“Hey,” I said. “So when one or two of the people who took pictures with you today post them online, do you think it could take some of the pressure off my family? Make the photographers calm down and leave them alone?”
Ian gave a reluctant shake of his head. “Not likely. Blood in the water brings more and more sharks to circle around.”
A chill raced through me. “God. Okay. Well, what would do it?”
He moved his shoulders restlessly, the big muscles bunching. “Mostly, stay boring and don’t get caught acting like a wally anywhere in public. Then there are actors who court the paparazzi. Make friends, give them enough to keep them happy in exchange for being left alone most of the time.”
I made a face and pushed out through the metal turnstile at the zoo exit. “That sounds like a devil’s bargain, but if it keeps my family from having to deal with—”
A man jumped out of the lengthening shadows thrown by the pillars holding up the entrance hall. “Ian! Ian! Over here!”
Ian shot forward like a racehorse hearing the starting pistol. Grabbing my hand, he hauled me up and got me moving before I could do more than squeak.
“Head down,” he instructed as we moved at a fast clip toward the Broad Walk. “Don’t look at them, no matter what they say. They need a shot of your face, and once they know they can get you to react they’ll never leave you alone.”
“They?” I gasped out, suddenly aware of the patter of sneakers on pavement behind us. It definitely sounded like more than one guy, and as we walked swiftly toward the turnoff to cross the canal, I saw another man come lunging up the stairs with his camera already pointed in my direction.
Ian immediately veered away, leading us over the footbridge as our pack of hyenas followed closely, cajoling us to stop, to turn around, to give them a smile. The wind rushed in my ears and the breath sawed in and out of my lungs in a painful rasp. I couldn’t see where we were going. I held on to Ian’s hand and followed where he pulled me, focusing numbly on my low-heeled boots clicking rapidly along the sidewalk.
“Come on, luv, give us something,” came a voice almost directly behind me. Harsh and grating, the man brayed, “Don’t let Ian keep you all to himself, that sly dog. A rack like that belongs in the spotlight.”
I cringed, instinctively bringing my free hand up to my chest, but I managed not to turn around. Ian, on the other hand—I felt his steps slow ominously, and a shot of real fear detonated in my heart. This time, I was the one pulling him forward.
“Let’s just get out of here,” I begged, and he listened. We kept moving, faster and faster until we were almost running past St. Mark’s. The church and the trees and the people who stopped to stare and point were nothing but a blur in my tearing eyes.
Then that same voice came again, shredding through the chaos like a hacksaw. “Hey, Plumpy. Plumpy! Plumpy Pritchard, look at me.”
Horror flushed through me, wrenching a sob out of the depths of my chest. The meanness of it, the casual cruelty, nearly knocked me off my feet for a second. I swayed and nearly fell over, and then I realized it was because Ian had let go of my hand.
I whirled to see him strike out with the speed of a hunting panther at the sneering man at the head of the gaggle of camera-wielding white guys. Ian gripped the man by the lapels of his cheap sport coat and lifted him clear off the ground, shaking him with a spine-rattling snap.
“Ian, stop,” I cried, reaching for him, but he was gone, so far beyond my reach in every possible way. Rage had overwritten his beautifully chiseled features with a hardness I’d never seen before, and as the photographer took it in, his sleazy sneer dissolved into something closer to panic.
“Listen, chief, I didn’t mean it,” he babbled. “I didn’t even come up with it. They’re all calling her that, all the tabs, it’s not my fault. I’m just doing me job.”
It’s a shitty job, I wanted to tell him, but there was no time because rather than bother replying, Ian set the man back on his feet. Almost gently.
And just as the photographer inhaled a sigh of relief, Ian hauled off and punched him in the face. Blood spurted from the man’s nose in a geyser as he doubled over, shrieking. The other paps reacted, some running away but most staying to pop their flashes in Ian’s face and get the best shot they could of this horrible, nightmare moment.
The moment when Ian Hale completely lost it.
