by Alexis Hall
With an increasing swallowed-live-lizard feeling in my stomach, I tried: Eleanor Hart.
And boom.
In every afternoon tea-and-gossip magazine from Hello! to goodbye, there we were: me with my head in Ellery’s lap as she fed me a strawberry in a fashion that, to those unfamiliar with the inherent sensuality of my strawberry-eating technique, probably looked a bit intimate. The byline was mostly something like “Notorious Wild Child Eleanor Hart Spotted with New Mystery Man at Proms” because the internet murdered brevity the way video killed the radio star.
For a few minutes, I just stared. Tried to figure how I was feeling—if I was scared or angry or violated or confused or all of them. Because if my Instagram was anything to go by, the mystery man ship had sailed. Had way sailed.
What the hell was I supposed to do? Only one thing for it, really. I rang Bellerose.
He picked up as swiftly as ever. “Arden.”
“Um, I don’t know if this is something I should be bothering you with.”
“Well, neither will I unless you tell me.”
“It’s on the internet. Google Ellery.”
Then came the tap of his keyboard. And a thoughtful silence. Followed by, “Are you at the apartment?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
I wasn’t sure that made me feel better or worse. In any case, it called for trousers. Unfortunately getting dressed couldn’t last me sixty minutes and so, by the time Bellerose turned up, I was in knots.
“Am I in trouble?” I blurted out, the moment he was over the threshold.
“Of course not. I wanted you to meet someone.” He stepped aside to reveal a slight, elegant, stiletto of man. “This is Alexander Finesilver, of Gisbourne, Finesilver & King. He’s the Harts’ lawyer.”
In all honesty, I didn’t find this very reassuring. “Okay?”
“Among other things, he specializes in media litigation and reputation management.”
Finesilver smiled at me. And, wow, he was good at smiling. It was positively bounteous—warm, genuine, everything you could possibly want in a friendly baring of teeth. “I hope you’ll contact me directly if you have any concerns like this again.”
And the next thing I knew, he was holding his business card, which was pearl gray and gold, at once opulent and discreet.
“I’m actually pretty concerned right now,” I said.
“Understandably, Mr. St. Ives.” Another smile.
It was hard to get the measure of him, probably because most people seemed ordinary when Bellerose was standing there like the ridiculous golden Ganymede he was. But Finesilver practically courted it. To shuck your curiosity like water. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.
A few minutes later, they were huddled around a laptop on the dining table while I hovered anxiously nearby.
“I don’t suppose”—Finesilver glanced up—“you remember anything about when or where these photographs were taken. Or by whom?”
“We were waiting for the Proms. And it was only the one guy. He was sleazy. And…uh…wearing a leather jacket.” Arden St. Ives: Witness of the Year. “I think he had brown hair?”
“Sounds like Boyle.”
I snapped my fingers. “Yes! That was what Ellery called him.”
“Can we try another injunction?” asked Bellerose.
I caught something in Finesilver’s eyes—as real and sharp and frightening as the flash of the hidden blade. Everything his smile wasn’t. But, when he spoke, his tone was mild enough that I was tempted to convince myself I’d imagined what I’d seen. “It’s difficult to make them stick when Miss Hart herself keeps breaking them.”
“Obsession can be quite attractive.” Bellerose cleared his throat. “Or so I understand.”
“He’s not her friend.”
“Do you think I haven’t tried to tell her that?”
“Um.” Great, I’d apparently opened my mouth and made words come out of it again. And now they were both staring at me, like lions eyeing up a gazelle across the Serengeti. “They didn’t seem very friendly.”
“As I’m sure you’re aware,” murmured Finesilver, “Miss Hart forms complex relationships with those around her.”
“I don’t know. She did sort of tell him to get cancer and die. That doesn’t strike me as super complex.”
Bellerose’s hand curled into a fist on the tabletop. “Arden, this situation is delicate. And Ellery’s entanglement with Billy Boyle longstanding. We have put in place several measures to protect her from him. And, in the end, it’s Ellery who has broken them all.”
