by Lilah Pace
After all, he thought with a wicked smile, you have to have priorities.
***
In the end, Ben called Kimberley first. It galled him to have to run things by her, more when she advised against what he had to do, but he wouldn't be talked down. Then he asked for the car to take him back to Global Media.
By now it was almost time for people to go home--at least, the daytime shift. Ben was startled to see that the entire corps of paparazzi had moved on for the day. He had almost forgotten what it was like to simply walk into the building without any trouble.
He had a few curious glances from passersby. That hardly counted any longer.
The normal end-of-day chatter at least moderated the usual hush as he walked into the newsroom. Ben knew he'd need to return to his desk, but first he went straight into Fiona de Winter's office.
She was on the phone, but instantly said, "Gotta call you back" and hung up on whoever. Ben shut her office door behind him as she ventured an uneasy smile. "Cooled off?"
"I quit."
Fiona blinked. "Now?"
"I can't do my job. My sources think I'm a joke, which is one thing. It wouldn't matter if my editor had my back. Without that, I'm just pissing into the wind."
"It's not like that," she protested. The worst part was that somehow she meant it. She obviously just didn't understand what it meant to violate his privacy like this. To her, what she'd done was a blurring of the rules, not a personal betrayal. To her, Ben had no privacy remaining to betray. "Personally, I realize, you're disappointed. But professionally we can work this out."
"Professionally, it was over before it began. I didn't see it because I didn't want to. The same reason you can't see how you fucked up. If you did, you'd have to see that you weren't being 'smart' or 'practical' or whatever else you told yourself. You were just determined to make this come out the way you wanted it to, without letting sordid reality get in the way."
Fiona's expression hardened. "We're not so different."
Once, not that long ago, they hadn't been. It was startling for Ben to realize how much he'd changed without ever meaning to. "Officially I'm going on a 'leave of absence.' Paid. In three months I'll resign. Deviate from that explanation with anyone, whether that's our mutual bosses or any of your tabloid friends, and I'll make sure you're exposed as the leak. There aren't even words for how fast you'd be fired."
"At least when I was talking to them, I was on your side," she said, folding her arms. "The next informant won't be. And there's always going to be another, Ben. You might come to wish you'd kept me in your corner."
Fiona actually thought she'd been doing him some kind of twisted favor. Ben simply repeated, "Three months' leave. Paid." Then he walked out.
Normally when people quit jobs they took every single bit of detritus from their desk; he'd seen reporters collect old straws and grubby rubber bands. But Ben had never gathered much clutter, here or anywhere else. Anything of any sensitive nature whatsoever went into his satchel. The rest he dumped in the trash can. He'd take that to the incinerator himself when he was done; otherwise people would paw through it in an attempt to find something they could use.
Roberto returned from the copyediting area just in time to catch him. "A leave of absence? Just because of the sex life thing? That's not the worst thing they've ever written about you. It's not even the worst thing they wrote about you this week."
Ben held his tongue. He'd made a deal with Fiona, little though she deserved it, and he'd keep his word to show her how it was done. "That's not the only reason. I'm not really effective here right now, and besides, I have another book to write."
Now I'm an author. Journalist to author: That's a job switch worth making, right?
Although Roberto obviously understood more was at work behind Ben's decision, he didn't pry further. "I'll miss you. Stay in touch, okay?"
Ben would have liked that, and yet it seemed impossible. That made him sadder than virtually any other aspect of the day. "I'll try."
They gave each other a one-armed hug and rueful smiles, before Roberto turned to go.
As the rest of the office filed out, Ben knew it was time to incinerate the trash--after one more thing.
He reached into the pocket of his satchel and pulled out the rumpled bit of paper with Warner Clifton's contact information on it. Ben knew he'd left this decision too long already. By now, Warner would be pissed off and ready to strike. Sheer ego would keep him from acting today or in the very near future--he would do anything to keep from having to acknowledge that Ben thought the sex was better with James. But give it another few days for this particular scandal to die down, and . . .
