The idiot pricks use those prized bottles of deluxe, world class champagne as fire hoses to soak the shit out of each other, laughing like pre-schoolers as they do it. Three hundred thousand fucking pounds spewing over each other without a care.
It transports me back to the Ella working every hour she could at minimum wage, just to feed herself on pasta through the month and pay the bills. The Ella who avoided the tube to save the fare, even though her feet were killing her after twelve hours straight on her feet already. I remember the fear and dread at checking my account balance, and realising I only had a few pounds left until my next pay day – crying because I couldn’t book in any more shifts, I was working so many already. I used to be so fucking scared.
And that Ella sees these idiots through one sorry lens.
They aren’t just smug idiots, out to show off their wealth to the world.
They are cunts.
Selfish. Entitled. Stuck up, snotty cunts, who don’t give a fuck about anything but their own bloated egos.
It stabs a knife into a buried wound, skewering straight into my guts.
I’m no longer the entertainer Holly when I get to my feet at the table and shoot them a look that could kill. I walk towards them, one step at a time, shaking Josh’s hand off as he reaches for mine.
It takes the idiots a few seconds to notice my approach, wet shirted and laughing their heads off as they summon a waiter for another six bottles.
“Makes you feel good, does it?” I ask the ringleader. “Throwing cash around like it’s worth nothing whatsoever, just for a pathetic ego boost? People are starving. Homeless. Battling to earn enough money to pay for their families to eat every month, and you lot… you’re a fucking disgrace. A joke.”
Rage flows through my arms so strongly, I have to clench my fists at my side.
One of the guys looks at me like I’m shit on his shoe.
“Oh, woe is me, says you, in fucking Cannes, you snotty bitch.” Then he laughs. “Oh wait, are you not upper class? Seems not from your accent. Are you a whore on someone’s arm? I bet your pussy is worth less than one of these bottles, so why don’t you shut your self-righteous mouth and quit complaining?”
One of his friends laughs along with him.
“You’ve got it nailed, Jimmy. She’s definitely a hooker, look at her.” He pauses. “How about we give you a bottle and you come sit at our table instead? Let’s fill your trappy mouth up with something other than envy.”
I feel winded, because the burn inside me is anything but envy.
It’s pain.
Hurt.
“You’re nothing but entitled, greedy fuckups,” I say. “Every fucking one of you. You’re fucking disgusting.”
I don’t know where I’m dashing to when I’ve had my say, I just go. Every pair of eyes in the place burn in my direction, but I can’t control myself. All I can think of is the bullying bitches where I used to work, despising me and judging me, and making me take the blame for all their poor efforts and fuckups, just because I was desperate.
Nothing is any different here amongst this kind ofelite. This place is full of wankers.
I hear Josh’s voice booming in the background, but I can’t bear to face him right now. My throat is choked up with the need to cry, which is stupid. I’m at the happiest point in my whole fucking life, but some rivers run deep. The memory of hopelessness is still strong enough to bury me.
One of the servers opens the barrier entrance for me and I dash on down to the marina. People are staring, I feel them in a blur, but I keep walking, breathing as deep as I can so I don’t break and cry, because what the fuck have I just done? And what the fuck am I fucking doing?!
I’m not Ella here. I’m Holly the whore. Ishouldbe Holly the whore, and Holly has no right to be drawing attention to Heath or acting like that in any circumstances. I’ve fucked up big time.
“Ella!”
Oh hell, I hear Heath’s voice in the distance, and I stop walking, trying to compose myself.
“Ella, wait! Stop!”
I try to bury the pain, and focus on the apology, because I owe him one. I should be grovelling on my knees for being so fucking unprofessional after all he’s done, and he’s got every right to be fuming at me.
I turn to face him, and manage asorrybefore my breaths choke me up. I don’t have any words other than that, feeling so small and pathetic and vulnerable andwrongthat I don’t know where to start.
“Breathe,” Heath says, and his voice is so still. No rage there at all.
