Just Like Her

Chapter 79

Tom

8:34am

Cynthia: Turn on GMB.

8:35am

Tommy: ... GMB??

8:35am

Cynthia: Good Morning Britain.

8:35am

Tommy: What for?

8:35am

Cynthia: Just turn on the damn telly & CALL ME.

***

I swore under my breath as I flicked on the black screen. Whenever Cynthia was vague, it was surely bad. And when she used caps...

I mentally rewound the night before as I clicked through the channels. Emma, Youssef, and I walked the press line upon our arrival at the gala, Emma refusing to detach herself from either of us—that is until she went off in search of Matilda and instead discovered the security guards I had hired. When she and I had returned to the table, Cynthia had been there and appeared to be in good spirits.

By all accounts, the event had been a success: Youssef had done nearly a dozen interviews by the time we left and had arranged another for this afternoon. Emma and I had been well behaved and kept to my sister's savvy messaging.

Even Charlie had contributed by distracting Youssef from his anxieties. Usually, Charlie was the first to escape these sort of events in favor of a hip club or bar, but last night he had been the last of us to leave and even offered to host an after party of sorts at his townhouse. We were barely there for a quarter of an hour before Emma began to yawn and I called our driver.

I shook my head.

No one broke the gag rule; Emma and I hardly engaged in PDA with Youssef right there; and Charlie remained entirely sober. Unless something happened after we left Charlie's, nothing of interest to a morning gossip show could have taken place.

No doubt it would one of the conservative ladies on the show blithering on about Emma's and my bringing Youssef. It was an inevitable backlash, so it hardly seemed to warrant a text and with all caps no less.

I nearly missed the channel, having been expecting to see a panel of near identical middle-aged women perched on primly on a pastel couch. Instead, it was a single host—blonde and perhaps not so close to her middle ages—interviewing a man I could only describe as looking like a total wanker.

I know it sounds judgmental, but everything about the bloke oozed pretentious prick. If I had to put my finger on it, it might have been the way he lounged back in his chair or the obvious effort he put into his tussled hairstyle. More likely it was the way he was droning on about the loss of some great love.

"I really couldn't say why she left," he sighed forlornly.

"I've got an idea or two," I muttered as my eyes belatedly took in the segment's running banner. Rather cryptic, it read: #InThisTogether?

"She just left in the middle of the night?" The newscaster prodded, leaning in slightly. "No note, nothing?"

He nodded, employing nearly his whole upper body. "Nothing," he confirmed.

"And the next time you saw her...?" The blonde prodded.

"On the cover of some magazine, with him—Prince Thomas."