He sounded frustrated—and not in the idle, commonplace way he got impatient with me sometimes. This was thorn-in-paw helplessness. Though I didn’t think it was for Ellery. Far more likely he was pissed off because there was something he couldn’t fix and make neat for Caspian.
“There must be more to it,” I said. “I know there’s aspects to this situation I don’t understand. But Ellery’s not…I mean. Ellery doesn’t do things for no reason. Even if it’s just her reason.”
Bellerose’s mouth thinned into a mean little line that didn’t suit him.
And Finesilver was still radiating an impenetrable field of trust me, trust me, I’m a nice person. “I believe she feels in some way connected to him.”
“Because he follows her around taking candid photos of her?”
“Because he has done so since she was fifteen years old. And”—he sighed gently—“on one occasion got her to hospital after an overdose.”
Oh Ellery. I wanted to hug the living daylights out of her. Which she would have hated.
“I guess”—I shuffled my feet awkwardly—“he can’t be all bad, then.”
Finesilver’s only change of expression was the slight re-angling of a brow. “He took photographs first.”
“The matter at hand?” Bellerose turned the screen more toward Finesilver and even less toward me.
Finesilver busied himself with the laptop again. “These are the only photographs circulating and they don’t appear to have been picked up by any major outlets. If we do nothing to suggest they might be worth attention, they will be less than flotsam in a day or two.”
“And if not?”
“Then,” said Finesilver mildly, “I will ensure there is something more newsworthy available to claim attention.”
He could do that? Of course he could do that.
“So it’s okay?” I asked.
He nodded. “I believe so. Though I will continue to monitor the situation.”
“And Caspian isn’t cross?”
Uncomprehending silence.
“I mean,” I babbled on, “he might not like it if people thought I was, y’know, dating his sister.”
Bellerose gave me one of his coolest looks. “He is quite aware of the vagaries of the gutter press.”
“Okay. Good. Well, not good but—”
“Though it’s possible he might be less circumspect if he thought you were upset. Something I will not be communicating to him.” His eyes were steady on mine, and diamond sharp. “Will you?
Wow, he really did not think good things about me. “Of course not. And I’m not actually upset. Just worried Caspian might…see it and not like it.”
“Arden, are you laboring under the misapprehension that he spends his afternoons googling you?”
I could have pointed out that Caspian had stalked both my Facebook and my Instagram feed looking for me. But I didn’t. Because I had dignity.
And then Finesilver slipped back into the conversation with the grace of a fencer. “There’s only one potential cause for concern here. And that is if details about Mr. St. Ives came to light that would perhaps be better left unilluminated.”
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. “What kind of details?”
“Oh, anything that could be perceived in particular ways.”
“What he means,” explained Bellerose, “is have you done anything illegal, embarrassing, or s
candalous?”
Embarrassing and/or scandalous covered about eighty percent of my life, and probably the remaining twenty percent was me being asleep. But it also didn’t seem like the sort of embarrassing or scandalous that sold copy. I mean, I fell over in front of billionaires a lot. Did that count? “Not really.”
“Are there secrets you shouldn’t be keeping. Any skeletons in your closet?”
Well. There was my dad. But he wasn’t so much a skeleton in my closet as a boogey man. And not remotely relevant. I sighed heavily. “I guess it was going to come out eventually. When I was at university, I fell in with this elitist crowd of loners, and we were all completely enthralled by our classics professor. He filled us with wild passion for the ways of the ancient Greeks and we started holding these, like, legit bacchanals. Unfortunately, we accidentally murdered this random farmer. And then one of our other friends to cover it up. And then our classics professor ran away and someone else committed suicide. And now everything is ruined and we are very sad and I have bad dreams.”
“I’ll take that as a no, then.” Finesilver looked faintly amused.
Bellerose didn’t. “Arden, we’re trying to help you.”
