CHAPTER TWELVE
“Lizzy!” Mal skipped over to me, dragging Anne by the hand.
“Hey, you two.” I sat, kicking my heels, down in the hotel café. My iced chocolate loaded with ice cream and syrup had long since disappeared from the glass in front of me. Not that I was cranky at being left waiting. All good. He hadn’t forgotten me, he’d just gotten held up with something. I trusted him.
“What’re you doing hanging down here on your own?” asked Anne.
“Ben’s taking me maternity clothes shopping.”
“When?”
I gave her a half smile. “Soon.”
“Shouldn’t you have Sam or one of his goons with you?” asked Mal, tucking his long blond hair behind an ear.
“No need. Ben’ll be here soon.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“You keep saying that.” Mal frowned. “Give me specifics.”
My cell buzzed in my bag. “This’ll probably be him.”
But it wasn’t. Weirdly enough, my ex-roommate Christy’s name flashed up on the screen. We hadn’t talked since the nightclub abandonment issue.
“Hello?”
“I’m really sorry. Is it true?” came at me in an almighty rush.
“Is what true?” I asked.
“That you’re pregnant?” she said. “I didn’t mean to give them the photo, but then Imelda said it would be okay. That everyone deserved their fifteen minutes of fame. They said they were just doing a piece about life on campus. I didn’t think you’d mind. I had no idea they were going to use it like that.”
“Who is ‘they’?” I asked, my insides twisting as the dread rose and rose.
“A reporter from The Daily.”
“Check The Daily,” I said to Anne. She whipped out her cell and got busy. “Christy, what photo did you give them?”
She paused, gulped. “Well, they just asked if they could use my pics from Facebook. I hadn’t really thought that much about what was on there. I was kind of hoping they’d use the one of the two of us at Crater Lake. You remember I always loved that shot. But they wound up using that one from the Hawaiian luau at one of the sororities last year. When you were talking to those guys from Economics. I’m really sorry.”
I knew the picture. All the girls had been in bikinis and grass skirts or sarongs. I’d worn cutoff jeans, covering more than most because that’s how I’d felt comfortable. Each to their own and all. Everyone was sinking red Solo cups of beer, decorated with those dumb little umbrellas and chunks of pineapple. An interesting taste sensation. A member of the football team had worn a bright yellow mankini on a dare. It’d been hilarious. Good music. A good night. So I’d had a few drinks at a party while talking to a couple of guys, one of whom had thrown his arm around me for the shot. We were all grinning big, just enjoying the party. Why the hell would that excite a reporter?
Anne’s brows drew tight and she showed me her cell.
College dropout pregnant with Stage Dive baby. Reportedly continuing living the high life with her numerous male friends. Grave concerns for the fetus’s health. Vicious tug-of-war over custody anticipated. Demands for millions of dollars in alimony expected. A person close to the band reports they are horrified. Ben Nicholson as yet refusing to comment.
With numb fingers I hung up on a still babbling Christy.
Reportedly. Anticipated. Expected. It was all so brutally worded, the worst inferred to perfection by the photo. Assholes. They didn’t have a clue who I was. Worse, they didn’t even care. Whatever lies would sell. Thank god I didn’t have a juvenile record for them to go poking around at, closed or open. Still, if they asked certain people about what I was up to during that misspent year of my youth … Nightmarish thoughts flooded my mind. If Ben and I did split, if something happened and things turned bad, would it be enough for him to claim full custody of Bean?
Christ.
And what about when I went for a job? Who the hell was going to trust their kid to a psychologist with a background like mine?
People were talking but I couldn’t quite make out the words. It was like being underwater, the noises distant gibberish. The bubbles in my ears made hearing anything impossible.
Hands held my face, tipping it up. Then he was looking down at me, dark eyes intent. “Sweetheart?”
The bubbles burst, reality intruding, pushing the shock aside. “Ben?”
“Let’s go up to the suite.”
“Yes,” I said, taking Ben’s hand and letting him lead me, shelter me with his body.
There was yelling behind us. A sudden scuffle and the clicking of cameras. Security closed in. Everything happened so fast. I guess the paparazzi had been following Ben, figuring he’d lead them to me—knocked-up party girl, money-hungry whore extraordinaire in a bikini top.
