealousy was real. So too her hurt, at the obvious conclusion everyone was drawing that she had no business being with someone like Matthieu. What could he possibly want with plain Skye Smith after a woman like Clare? Okay, no one had said exactly that, but it was implied by every article. Then, there were the contributions by some of her so-called friends, who’d been only too happy to share intimate details of Skye’s history with the gossip rags, despite the fact she was a very private person. One even had the audacity to say that social-climbing must be an inherited trait! Of all the cruel barbs, to not only encompass Skye but also her mother!
She finished a second glass of champagne and by the end of the third, had made some kind of peace with her feelings.
But not with Matthieu.
The more she thought about her conversation with Margot, the more she realized he’d been keeping secrets. She had no interest in prying for the sake of prying, but it hadn’t been fair to throw her into the role without some more preparation. She’d deserved better than this.
Filling up her fourth and final glass—the bottle was now empty—she moved on legs that were no longer steady towards the glass doors that led to the terrace, cracking one open and poking her head out, looking left, then right, and only once she was assured she was alone, did she move onto the terrace and scamper over the tiles, down the stairs, and into the garden she’d missed touring that morning.
The fresh air assaulted her, cool but welcome, and she sipped the champagne as she went, trying very hard not to think about Margot, nor the comments she’d seen on the internet before finally she’d had enough and had put her phone away.
Aunt Margot was right on one score: she shouldn’t go online. It was clear that this engagement was going to be painted in a very particular light—making Skye the butt of all sorts of jokes. She didn’t take herself seriously enough to care—at least, she wouldn’t, at some point in the future—but for now, those comments stung. She was better not to look.
With that determination made, she plonked herself down in the middle of the stunning pre-revolution garden and busied herself with the last glass of champagne.