Make up your mind.
Ben punched in a few numbers on his phone. After a couple of rings came the answer: "Kimberley Tseng."
"Clifton contacted me a few days ago."
A brief pause followed, during which Ben knew she wanted to ask why he hadn't told her this before. However, she only said, "His information?"
Quickly Ben rattled off the numbers and e-mail address. Kimberley thanked him and hung up. It was done.
Yet he sat there a few minutes longer, staring down at the paper in his hand. As much as he loathed Warner, as much as he hadn't wanted to ever deal with his presence in his life again--this paper, this decision, had been Ben's alone. Right now it felt like that wasn't true of anything else in the world.
His fist crumpled the paper, and he dropped it into the trash can before walking it across the office and dumping the contents into the incinerator chute himself.
Ben went back out to the car, refusing to look back at the Global Media offices as they pulled away. He kept remembering that he'd told himself nobody would ever be able to take away his career, that he would hold on to it no matter what.
It had only taken five weeks for him to lose it.
***
That weekend was their First Date.
Not their first actual date, which had involved a resort in Kenya, tropical rain, and coconut-scented lotion. Nor was it their First Official Event together, because that would mean Ben was stepping into a quasi-royal role, an idea still as laughable to Ben as it would be to most of the British public. However, they were finally going out.
In the back of the sedan, James fiddled with his cuff links as they drew nearer the Royal Albert Hall. "Do you realize I didn't even know you enjoyed classical music until I read that story by your friend Roberto?"
"You were too busy blasting Runrig," Ben said, but he had to admit he'd been equally clueless about James's overall preferences in music. He'd only gotten the picture a few minutes before the car for the concert had been ready.
James smiled softly, and he took Ben's hand in his. "We still have a lot to learn about each other. I love that. I love thinking that there's still more to you, that I'd never get to the bottom of the amazing person you are."
"Same here." Ben squeezed James's fingers. His words were true. But all he could think about was the fact that he was about to be ushered out of this car like some sort of show pony.
"All right," James said as they turned the final corner. "Remember, you have to guard your expression at all times. One split second of inattention turns into headlines the next day about how bored you were, and then the performers feel awful."
Leave it to James to worry about the performers' feelings. "Okay. Guarding."
"They'll play the national anthem when we enter the box, but just one verse."
Ben had to consider that for a moment before he felt sure he'd heard what he thought he'd heard. "The national anthem?"
This earned him a sideways glance. "I'm head of state, Ben."
"I know that. Just--the national anthem." This was what other people did just because James had walked into a room. Ben knew he wasn't getting used to that anytime soon. He was wearing what he now thought of as his one good suit, the same one he still wasn't sure how to pay for, and a wine-colored necktie James had loaned him. Simultaneously he knew he looked good and
felt like a small, uncomfortable boy stuffed into formalwear for a wedding.
"At least no one will sing." James chuckled softly. "We're here."
They came in through a side entrance; apparently grand red carpet appearances were reserved for official occasions. If any of the staff at the Royal Albert Hall were taken aback or even surprised to see Ben with James, they didn't let it show on their faces. Together the two of them went up narrow, thickly carpeted stairs illuminated by grandiose brass fixtures that seemed to have been put up in the 1950s but polished every day since. Ben noted that the hushed deference surrounding them was as natural to James as it was weird to him.
Just before the two of them stepped through the door to the royal box, someone must have sent some sort of signal, because "God Save the King" started on cue. Ben followed James's cues: walking where he walked, stepping to the two ornate chairs at the front, and standing calmly while the song finished. Only then did they sit, and only then did Ben dare to steal a glance at the crowd. Every single person seemed to be filming them with a cell phone. Impossible to tell whether the audience was friendly or hostile. Probably they were too avidly fascinated to be either, really. They only wanted to see.
Ben now understood why they had to guard their expressions every single moment.