Mal and Anne followed close behind, piling into the elevator. Soft pan flute music filled the air. No one said anything. Worse yet, no one even looked that surprised. Apart from me, that is. The whites of my eyes and pale face were perfectly reflected in the shiny metal doors. They slid open and Anne grabbed at my arm.
“Let me talk to her.”
“Later,” said Ben. “Right now she needs to lie down and chill out before she falls down.”
“I’m not going to fall down.” But I held on tight to his hand just in case. “I’m fine.”
Anne let me go without further comment. Just as well. I couldn’t dump all of this on her. She was still in blushing bride, newly married mode. No way should I be messing with that. Lately she’d taken on more than her share of big-sisterly duties, accompanying me on doctors’ visits, staying behind with me in Portland.
The suite seemed eerily quiet after all of the commotion downstairs. All of the noise and thoughts continued rattling around in my head, however. Out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows the city carried on. Christ, this was really happening.
“Come and sit down.” He led me to the suede couch.
I disentangled my hand from his, shaking with some emotion. I just wasn’t sure which, yet. “No. I … I don’t want to sit.”
Ben collapsed on the couch, crossing his legs, ankle to knee. His arms spread out along the back of the couch, watching me pace back and forth. So many words were crammed inside me, fighting to get out. If I could just think straight. No point taking it personally, the journalists and photographers were just doing their jobs. Didn’t make them any less of a bunch of gossip-mongering asshats, but there you go.
“I feel so … so powerless.”
“I know,” he said.
“They basically made me out to be some alcoholic who has orgies every night of the week ending in Y.” I rubbed my hands against the sides of my jeans. Still staying up by virtue of a hairband. Though pants weren’t much of a problem in the scale of things right now.
“You’re not,” he said, so certain.
“My numerous male friends,” I sneered.
“It’s bullshit.”
“Why does it always come down to sex with women in the media? How many people have you slept with?” I asked, hands on hips. “Well?”
His tongue played behind his cheek. “I, ah, I didn’t really keep count.”
“They didn’t infer you were some kind of slut, and you’ve probably slept with dozens more people than me.”
He gave a careful nod.
“Hundreds?” I hazarded.
He cleared his throat, turning away and scratching at his beard.
“Right. Not that it matters. And yet I’m the slut because I’m the woman. Like it’s anyone’s fucking business how many either of us has slept with or if I enjoy going out for a beer occasionally. I’m not getting behind the wheel of a car and driving drunk. I’m having a few drinks with friends at a party and organizing to get home safely. And if I’m taking someone home, that is none of their business. Those hypocritical motherfuckers, condemning me for these things. What consenting adults do in private should not be entertainment for the world at large. Nor is it in any way a viable judge of a person’s character.”
“Liz.”
“Mother-fire-truckers.” I gave my belly a pat of apology. “Sorry, baby.”
“Liz.”
“That double standard between men and women drives me insane.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that.” One side of his mouth tipped up. “You want me to sue for defamation? I can get the lawyers onto it now, if you want. See what we can do. But they probably can’t do much. The press had a field day with Jimmy, and we could never get a retraction on even the most out-there stuff they wrote. But if that’s what you want…”
With a sigh, I went back to pacing. “It’s out there. No matter what, it’s out there now.”
A slow nod. “Yeah, sweetheart. It is.”
“I just … I never thought this would impact on my future this way. I knew studying would have to take a backseat for a few years to motherhood.” I pulled my blond hair back off my face, giving it a fierce tug. “I knew Bean would have to come first, that’s the reality of it. But I thought one day…”
“You will get to finish your study and practice psychology. Don’t you dare give into this shit.” Ben sat forward, elbows on his knees. “There will always be some fucknut out there saying something, trying to bring you down just to make a buck or because they can. Because their own lives are shit. You cannot let them win.”
“They’re saying it to a potential audience of billions on the Internet, Ben.”
“I do not care,” he said, eyes blazing with anger. “You will not let these shitheads win. You’re better than that. Stronger.”
I stared at him, amazed. “You really believe that?”
“I know it. From the minute word got out you were pregnant, you weren’t looking for someone to blame. You were pulling yourself together, planning ahead for your baby.”
I stood taller, just looking at him. It was as if I could feel myself being stronger just because he believed it.
“Well?” he asked.