Because of me.
The thought broke the nauseating paralysis that had gripped me since hearing the nickname I’d been given by the British tabloid press. I leaped forward and snagged the back of Ian’s jacket, pulling hard enough to get him swinging around toward me, anger still simmering in his eyes. When he saw my face, no doubt white with the sick feeling of shock churning in my belly, the anger faded away.
I enfolded his hand, the one he’d used to hit that photographer, in both of mine. The big knuckles were already swelling, but he didn’t flinch when I brushed over the raw, tender places.
“Ian. Take me away from here. Please.”
He nodded once, never looking away from my eyes, and we turned and walked off into the deepening darkness of oncoming night.
This time, no one followed us.
Chapter Eleven
When we finally got back to Ian’s house it was fully dark. I walked straight down the hall, through the kitchen and out into the back garden to sink to my knees and bury my face in Pilot’s shaggy, warm fur.
He greeted me the way he always did, wagging his tail so hard it wiggled the entire back half of his body, but he held still and let me hug him the instant he sensed my distress. Roxanne whuffed softly, and I knew Ian had stepped outside. My breath shuddered out of me in a damp rush, but I forced myself to my feet.
“Come to the bathroom. Let me take a look at your hand.”
Ian flinched a bit at the deadened tone of my voice, but I couldn’t let any emotions through. I had a stranglehold on the fuckers right now, but if I eased up for even an instant, it was going to be a feelingspalooza over here.
He silently preceded me to the bathroom, pausing only to pour out two bowls of kibble for the dogs, who were immediately distracted from our silly human problems. That gave us the chance to get out the first aid kit and examine Ian’s hand without two curious pups underfoot.
Moment to moment, task by task. That’s what I could handle.
I set out the antiseptic wash and the cotton balls, then reached for Ian’s hand. He’d already taken off his jacket so I didn’t have to turn back the cuff. That was good.
As always, I shivered a bit at the first brush of skin on skin, but the reaction was heavily dampened this time by the strange dichotomy of being close enough to touch—and feeling further apart than ever before.
A yawning chasm had opened up between us, and I didn’t know how to bridge it.
I didn’t try. I focused on the red, abraded patches on his knuckles. Wetting the first cotton ball, I dabbed at the spots. My hands were steady. I was vaguely proud of that.
“It’s not always that bad,” Ian said suddenly, the words rough and rushed, and I immediately dropped the cotton ball. So much for being cool under pressure.
Crouching down to pick it up, I tossed it in the garbage and stood to wet another puff. I kept my gaze lowered, zeroed in on my job, and pressed the new puff to Ian’s wounds.
His other hand covered mine, stilling my fingers.
“Can’t you even look at me,” he said hoarsely.
My eyes shot up to meet his despairing stare. “Ian,” was all I could get out before my throat closed.
“I thought we’d be okay at the zoo.” His words ran together, tumbled over one another in his hurry to explain. “Fans don’t usually call the paparazzi to tip them off. I mean it happens, but not often. Usually it’s an employee or something.”
My mind flashed up an image of the ticket-taking teen who’d seemed to recognize us in the instant before we entered the zoo, and I closed my eyes briefly in regret. I should have said
something to Ian about it at the time, but it was too late now. The damage had been done.
All I cared about now was what happened next.
“I don’t know what to say to make this better,” Ian murmured, voice fraying at the edges, and the jagged pain in his eyes made mine well with tears.
I bent over our intertwined hands, head and throat and heart aching to see tears splash down on his bruised, scraped knuckles. “You bled for me.”
“He made you cry. I’d do it again, and worse,” he growled, and I shot to my feet.
“No!” I pressed my cold, clammy hands to my damp cheeks and tried to think rationally, but my internal monologue was basically a keysmash of anger, fear, dread . . . and something sharp and hungry lurking under it all. “God, Ian. That’s the last thing I want, for you to be hurt because of me.”