The lights fell, and the murmuring took only a few extra seconds to quiet into a hush. James leaned toward him and whispered, "Willing to brave the headlines and hold hands?"
"Of course." Ben wrapped his hand around James, atop James's knee. It felt good to touch him in front of the whole world, even innocently, and know that they could see James was his.
It felt less good to wonder whether they were being filmed even now, despite the dark. To know that both he and James had to think about that before the simplest gesture--and would have to think about it forever after.
None of this is getting better, Ben thought. I don't think it will ever change. I don't even think it can.
The low beat began, then the swell of music that led off Holst's "Mars, the Bringer of War." Ben had always liked the entire Planets suite, and knew he should be enjoying the prospect of hearing it all together, played by an excellent orchestra, and from the royal box yet.
But all he could think about was the darkness around them, the watching eyes within it, and the fact that it felt like he wasn't so much holding James's hand as hanging on, trying hard not to let go.
Chapter 5
The Homme Fatal and the Pantomime Dame
When did it begin to change?
James would have picked the day Ben quit his job, if he had to pin it to one specific point on the calendar. But he knew that this distance had both begun earlier, and deepened after.
It wasn't as though they weren't still getting along, because they were. When they were at home together, or out at a concert or play, everything usually seemed as wonderful as it had ever been. Ben had thrown himself into his writing, so while he probably missed his day job and resented having been forced to quit, he had plenty to do. Usually James came in to find Ben going through his notes or reading one of his research books, at least until he looked up and smiled.
They created new rhythms together, new patterns and habits that belonged to them equally. James's trainer now met with them both, so they exercised side by side in the morning. Kimberley's tabloid rundown was a mutual chore at breakfast, though by now James's gayness and Ben's supposed trashiness were more often relegated to the smaller boxes than the main cover position. Neither of them were big TV watchers, but they discovered a mutual, somewhat embarrassing fondness for Lewis and took to curling up on the sofa together to watch.
And the sex only seemed to get better. They could still drive each other wild, or make each other laugh, or both laugh and go wild within only a few moments of the other.
"Come here, you," Ben said one night not long after dinner, dragging James up from the sofa, making him stumble to his feet as he laughed.
"In an awful rush, aren't--" James's words had been stopped by Ben's mouth on his. For a few long moments they kissed, rather sloppily, as Ben backed him toward the wall. Before they reached it, though, Ben actually bent to sweep James's legs out from under him, picking him up in his arms. James latched his arms around Ben's neck in delight. "Are you actually carrying me to bed? Like Scarlett O'Hara?"
"Frankly, my dear, I most certainly am."
Ben had tossed him onto the bed, which was a much sexier move than James had ever given it credit for, and crawled over him, slow and intent. James's heart had been hammering just as hard as on the day they'd first made love, and they'd peeled each other's clothes off between kisses.
As James reached for the lube, though, he couldn't help noticing--"We're almost out."
"Better get more, then." Ben gave him that wolfish grin, before it hit him, and his jaw dropped. "Shit. How do we get more?"
They stared at each other in mutual realization. Ben had always done the shopping for their supplies, but that was now impossible.
"How did you buy lube before me?" Ben asked.
"At university, Prakash bought it," James admitted. "Then Niall always bought it. Then you did."
"Well--how--" Ben was at a loss, suspended naked over James as they puzzled this out. "How do you get anything personal? Like laxatives, or acne cream?"
"I advise Glover on the household needs. I could even ask for condoms before, when it seemed as if I were dating Cass, though I suspect he always knew better. Lube, however--"
He looked over at the crumpled, near-empty tube almost sorrowfully for the split second before it took them both to start laughing. Ben flopped down beside James, gathering his breath to say, "Oh, God, I can just see it." He put on his best posh English accent, which wasn't very good, making this funnier: "Excuse me, Glover, but could you be a dear and fetch us the finest lubricant in all the kingdom?"
James held up the tube. "The worst part is the brand name." Which was Back Door.
Somehow in all the laughter they began kissing again, and then making love again, and they'd just have to figure out how to tactfully order more lube, because they were definitely going to need it soon.
So, if so much was still wonderful--including the sex--what precisely was wrong?
Perhaps it was that Ben nearly never left Clarence House, now. James could get him to attend concerts or plays, but beyond that, Ben resisted. As James edged further back into the social world of the aristocracy, he realized that there, at least, his sexual orientation was of no moment. A few people with whom he had always been slightly friendly had shown sincere empathy. Others oozed the false kind, just trying to get closer, but after a lifetime of being royal James could easily tell the difference. He'd always isolated himself so severely, fearing the discovery of his secret . . . yet now James realized a few more people could have been trusted. He finally could expect to cultivate more genuine friendships. By nature warm and gregarious, James delighted in the idea. That simple pleasure had been in short supply for him since university.
Yet Ben wouldn't hear of any "private gatherings" at Clarence House, where he could meet and be met. "They'll just gawk," he'd said. "Look down their noses at me."
"Some of them probably will," James admitted, "but we never have to have them back again. Others wouldn't, and then we'd have mutual friends to spend time with."
"I've never needed a huge group around me," Ben said with a shrug. The implication seemed to be that if James wanted more, he was suggesting that Ben alone wasn't enough.
While Ben worked regularly on his book, when he talked about his progress, a certain animation had gone out of his voice. Ben had once almost glowed whenever he discussed writing. Now his work was just the stuff he did when James was gone.
Most distressing to James was the fact that, when he had evening events that went fairly late, he usually came in to his own empty bed. Ben would have fallen asleep in his own room.
Once in a while James would creep in to join Ben there, but he i
nevitably felt strange doing so . . . needy, and a little weird. The next day, Ben was always very blase about it.
"It's not as though we won't see each other in the morning," Ben would say. "This way I can sleep better and you can get undressed without worrying about waking me. It makes sense, doesn't it?"
"It does," James would admit.
But it felt wrong.
As yet there was no question of Ben attending official functions with James. Every poll leaned against it, which wouldn't have stopped James except for the fact that Ben leaned against it too. "I'm not royal," he'd say. "Why pretend?" So going out mostly meant going it alone.
Probably, James thought, he was making an issue out of nothing. He'd never lived with a romantic partner before. Neither had Ben. Of course they'd have some adjustments to make. Of course it wouldn't be wild and passionate every single moment.
Still, he set his mind to coming up with a surprise for Ben--something they'd both enjoy, something a little bit crazy. That might cast out the shadows in the corners and make everything bright once more.
***
A trip to the countryside didn't sound that appealing to Ben, a resolute city dweller. Nor did mid-March, still cold and slushy, seem like the ideal time for a mini-break. But James was excited about the idea, and Ben was reaching the point where he thought if he spent one more day looking at the walls of Clarence House, he'd scream. So. To the country.
They took the royal train, which was a real thing complete with red-carpeted steps and little silver dog bowls for Happy and Glorious, both of whom nonchalantly came along. So did Glover and Paulson, as well as one of the Buckingham Palace cooks, but they rode in a different train car. Then sleek black sedans met them and took them through rambling hills and hedgerows toward . . .
"This isn't a country house," Ben objected as he saw its craggy outline against the setting sun. "This is a castle."
"Same difference," James answered. Even though his tone of voice made it clear he was joking, Ben still felt that chasm opening up again--the one between his life with James and anyplace real.
He had to admit that the place itself was something to see: enormous long winding rooms, furnished pell-mell with bits of furniture left over from decades and even centuries past, and art on the walls that ran the gamut from lesser Dutch masters to horsemanship medals to elk heads. Best of all were the fireplaces, stoked into life by Glover, which blazed six feet long and three feet high. Dinner was actually served to them, though in a style more like that of a nice restaurant than the liveried grandeur he'd been told to expect if and when they ever dined at Buckingham Palace. All in all, while Ben didn't really get the appeal, it was an entertaining change of pace.