“Actually”—I tucked my hands into the pockets of my jeans—“you’re trying to protect Caspian and his family. Which is cool. But not necessarily the same thing as helping me.”
Finesilver closed the laptop with a gentle click. “You make my job more difficult. But, as far as your own interests are concerned, that is no bad thing.”
It was the weirdest praise I’d ever received. But, hey, I’d take it.
Bellerose seemed less impressed. But, then, I had no idea what could impress Bellerose. I think it involved being Caspian Hart.
“By the way,” he said as he herded us into the hall, “Caspian asked me to make sure you received a parcel, so I brought it with me, rather than having it couriered. It’s by the door.”
“Oh, right. Thanks.”
I waved them off politely, not entirely sure whether I was reassured by their visit or not and turned my attention to the, well…parcel didn’t really do it justice. It was a work of art: this heavy, dark cream box, discreetly embossed with a golden logo and tied up with the most austerely masculine bow I’d ever seen in my life. I carried it through into the dining area and put it on the table. What on earth had Caspian sent me?
Well, it wasn’t going to open itself. I undid the manribbons and took off the lid. Inside, carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper, was a coat.
The sort of coat you saw on runways and in white-floored boutiques that only stocked about three garments.
The sort of coat that probably cost more than any car I’d ever own.
The sort of coat that had absolutely no business belonging to someone like me.
There was a square of buttercream-colored card lying on top of it. If nothing else, meeting Caspian had been a comprehensive education in shades of posh. “Thinking of you…” was scrawled across the front. I traced my fingers over the harsh slash of the T, the curve of the o, the generous loops of g and f. Caspian’s hand? I hoped so. Then, turning it over, I burst out laughing as the message continued:
“…getting cold because you never have a coat.”
Oh, it had to be him. And whoever had described lovey-dovey feeling as butterflies was way off base. Because I had swooning eels in my stomach. And I just about managed not to press his card against my heart, like a Jane Austen character receiving a letter. Or dance around with it Disney heroine–style, while bluebirds flew round my head.
Then I remembered the actual present.
I drew the coat carefully from its tissue cocoon, shook it out, and put it on. Of course, it was perfect: a simple black trench coat with a high collar and a belt, clinging to my body so well it could have been tailored to my measurements.
It made me feel beautiful and sexy and invincible. And also terrible for being materialistic enough to love it. But I did.
I totally did.
As I brushed my fingers over the smooth fabric, I tried to convince myself I should turn down the amazing present from my billionaire non-boyfriend. That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? I was pretty sure there were nebulous moral and social rules governing the acceptance of extravagant gifts from rich, (slightly) older men.
But I was already sleeping with the rich, (slightly) older man in question. Enthusiastically and for free. And, proportionally speaking, if you looked at it in terms of annual income, a coat like that was probably the equivalent of a packet of crisps and a pint of Stella to Caspian.
Not a big deal at all.
Except…that wasn’t true. Because this wasn’t just a post-bang bunch of roses he’d told his assistant to arrange. It was something he’d chosen specially.
While thinking of me.
Well. While thinking I was a Dickensian urchin who would freeze to death come winter.
But hey. It was a thought. It counted.
And now I couldn’t tell whether I was trying to talk myself into it or out of it, or whether I felt good or bad or what. Maybe it would have been easier if Caspian had actually been here. He would have been able to tell me I deserved to be lavished in expensive gifts. And I could thank him with my hands and mouth and body.
And then wear the coat.
Great. Now I was having a sexy fantasy that essentially amounted to prostituting myself for tailored outerwear.
This was why I couldn’t have nice things.
Knowing how busy he was, I didn’t want to interrupt him. So I ended up making my awkward thank-you call in the evening. He picked up with velociraptor swiftness on the second ring.
“Hello, Arden.”
“Good evening, Mr. Hart.”
“Did you…I mean. I sent you something. I trust it arrived.”
Oh bless, he sounded, well, not nervous exactly. But eager and trying to cover it up. And I suddenly felt a whole lot better about the coat. “Yes. Thank you. It’s perfect.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“Best thing in my entire wardrobe. I won’t wear anything else ever again.”
