by Alexis Hall
“Could you go away,” I said, figuring it was worth a shot. “Please?”
But the man was as relentless as a piece of chewing gum stuck to the sole of my shoe. “I’d get you one hell of a deal, Ardy. And it’d be classy. Sunday magazine classy. You should think about it.”
“Okay. I’ll think about it.”
“Chance to tell your side of things. Completely sympathetic to your point of view. And of course, I’d make sure nothing too complicated got in the way of that.”
Wait. Complicated? I gave him an incredulous look. “Are you threatening me?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’d say”—he stroked his chin thoughtfully—“I’m acknowledging the infinite subtleties of human nature. I mean, you haven’t exactly been a saint, have you, mate? And a story like this—if we play our cards right—could be worth a couple of mil at least. Imagine that. You’d never have to work again.”
“No thanks.”
“Aw, come on, Ardy.” Boyle sounded genuinely bewildered—even a little hurt. “Why not?”
“Um, how about because I’m not a total shithead?”
There was a brief pause. And I thought he was going to give up, but no. He kept talking. “Do it for Ellie then.”
“Right. Because she’d really appreciate me making her brother the subject of public speculation.”
“Bit of payback for all the shit he’s put her through.”
That made me laugh—in a mean, sceptical sort of way. “You can’t really expect me to believe you’re doing this for Ellery and not the money.”
“Like I said”—he shrugged—“the infinite subtleties of human nature.”
I just rolled my eyes.
Boyle reached into an interior pocket of his brown leather jacket and pulled out a scrap of paper with something scribbled on it. “Take my number, at least.”
“Fine.” I didn’t actually want his number—or anything to do with him—but it was clearly the only way I was going to get rid of him.
“Don’t wait too long, yeah? You always want to be ahead of a story, not behind it.”
He was probably just digging. Trying to freak me out. Unfortunately it was borderline working. “What story? There’s no story.”
“Thought you were supposed to be a journalist.” He flashed his yellowing, pointy-toothed smile at me. “You should know by now, there’s always a story.”
“Well…well…there isn’t.”
“Whatever you say. See you around, Ardy baby.”
He gave me a mocking, two-fingered salute and sauntered off. Finally, fucking finally, leaving me alone. And not feeling great, in all honesty. As well as running late.
I made a dash for the station and made it just in time, leaping between the Tube doors the second before they closed, and then wriggling and squishing my way through a forest of armpits until I was able to wedge myself into a nook at the back of the carriage.
It wasn’t a long journey—only about fifteen minutes, if there were no delays—but I felt ridiculous looking back on the time I’d spent at One Hyde Park, believing I lived in London. That wasn’t London. This was London. Long, dark tunnels, strangers diligently not looking at each other, and the scent of soot and sweat.
Maybe I was a complete weirdo, but I liked it more.
It was real to me in the way that Caspian’s cold, beautiful, sealed-off world could never be.
Although, I will admit, I missed being able to call him the moment something went wrong. Not because I wanted him to fix all my problems for me, but because having him on my side—knowing he cared about me and wanted the best for me—was its own magic. Like Queen Susan’s horn, he let me find my way through life, sheltered by the promise that help was always close by.
Though I hoped all I had to do with Boyle was ignore him. Count on my own irrelevance and the fact that Caspian was already well guarded from nonsense like this. I’d pretty much resolved on a course of resolute nonaction as I elbowed my way off the Tube, but then I remembered that I still had Finesilver’s business card in my wallet. He was the Harts’ lawyer, and from what I’d been told, he specialised in reputation management. Frankly, he was terrifying in this smiling, silk and steel kind of way. But he’d been nice enough to me on the one (also Boyle-related) occasion we’d met. And since this involved Caspian indirectly, maybe he’d be able to give me some advice.
I still had a few minutes before I needed to be in the office, so I nipped past the now-familiar statue of William Pitt the Younger and sat down on one of the benches in Hanover Square. I’d texted Caspian from here when I first got the job at—
Goddamn it.
Why was he everywhere? No wonder I loved the Tube so much. Some days, it felt like it was the only place he wasn’t. As if my memories of him had wrapped themselves up in the whole fucking city. And my love was a dog off its lead. Wandering by the roadside, getting ragged and thin, sniffing every street corner for just a trace of Caspian, trying to find its way home.
With shaky fingers, I dug out Finesilver’s card and dialled the number. Of course, he was too important to pick up his own phone, so I ended up having to introduce myself to an assistant and explain, not very coherently, who I was and what I wanted. Then, already convinced that this had been a terrible idea, I waited on hold for an uncomfortably long time. And finally:
“Mr. St. Ives.” Finesilver sounded very, very different on the phone. Sharper, colder, and a hell of a lot meaner. “How can I help?”
“Um, you remember that reporter guy? Boyle?”
“I’m aware.”
I flexed my fingers, horribly aware I was sweating over my phone. “Well, he’s been hanging around again. He wants me to sell my story.”
“I see. And I presume this call means you’re amenable to a counteroffer.”
“What? No—”
“You’re not amenable?” He cleared his throat. “Mr. St. Ives, I understand that you may be carrying some resentment towards my client, but any attempt to hurt him will cause far more damage to your reputation than it ever could to his.”
This was giving me serious déjà vu. Not only was it the second nebulous threat I’d received today, but it wasn’t even the first time I’d been accused of trying to spill Caspian’s secrets to the press. And it was unbelievably depressing to discover that you could apparently get used to it.
“I’d never do anything to hurt Caspian,” I said.
“And your circumspection will be generously recompensed, pending the proper legal assurances.”
“Legal assurances?”
“Just a few standard and nonintrusive nondisclosure agreements.”
The conversation was getting away from me—thundering off like an out-of-control train down unintended tracks. “You don’t understand. I don’t want money and I’m not signing an NDA, but it doesn’t matter because I will never, ever go to the papers.”
A very slight pause. “Then why are you calling me?”
“Because…because…Boyle? I thought you needed to know this stuff.”
A longer pause. “Arden”—Finesilver’s voice softened—“I cannot help Miss Hart unless she allows me to do so, and you are no longer under Mr. Hart’s protection.”
“But—”
“You may, however, be certain that I will continue to safeguard my client’s interests. And I recommend that you continue to ensure that yours align with his.”
“I already told you,” I muttered, “I won’t go to the papers.”
“Forgive me, but my profession does not reward the assumption that people will keep their word. Which is to say, if you find your morals wavering, you shouldn’t hesitate to contact me, and I will shore them up with material benefit.”
Boyle, with his sly glances and nasty insinuations, had made me feel pretty fucking dirty. But this was way worse. “Right. Okay.”
“Was there anything else you wanted, Mr. St. Ives?”
I should probably have escaped with what remained of my dignity, but bitterness
got the better of me. “No, thanks. You’ve more than satisfied my need to feel cheap and blackmaily.”
“That was not my intention.”
“Then I guess it’s just a bonus.” Finesilver started to say something else, and I cut him off. “But for the record, I only phoned because I wanted to get rid of Boyle.”
“I’m afraid I’m in no position to advise you.”
“Yeah, you’ve made that very clear.”
He sighed. “Start on the website for the Independent Press Standards Organisation. Clause three of the Code of Practice. Goodbye, Mr. St. Ives.”
With a click, he was gone. And I was left in a park, in silence. This was turning into an incredibly shitty morning and it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet.
God, I wished I hadn’t called Finesilver. Not only because he’d treated me like shit—which, admittedly, was his job—but because it had reminded me how far away Caspian was. I mean, I knew he was. I’d long since stopped harbouring secret hopes he’d come for me again, the way he had once-upon-a-time as I sat on a swing in Kinlochbervie. But the gulf between us had grown so impossibly vast that I wasn’t a person to him anymore. I was a problem to be contained.
A mistake he’d made once.
And that hurt most of all.
Chapter 3
I pulled myself together, put on my happy face, and bounced into the office. Said my hellos. Did a tea round. Then got sucked into a really intense conversation with Tabitha England-Plume (the features director) about her mum’s artisanal marmalade. It was made from fruit grown in the orangery of their stately home and named—in acknowledgement of the fact that Tabs came from legit aristocracy—Lady Marmalade.
Finally, though, I made it to what had become my workspace. As was the Milieu way, it was clutter free except for a copy of Debrett’s, which I’m glad to say I’d never looked at. Not even when I was incredibly bored. That was the weird thing about living your dreams: Sometimes the living part was just kind of routine.
I logged into my email and got stuck in. And then began circling the issue of actual work. There was this piece on microbags I was supposed to be writing copy for. Except I couldn’t think of anything witty or interesting to say about them. These are very expensive and unfit for purpose. Hmm, wait. Maybe there was something about a lack of adequate storage being a status symbol. Too small for convenience. Too rich to care.
Hurrah. I was a genius.
Or, at least, adequate at my job.
“Smiling, poppet?” drawled a voice. “Thinking of me?”
I glanced up to find George Chase, photographer and self-identified rake, leaning in the doorway, watching me with her usual air of faint amusement. And in high-waisted, wide-leg satin trousers, a white shirt, and purple jacket thing with black velvet lapels that was practically a frockcoat, looking so fabulous it hurt.
“Teeny-tiny handbags actually.”
She laughed. “You need to get out more.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Oh, I can do far better than that.”
“Can you?”
“Always.” She twitched a wicked eyebrow at me. “Get your coat. We’re going on an adventure.”
A major component of my job was doing what people needed me to do—whether that was grabbing someone lunch, or finding a prop for the cover shoot, or compiling a top list of llamas who looked like the Duke of Edinburgh—and I’d played assistant to George a couple of times now. Much to the chagrin of some of the associate editors, since “gay for George” was pretty much an office meme. Not that anybody was mean to me about it—Milieu wasn’t that kind of place. Although I can’t say I was completely delighted when I discovered there was a sweepstake for when I’d sleep with her. I was semi-tempted to bet on myself for never. Except George was ridiculously hot and never was a long time to wait for a pay-out.
* * *
A few minutes later, I was sitting next to George in her classic Jaguar roadster as she drove slightly too recklessly for my comfort through the London traffic.
“Where exactly is this adventure?” I asked.
“It’s a shoot for next year’s List.”
I gave her a severe look. “I’m starting to feel this excursion has been oversold to me.”
“Don’t count on it, poppet.” There was something in her tone I couldn’t quite read—a touch of regret, maybe? “I’m taking the pictures, you’re doing the interview.”
“Okay. Sure.”
It was actually a pretty straightforward assignment. Ninety of Britain’s hundred most eligible people required only a couple of sentences, usually about how good they looked in a top hat or what dukedom they’d inherit, and a photo dug up from the Milieu archives. But numbers one through ten got their own little feature. And the questions were standard, so as long as I didn’t call someone “my lord” instead of “Your Grace” or break a Ming vase on my way out, I’d be unlikely to fuck things up. Except wait. Those were probably exactly the kinds of things I’d do. Oh no.
George drummed her fingers lightly against the steering wheel. “Look, I’m sorry to spring this on you. But it’s Caspian Hart.”
There was nothing in my head but silence, like when a grenade goes off in a movie, and then everything explodes. Except without the explosion. Just the moment before stretching forever. “Ah.”
“He’s gone from seven to three.”
“Yeah. Well. I guess not being with someone would help with that.”
“You don’t have to do this. I’ll tell Mara to back off.”
Mara Fairfax was the editor-in-chief. She’d hired me, and was always friendly when our paths crossed, but given she was the most important person at Milieu, and I was the opposite of that, I wasn’t sure there was all that much off for her to back. “This was her idea?”
“Obviously, Arden.”
“And she knows I used to, um, sort of date Caspian?”
“Do you really think,” said George with an affection so comfortable, so unabashed, I wondered if she’d even noticed it was there, “Mara got where she is today without the will to exploit every opportunity revealed to her?”
An ache in my shoulders made me realise I wasn’t just tense. I was braced. For an emotional reaction that just wasn’t coming. “But…but…wouldn’t I be just about the worst person in the world to send? There’s no way he’d want to speak to me.”
“He probably wouldn’t want to, no.” She shrugged. “But giving people what they want rarely yields interesting results.”
“And this would be interesting?”
“Well, it couldn’t be more boring than his usual interviews. Have you read any?”
I shook my head. I’d seen a couple, here and there, but I’d never managed to actually get through one. Too much business talk.
“He gives so little of himself away. My gas bill has more humanity.”
For some reason, this made me smile; it was so like Caspian. “He’s different when you know him.”
George’s expression grew wry. “You’ve just made Mara’s point for her. Thankfully, my priorities are different.”
“I thought your priorities were sex and art.”
“And not traumatising poppets unnecessarily.”
I wasn’t sure whether I felt patronised or protected. Maybe both. “I have to ask: What would necessarily traumatising me entail?”
“That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”
“I can never tell,” I grumbled, “if you’re threatening me or flirting with me.”
She shot me an alley-cat grin. “Fun, isn’t it?”
“That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”
“You little minx.”
We’d reached the financial district. Not my favourite bit of London, I had to admit. It was almost as if the centuries had been smoothed away with the buildings themselves, leaving nothing but glass, like blinded eyes, reflecting the steel-grey nothing of the sky. Or alternatively: It reminded me of Caspian, so all I was seeing was my o
wn emptied-out heart.
George pulled over in the Barad-dûr–esque shadow of Hart & Associates. “So what’s it to be?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Nobody’ll think less of you, either way.”
I peered up at Caspian’s place of business. His twenty-first-century fortress, coldly gleaming. “I might.”
“There’s no shame in love or pain.”
“Well”—I pushed open the car door and scrambled onto the pavement—“I’m sick of both.”
And I marched in like I fucking owned the place.
The effect of which was slightly diminished by the fact nobody really noticed or cared, and I had to stand in the lobby like a lemon while George got her camera bag out of the boot.
But then we were in the lift, being whooshed up to Caspian’s floor in that tiny glass bead. And it was impossible not to remember the last time I’d done this. I’d been furious then, but so full of hope.
No hope today.
Just the determination to look Caspian in the eye, and feel whatever I felt, and know I’d keep living after.
George nudged her shoulder gently against mine. “If you need to run away screaming, just pull your ear or something, and I’ll cover for you.”
“I won’t need to.”
“What can I say?” She smirked at me. “I’m a fan of safe words.”
And so she managed to make me laugh as the doors opened, admitting us into the vestibule outside Caspian’s office.
It hadn’t changed. Which was to say, it was still as intimidating as hell. Glass and marble and blah blah blah. And Bellerose, at his desk, looking like a terribly severe angel.
“Hi.” I waved in a check me out not being totally destroyed kind of way.
His head snapped up. And, wow, he was looking rough: dark circles under his eyes, cracked lips, acne rashes across the tops of his cheeks. “Arden. I—”
“We’re here from Milieu. We’ve got an appointment.”
“Yes, I know. It’s just…” He scraped a lank lock of hair away from his brow. “Actually, it’s fine. Go right in.”
I should probably have been squirrelling my emotional energy away for, well, myself. But for all his chilly ways, Bellerose had been oddly kind to me.