There it was—that’s what was layered under everything else I was feeling. Guilt. The moment when I realized Ian was going to throw a punch and either get hurt or hurt someone else on my behalf—it was the kind of thing that sounded sexy on paper, but the reality? Made me feel sick to my stomach.
How could I have let that happen? Maybe if I had been braver, stronger, if I hadn’t let that awful nickname get to me . . .
Ian was shaking his head as if he knew what I was thinking. “It won’t be that bad next time. We’ll do what we talked about before, make arrangements with them, make friends—”
I snorted, folding my arms across my body to hold back the creeping chill. “Oh sure, after you just declared war on them. I bet they’ll be real happy to play nice.”
His expression turned bleak as midwinter before he managed to get it under control. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t know!” Feeling abruptly hemmed in by the cramped confines of the bathroom, I paced out into the hall. “I just . . . I don’t understand how you can be so matter-of-fact about all this.”
“It’s part of the deal,” he said, coming to stand in the doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb, filling the frame with his massive shoulders. “It’s my life.”
“How can you want a life like this?” I cried, then instantly wished I could take it back when I felt the way he pulled away from me. Not physically; he was still there, in the hall, watching me with those intense blue eyes that seemed to be cataloging every feature like he’d have to draw them from memory later. But at the same time, I sensed his sudden reserve.
“I don’t want this life,” he gritted. “But I can’t leave it. Do you know how lucky I am to have gotten out, starting where I started? I’m living out my second chance here, Mallory, and I owe it to the blokes I knew back on the estate to make the most of it. Most of them didn’t even get a chance to live past their teens.”
“I get that. I really do. And it would be one thing if you were at least doing the kind of acting you want to do. Then maybe it would be worth it! But for movies you seem to hate, playing a character you don’t like, trading on your looks when there’s so much more to you than that.” I choked on the last part, my whole chest feeling crushed under an enormous weight. “It’s not healthy. It’s eating away at you, bit by bit, and I can see it even if you can’t. I saw it the moment I met you. You’re not happy.”
He shook his head, as if he barely understood the concept, and a piece of my heart shattered like glass.
Pressing a hand to my breastbone to contain the pain, I doggedly went on. This fight had morphed into something bigger than a single unpleasant run-in with tabloid photographers. I didn’t know where it was going, but I had to see it through.
“I understand making sacrifices for your work, or for the people you love—people who would do the same for you in return.” I strode back down the hall to him, to reach up and press my hands against his cheeks as if I could press my meaning straight into his brain. “But Ian, these Mount Olympus movies and your agent who doesn’t seem to care that you’re miserable . . . you don’t owe them your sanity.”
He was a marble statue under my palms, cold and still, but his eyes burned into mine. “Yeah. I do.”
I fell back a step as though he’d shoved me. Cold spread through me, numbing my fingertips and stealing my breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
Every muscle in his body tightened at once, as if he was absorbing a blow. Then he breathed out a long exhalation and said, “I know. I shouldn’t have brought you here. I thought I could keep you safe, but I was being stupid. I wanted you too much.”
Dimly, I understood that all of this was going to hurt, so much, when I looked back on it later. Every word was a killing blow. But for now, I was lucky. The numbness had taken hold and spread to my chest. “That’s not what I mean. I could deal with the fame stuff, the paparazzi, being laughed at and called names by strangers. It sucks, but it’s survivable. What I can’t stand is having a front-row seat while you slowly kill yourself doing work you hate until you believe you’re not capable of anything more.”
We stared at each other across the canyon of his back hallway. Neither of us made a move. My bones felt heavy, like they’d been filled with ice. A wave of despair broke over my head. I couldn’t believe what I was about to say, but it was the only thing I could say.
“I need to leave.”
I saw him flinch, taking the hit, and in a cruel trick of memory, all I could think of suddenly was the one time I’d threatened to leave before. More of a tease than a threat, and then his serious reply: Baby, don’t leave me. Please don’t go.
