An optimist would assume the paparazzi would have a healthy respect for me. I own a good ten percent of the global news market, which is a sizeable chunk of earnings to Mr Clicky. But no; the thing about being at the top of the food chain is that you're still meat at the end of the day, and if your stock rockets overnight...everybody wants a piece. Served rare.
Case in point: five days ago, Leo and I went public with our new relationship. Two days ago, we attended the fundraiser, where my impulsive nature got the better of me and I made more of a show of affection with Leo than I ever did with Tuija. No, I probably shouldn't have been all over her on the red carpet, and now I can't even get to the office without some kind of scrum. The bastards can't hang around outside the Lore Corp building—we have security, and we're also a hundred percent less likely to buy their photos again—so they've taken to hanging around outside my apartment building instead. Yesterday, they were outside Leo's place; today, Ash is going to need an escort to get out for school.
"This is fucking ridiculous," I rant down the phone to Harvey, who is already trying to orchestrate my exit. "It's seven in the morning. Do these fuckers not sleep?"
"You know they don't sleep."
The last time it was this bad, I'd been accused of murder. I'd laugh if I wasn't so pissed. "They're like vultures. Did you send Leo's escort?"
"She's not due out for a half hour, but yes, it's in place." He clears his throat. "I've briefed Tuija on the M situation. She'll fill you in."
"Amazing. You're amazing, Harvey."
He grunts, unsure what to do with such rare praise. But even a guy like Harvey Bell enjoys a little ego massage. "I also sent one for Tuija," he adds, still gruff.
"She actually went home...?"
"Uhuh. She didn't even detour to a bar."
"Good. That's good." Though it doesn't mean she didn't down a fifth of vodka as soon as she got home. "Listen—I'll be down in ten. Can you hang around once you get me into the car? Ash is due to leave at eight fifteen."
"It's already taken care of."
I hang up and walk over to join Ethan, who has been watching the paparazzi through the window for the past ten minutes. From up here, they look like a cluster of black ants on the sidewalk. Like pollution. Ethan's got his arms folded, his shoulders tight; he wasn't here the last time the media were interested in me, and he's never dealt with this kind of attention before.
"So this is what it's like to be famous, huh?" he asks.
"Infamous, more like," I mutter.
"She seems nice, your girl. I mean, from what I've read."
I eye him, side-on. Oh really? "She is nice."
"She's English, right?"
"Right."
His smile is a watery reflection in the window. "Like Hermione Granger."
"Isn't she, like, twelve?"
"What? No. She's at college. Legal, very legal." He clears his throat. "Ash read about her too, you know. Your girl."
I turn to pick up my suit jacket from the back of a chair. "And how did that come about, exactly?"
"He saw your picture on my iPad. Started reading over my shoulder. I know, I know—I shouldn't be reading it around him—that's my bad." He holds up his hands. "But he's excited. Pretty sure he's planning your wedding, just FYI."
"I'm not going to bring Leo back here. Is that clear?" I yank my jacket on and straighten my tie. Then I gesture around to the apartment. "This is separate. Even if I did marry her, she still wouldn't be here, being a..." Mother. Because Ash does not need a mother. Things are good; why disturb the food chain?
Ethan swallows and gives me a nervous nod, as if this kind of arrangement would be perfectly commonplace. "Absolutely."
"I'll be late tonight," I tell him on the way out. "Say goodbye to Ash for me, okay?"
"Aeron!" