Do Not Disturb

by Bagshawe, Tilly

  Speaking of peace, the icing on the cake for Honor’s newfound sense of Zen had been Tina’s departure last night. Officially, she’d dragged her perfectly rounded ass back to LA for work, although in reality it was more a case of swapping one round of parties for another. The Hamptons was, to quote Tina, “dull as shit” in the fall. Having Palmers to herself again was nothing short of joyous for Honor. All she had to do now was steer clear of Lucas and finally get around to fixing those fucking electrics—thankfully, the surveyors’ dread prophecies had failed to come to pass, and they’d gotten through the summer season without incident—and then life could settle back to something approaching normal.

  “Morning, Nate!” Jogging past the pharmacy, she waved cheerily at the owner, whom she’d known since she was a kid. Oddly, he didn’t wave back but scurried inside his store without even acknowledging her.

  Oh well. He must not have seen her. He was getting older, after all.

  But as she made her way farther along Main Street, her sense of unease grew. At first she thought she was being paranoid. But no. People were definitely looking at her funny. When she stopped into the bakery to pick up her walnut loaf, a regular Sunday morning treat, she could actually hear the conversations shut down, replaced by a silence so thick you could eat it with a spoon.

  Her last stop was the newsstand. Scooping up her usual Sunday paper from the pile on the floor, she smiled at the normally friendly woman at the counter. “Hey, Nancy,” she began. “I don’t mean to sound weird, but do I smell funny to you? Or have I got spinach stuck in my teeth? People keep staring at me like I just climbed out of a UFO or something.” The newsagent, a kind, motherly woman in her fifties with round cheeks like a chipmunk, blushed scarlet.

  “You haven’t seen it, then?” she whispered.

  “Seen what?” Honor looked blank.

  “Oh, dear.” Looking dreadfully flustered, Nancy handed her a copy of US Weekly. “It’s pages six and seven.”

  Honor flipped open the tabloid.

  “Oh, God,” she said, feeling suddenly dizzy. “Dear God, no.”

  The only fractional mercy was that the editor had deemed it inappropriate to show Tina fully naked and had strategically blacked out the most sexually graphic parts of each of the four pictures. Nevertheless, it was pretty clear what was happening from the visuals alone—although anyone in any doubt could also refer to the text.

  “Socialite Starlet in Coke-fueled Orgy,” proclaimed the headline.

  Tina Palmer, aspiring actress and daughter of one of America’s most privileged families, was this morning revealed as a class-A drug abuser, willing to sell her depraved sexual services for money. Along with two other high-class prostitutes, our shocking pictures show the heiress:

  Engaging in intimate lesbian acts as part of her “performance”

  Videoing herself and others during a series of graphic sexual encounters

  Snorting cocaine herself, then offering it to ANOTHER woman.

  Honor felt the bile rising up in her throat. The sex shots, weirdly, she could deal with. It was the pictures of her sister crouched over another girl’s naked body, snorting a long white line of coke off her back, that made her want to vomit. She knew that Tina liked to party and had seen her smoke the odd joint. But that was enough cocaine to stop a train. She’d truly had no idea her sister had a drug problem.

  “I’m afraid there’s more,” said Nancy, not unkindly, bringing a chair around for Honor and helping her to sit down into it. “It’s in the Post.” Honor took the paper with her heart in her mouth. At first glance she couldn’t even tell what the piece was about. But then she noticed a small picture of herself and Devon standing together, raising champagne glasses. It could have been taken at any number of this summer’s parties and in and of itself was hardly very incriminating. Unfortunately, the article that ran with it most certainly was.

  Tina Palmer’s publicity-shy older sister, Honor, owner-manager of Palmers hotel, has been carrying on an illicit affair with a MARRIED multimillionaire for the past TWO YEARS! the writer drooled salaciously. Devon Carter, a respected Boston lawyer and father of two, who had been happily married to former model Karis Carter for over two decades…

  “Could I get a glass of water?” asked Honor, unable to read on. Her eyes were blurring, as though she had a migraine coming on. But it was going to take a lot more than a couple of ibuprofen to erase this particular pain.

  “Sure, honey,” said Nancy, bustling off to get one. A couple more customers wandered in, but much to Honor’s relief Nancy shooed them out of the store and locked the front door behind them.

  “There you go.” She handed a glass to Honor, who was still staring into space looking shell-shocked. “I thought it was very unfair, that second article,” she said kindly. “It’s always the poor woman that gets the blame in these things. I expect he strung you along, did he, my dear?”

  “Hmm?” said Honor absently. Her mind was racing, but she was not yet fully capable of speech.

  How had the press gotten wind of her and Devon? As for Tina…those pictures. Who’d taken them? And where? Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence that the two stories should break on the very same weekend? It was a coup, a carefully orchestrated coup, that’s what it was, designed to finish her and Palmers for good. And it had blindsided her completely.

  “Did you know?” Nancy was talking again. “About Tina taking drugs?”

  “No,” said Honor vehemently, finding her voice at last. “No, I didn’t. I had no idea that she was…no.”

  And that was another thing. If the US Weekly shots were genuine, this was more than simply a PR disaster. Tina was in serious trouble. She needed help.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” she mumbled, getting to her feet. “Thank you, and everything. You’ve been really kind. But I have to go.”

  She staggered out of the store in a daze, like a survivor emerging from the wreckage after a plane crash. Come to think of it, that was exactly what it felt like: she’d been flying high, cruising at forty thousand feet without a care in the world, and then—BAM!—someone had fired a rocket launcher and blown both her wings off.

  Except it wasn’t just someone. It was someone in particular. And it didn’t take Einstein to figure out who. She had no idea how she made it back to Palmers. But somehow she found herself there, having battled her way through the first few reporters who’d begun to gather outside. Finally reaching the safety of her office, she bolted the door, only to turn and see some joker with a camera trying to open the window.

  “Fuck off!” she yelled at him, but not before he’d gotten a good three shots of her advancing toward him, screaming and openmouthed—not her best angle. “Get off this property before I call the cops!” Closing the heavy wooden shutters with a thud, she sank down into the chair at her desk, put her head in her hands, and tried to will her muddled, panicked thoughts into some sort of order. She’d already instructed the hotel staff on her way in to keep the press out at all costs and to try to make life as normal as possible for the guests. Anyone who said so much as “boo” to a reporter could consider themselves fired. She’d also had the receptionist call the local chief of police, who’d promised to get some men there within twenty minutes.

  So far so good. But what now?

  She longed to talk to Devon. Just hearing his strong, capable voice would reassure her. He always seemed to know what to do and was far calmer in a crisis than she was. But punching in his cell number for a second time, she found it was still switched off.

  Where the hell was he? And why hadn’t he called her? Surely he’d heard the news by now. God knows everybody else had.

  Right on cue, her phone let out the annoying series of beeps that meant she had a new text. It was from him.

  Sit tight, it read. I’m denying and so should you. If they had proof they’d have printed it. Delete this. Don’t call me. D.

  Despite herself, Honor felt her heart sinking. It was hardly the warmest of notes. Not s
o much as a love or an xxx, never mind a “how are you doing?” But maybe that was too much to ask under the circumstances? He was probably having a nightmare at his end too, besieged by these bloodhounds just like she was, dying to talk his way out of trouble with Karis at the same time.

  His advice to deny the story made her feel distinctly uneasy. What if he was wrong and the paper did have proof? Then again, she could hardly admit to the affair if he denied it. That would land him right in the shit. If his marriage to Karis ended, it had to be his doing, not hers.

  Pushing thoughts of Devon aside for a moment, she turned her attention to Tina. Clearly, the two of them badly needed to talk. But when she dialed her sister’s number, she was greeted by a recorded message of Tina’s voice, chirpily informing her that she’d be “back real soon!” and inviting Honor to leave her number.

  Hanging up, Honor banged her fist on the desk in frustration. What was she supposed to do now? Go outside and make a statement? But saying what? Sit here and do nothing until all the reporters gave up and went home?

  She was tempted to call Lucas. Obviously he was the one behind this whole nightmare, the fucking Judas. He’d sworn to her on his honor that he wouldn’t tell a soul about her and Devon. So much for his word. She strongly suspected the pictures of Tina had also been taken at the Herrick—she recognized the minimalist decor in the background. What had he done, she wondered? Rigged up cameras and lured her in there somehow? Was it possible for a person to sink that low, just to promote their hotel? A hotel that they didn’t even own?

  But before she had a chance to try Lucas’s number, her direct landline started ringing. Without thinking, she jumped on it.

  “Hello?”

  “Why did you pick that up?”

  It was Sam Brannagan, her attorney from Boston. Not even Devon’s voice whispering sweet nothings could have sounded more reassuring to her at that moment.

  “From now on do not pick up any calls unless you can see the caller ID flashing. And turn off your cell. Got it?”

  “Sam! Oh my God, thank God it’s you.” The relief in her voice was palpable. Words started tumbling out of her mouth in one long, continuous exhale. “Have you seen all this shit? What am I going to do? Can I sue the paper? I know who leaked the stories, if that helps.”

  “You can only sue if it isn’t true,” said Sam. “I’m afraid Tina’s pictures rather speak for themselves, although there is a question of invasion of privacy. But what about you and Mr. Carter? Is what was printed accurate?”

  There was a pause while Honor considered her answer. “Sort of. I mean, it’s sensationalized.”

  “But you have been having an affair?”

  The lawyer’s tone was matter-of-fact. He was her lawyer, not her priest, after all. But somehow he still managed to make her feel guilty, like a kid caught with her fingers in her mom’s purse. She wondered if Devon’s instructions to deny everything applied to attorneys too?

  “Look,” she mumbled, deciding on balance that Sam could be trusted to keep a secret. “We do…have something together. But I don’t think the papers have proof.”

  “Hmm,” Sam sounded skeptical. “I wouldn’t bank on that if I were you. But let’s not worry about it now. The main thing is not to panic or say anything you might regret later. I’m already at the airport, so I should be with you by early afternoon, tops.”

  “Thank you,” said Honor weakly.

  “Do you think you can stay inside and away from the press until then?”

  “Sure,” she shrugged. “Where am I gonna go?”

  “Good.” Sam sounded satisfied with this response. “Oh, and there is one other thing you need to be aware of. Have you checked your e-mail in the last twenty minutes?”

  “No.” Honor shuddered, her heart racing. The nausea that had subsided when she first heard his voice on the line was suddenly back with a vengeance.

  “I sent you a link,” said Sam calmly. “It appears that the US Weekly pictures aren’t actually photos at all, they’re stills from a video. Someone has released the rest of it anonymously on the web.”

  Honor groaned.

  “Yeah,” said Sam. “It’s not pretty.”

  “Please tell me that’s not legal,” said Honor. “Taping a person without their consent, invading privacy, profiting from illegal footage, I don’t know.”

  “It’s a gray area,” admitted Sam. “But we can talk about that when I get there. Have you spoken to Tina yet? Do you know how this happened, exactly?”

  Honor shook her head but said nothing. While he was speaking she’d opened her inbox and downloaded the video clip.

  “Honor?” His voice sounded miles away. “Honor, are you still there?”

  “Barely,” she replied, at last.

  The tape was horrific. In made One Night In Paris look like The Sound of Music.

  “Have you and Tina spoken?” Sam asked again.

  “No, not yet,” said Honor. “But I’m a hundred percent certain how this tape happened. Lucas Ruiz set her up.”

  “All right. Well, just sit tight,” said Sam, kindly.

  He’d always liked Honor. Having an affair with a married moralizer like Devon Carter might not have been her smartest move ever, but she didn’t deserve this shit storm. Especially not after she’d worked so hard to turn the family business around. He suspected these twin scandals, but particularly Tina’s tape, would be a deathblow for Palmers. But he tried to keep his tone optimistic, for Honor’s sake.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he told her. “And remember: you don’t talk to anyone until I get there. That’s my job.”

  While Honor was holed up at Palmers, a steady trickle of reporters had been gathering at Lucas’s beach cottage. When he hadn’t shown up by eleven thirty, most gave up and dragged their equipment up the hill to set up camp outside the Herrick. This was lucky for Lucas, who, by the time he finally arrived home at noon, had the sort of hangover that could stop a train.

  “Can I help you?” The small group of stragglers who’d decided to wait it out at the cottage looked up excitedly when he rolled up, unshaven and looking distinctly the worse for wear. “Are you guys waiting for me?”

  He’d spent last night with Becca, a barmaid from Bridgehampton, and thoroughly enjoyed himself. But boy, had she put him through his paces! Not since Carla Leon had he been with such a voraciously sexually demanding woman. Becca also had the alcohol tolerance of a hippo. Fuck knew how many vodka shots they’d got through at the bar, and that was before they moved on to the tequila at her place. Lucas had barely managed to crawl out of her bed an hour ago, still feeling like a rat’s ass. But when he left, she was already out on the terrace, doing yoga and drinking some hideous green sludge, looking fresh as a fucking daisy. It was actually kinda depressing. He must be getting old.

  “Is it true you set the whole thing up?”

  “Who’s the guy in the video, Lucas? Is he a friend of yours?”

  Before he could even unlatch the gate, Lucas found himself surrounded by people and beset by a barrage of questions that made his head spin.

  “How well do you know Tina Palmer?”

  “What about her sister’s affair? Any comment on that?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said truthfully, elbowing his way to the front door. “Now, if you’ll all please excuse me, I have an urgent date with my espresso machine.”

  “It’s a bit late to plead ignorance, buddy!” one of the hacks shouted after him, prompting snorts of laughter from his colleagues. Lucas firmly closed the door in their faces, doing his best to look confident. But inside, he could feel the anxiety building in his veins like a pulmonary embolism. What the hell were these people doing here?

  The first thing he noticed was his answering machine light flashing furiously on the desk.

  “You have NINE messages,” it announced, with its usual automated lack of concern.

  The first, from Lola, was terse, tearful, and to the poin
t.

  “Fuck you!” she sobbed. “You’re a fucking asshole and I hope you fucking die!”

  Nice.

  The second and third were both from newspapers, asking for comments and indicating they’d be prepared to pay handsomely for an exclusive interview about Tina Palmer—what the fuck did they think he knew about Tina?—but neither spelled out what all this was actually about. He was on the point of checking the fourth message when the phone rang and, like an idiot, he picked it up.

  “Lucas? Thank God. Where have you been? Your cell’s been switched off.”

  It was Guy Harrington, the PR guy who’d been helping him orchestrate the media war with Palmers over the summer.

  “Sorry,” said Lucas wearily. “I was kinda tied up last night. But look, what the hell is going on? There are reporters at my house. My ex-girlfriend wants to kill me. Has this got something to do with Tina Palmer?”

  Guy laughed mirthlessly. “Do you have cable?”

  “Sure,” said Lucas.

  “Turn on E! Entertainment. Right now.”

  After a brief hunt for the remote, Lucas did as he was asked. Silently, he listened to the breaking news report on the Tina Palmer sex-and-drugs tape scandal.

  “And this tape was shot at the Herrick?” he asked Guy, once he’d gotten the gist. “That’s why they want to talk to me? As the manager?”

  “Lucas, this is me you’re talking to.” Guy sounded weary. “Don’t bullshit me, OK? You set this up.” For a second, Lucas was too flabbergasted even to defend himself.

  “Jesus.” The PR guy seemed irritated by his silence. “There’s not much point being coy about it. Anton Tisch admitted the whole thing in his statement a half hour ago.”

  “What do you mean admitted?” said Lucas, angrily. “Admitted what? I’m telling you, Guy, this is complete fucking news to me. How can Anton admit something on my behalf? Something that I haven’t even done? My God. I would never—”

  “Oh come on,” said Guy. “You hate the Palmer sisters. Everybody knows that. How could hidden cameras have been rigged up in your hotel without you knowing about it?”