“Anything else, you say? Now that I’d like to see.”
I gave this weird bleaty little laugh because I hadn’t been properly prepared for flirting. But I rallied. Made what was probably an ill-advised attempt at sultry. “Come round, then. I’ll give you a private viewing.”
“You know I’d love to. But I’m waiting for a call from Tokyo, and I prefer to handle such things from my office.”
I sighed. “Soon, then?”
“I’ll insist on it.”
The growl in his voice sent happy little shivers racing down my spine. But it also made me miss him. Even more so when he hung up, and I was alone again in the flat: just me and my gorgeous coat. The last thing I needed was more complicated feelings centered on an item of clothing, but it highlighted the way he could reach into my world whenever he wanted while his remained utterly inaccessible to me.
Blah.
Leaving my Coat of Many Emotions draped over a chair back, I Kiked Nik to see if he wanted to binge-watch Supergirl with me, having forgotten it was something like one o’clock in Boston and he was out to lunch with friends. Typical, really, that Nik would travel across the world, without billionaire backing, and be right at home. While I was living only an hour away and still didn’t have a clue about anything. I mean, I was glad he was settled and had friends and stuff. But it reminded me that I needed to do the same. Instead of acting like my life was a ten-pound note I’d found in the gutter and couldn’t decide whether it was okay to keep.
I couldn’t help coming back to what Caspian had said to me on the plane. All that stuff about daring to want things. I’d made it about him at the time—partly because, well, I did want him, but also because I wasn’t ready to think about it too deeply. Y’know, in case he was right.
Which, to be honest, was looking increasingly likely.
It was extra strange b
ecause I’d been full of dreams as a teenager. Mainly big stupid unrealistic dreams, like becoming a world-famous novelist, when, y’know, I had no interest in actually writing novels. Except I’d also dreamed of going to Oxford, and I’d made that happen, and not—when I managed to see past my raging imposter syndrome—just by fluke or by accident. I’d wanted it and worked for it. And yet, having achieved it, all I’d done was fuck around and watch illegal streams of Pretty Little Liars with a mostly straight boy I’d half believed I was in love with.
Was that it for me? Had I dreamed myself out?
Except that wasn’t true either. Despite having made no effort to get one, I wanted a career. I wanted to write my champagne bubble stories. I wanted to write for Milieu, or somewhere like it. But I kept acting like it didn’t matter. Same as I treated Oxford like it didn’t matter. Because it was easier to say I hadn’t tried than admit I wasn’t good enough.
That was the thing about Oxford, though. Apart from the top percentile of certified geniuses, most of us got in by believing we were somehow extraordinary. And spent our time there learning how to be average. Everyone dealt with it in different ways: some people worked really hard to scrape a first, some people worked really hard to secure a good 2.1, some people switched universities, or hung themselves from the light fittings. And I guess I’d…given up? Decided it was better to be nothing on my own terms, than found lacking on someone else’s.
Even if I knew their terms were fucking insane. I’d been through the educational equivalent of The Hunger Games and lived to tell the tale. Making me, at this point, I guess, Haymitch: riddled with survivor’s guilt and basically dead inside.
It was no way to live. Especially when you weren’t actually the broken puppet of a sadistic dystopia. And more just a nice middle-class boy, who’d turned failure into a monster, and then convinced himself he was too weak to face it.
There’d been a time when Oxford had seen something in me. Enough, at any rate, to offer me a place. And the fact I hadn’t been what they’d thought I could be didn’t mean I was nothing. It meant I was…
Something else. Me.
A boy Caspian Hart had traveled to Kinlochbervie to prove he wanted.
A couple of hours later, I wandered out onto the balcony. The wood was cold under my feet and the night nipped at me with sharp teeth. Beyond the shadowy trees, the city was alive with lights, turquoise and silver and gold, as uncountable as stars. And one of those lights was Caspian, working late.