The Wrong Girl Read Online Free Page B

lesbianism
No fantasising about One Direction
    I think that covers it. Pete sent sucky email . . . I just wb saying what we did was a mistake, I’m fine, but we should just leave it at that. And THAT’s the last contact with men I will be having for six months.
    Lx
    Sent from my iPhone
    To: Lily Woodward
    From: Simone Bryant
    Subject: Re: Call me Sister Woodward, please
    Who knows, it might be the start of a big awakening for him. God knows he needs one.
    See you tonight xoxo
    P.S. What about fantasising about Ryan Gosling?
    To: Sim Bryant
    From: Lily Woodward
    Subject: NO GOZZO
    I mean it.
    I’ll be checking your web history.
    Lx
    Sent from my iPhone
    Lily hit send and sipped her water, enjoying her last day off by spending a few hours at the beach. Fucking Pete, she thought, with overwhelming disappointment. Why’d he have to go be such a
dick
.
    Lily turned her thoughts elsewhere: tomorrow was Monday, her first day back at work, which raised a mixture of excitement and anxiety. She produced the cooking segment on
The Daily
, a morning show that had been around forever and often felt like it. Her executive producer always wanted Big Name chefs, but the problem was, they usually worked until two a.m. and couldn’t be bothered making the seven a.m. call time. At the end of last year Lily had suggested the show go back to the old model of one in-house chef so everyone wasn’t in a complete state of panic four days a week, and amazingly her idea had been approved. A new chef had been decided on over the Christmas break, and she was nervous thinking about who it might be, since the decision would likely have been made by her series producer, Eliza, a sweet but ineffective woman with about as much chef knowhow as a pot plant. The new chef could make or break Lily’s year, depending on whether they were fun and easy to work with, or stubborn, lascivious and cantankerous, which was what she had learned to expect based on her experience with a largely male chef’s pool. She shook her head; she hadn’t even been asked for suggestions.
    Lily used to think she wanted to be the on-air talent, when she first started in TV, fantasising of her Bridget Jones moment and becoming an overnight sensation, but she soon realised she’d be terrible at it. In fact, it might be her worst nightmare. She preferred being behind the camera, with all of her mistakes and her private life protected, and absolutely no need to wear heels, or entertain the notion of hairspray. Much better. Much more Lily.
    The next morning Lily pulled her long, dark straight hair up into a messy bun and looked at herself in the far-too-truthful bathroom mirror. She was wearing a pair of black jeans, ballet flats and a light-grey top she’d bought in Byron Bay that walked the line between T-shirt and dressy top. She knew today would just be workshopping; why dress up? Of course, that wouldn’t stop Eliza from wearing her office-lady finest. She persisted with the idea that traditional female business attire, the stuff favoured by Melanie Griffiths in the late ’80s, was ‘professional’ and ‘polished’ even though in everyone else’s eyes it was just ‘vividly outdated’.
    There were no spots left in the car park, as far as Lily could tell. Finally, after almost ten minutes of zooming her small, had-it-since-uni VW Polo around columns and partitions, seeking that elusive car space, Lily spied one. It was a good one too, right near the lifts. She put her foot down and sped towards it, only to see a sleek black ute gracefully reverse into it three seconds before she arrived. She slammed on the brakes and her jaw plunged in shock. Who does that? It was clearly hers!
    She waited to see who would exit this horrible bogan chariot, so she could fire them a greasy and then bookmark them for future greasies too. A head emerged, then broad shoulders in a simple white shirt, followed by dark denim