A sob caught in my throat, and tears washed out my vision so I stumbled on my way to the stairs. If he said it again, I wouldn’t be able to leave, and I had to. I needed time, and space, and sleep, and a chance to breathe without wanting to throw myself into his arms and promise to be whatever he needed for as long as he needed me.
When he caught my wrist in a gentle hold, I struggled and cried harder. He let go at once, but I couldn’t escape his ragged words as easily.
“Mallory. You make me happy.”
The ice around my heart cracked and pierced me through. I looked down, half surprised not to see blood dripping onto the polished hardwood floor.
“I can’t be the only one responsible for your happiness,” I choked out. “It’s too much. You need to fight for it too.”
Changing course, I turned away from the stairs and grabbed Pilot’s leash from the front hallway table. I could get my stuff later. “Pilot, here boy!”
He came racing from the kitchen on thundering paws and skidded to a stop next to me, all bright-eyed anticipation of walkies.
“At least let me call Bobby,” Ian said hoarsely. In my peripheral vision, I could see that he was holding himself in the doorway, every muscle straining against some invisible barrier.
I had to get out of here, before his resolve crumbled. Or mine did. “It’s not far. We’ll walk.”
“No. It’s not safe.”
Turning back to the hallway table, I snatched up the gray wool ball cap Ian had tossed there when we came in, and plunked it on my head. “There, I’m wearing your disguise. No one will recognize me. And I pity anyone who tries to bother me while Pilot is keeping watch.”
Ian nodded once, slow and jerky. I couldn’t believe he was letting me walk away. I couldn’t believe I was going.
From start to finish, this whole relationship had been unbelievable, I thought hysterically. And the thought that it was finished shoved me toward the door.
“Take care of yourself,” I managed to say, my hand on the doorknob. Just as I stepped out onto the front stoop, his voice came to me from the dark depths of the hallway. Every word ground out like broken glass.
“I told you once I was waiting for perfection. Even if it couldn’t last . . . thank you for giving me a glimpse of it.”
My fingers clenched, my steps faltered. I almost dropped to my knees. His final words propped me up long enough to make my escape.
“Goodbye, Mallory Pritchard.”
The first few days were the worst. Almost
instantly, I was aware I’d made a huge mistake. I was paralyzed with regret, obsessively remembering the way Ian had sounded when he said goodbye.
I’d thrown away a chance at real happiness. It was over. And it was all my fault.
For a week, I did nothing but mope around my flat and miss Ian so much I could barely breathe through it. Oh, I also managed to cry. A lot. And I went down about a million internet rabbit holes looking for pictures of Ian and me together.
There weren’t that many; what I saw a lot of was speculation about our relationship and commentary about my size. A lot of it negative and hurtful, which I tried to ignore. But I was surprised to discover that there were a lot of people out there who were rooting for us, fiercely. I read a few posts that made me cry—again, not difficult—from women who wrote about how much it meant to them to see someone who looked like them locked in a passionate embrace with a man who clearly fancied the pants off her.
They’d even come up with a nickname to counter what I’d been dubbed by the tabloid press, and when I first read it, I felt it spread like a soothing balm over the raw place that afternoon outside the zoo had left in my psyche. Instead of “Plumpy Pritchard,” they were calling me “Magnificent Mallory.” And even though I’d never felt less magnificent in my life, I appreciated the support with every fiber of my grief-wrung being.
Of course, the internet was never entirely healing. There were plenty of people who hated me on sight, or judged Ian for his strange choice of girlfriend, or speculated that it was already over since no one had seen us together in days. That last one hurt the most, since it was, after all, correct.
Finally sick of the emotional roller coaster, I bailed out of the celebrity gossip sites and banned myself from looking at click-bait headlines. The only exception I made was for any news that looked like it might be about Ian getting in trouble for punching that smarmy photographer, but I never saw any. His agent must have smoothed it over. At least he was good for something.
I swallowed against the tang of bitterness at the back of my throat, and forced my attention back to the book in front of me.
Naughty Brits: An Anthology Page 35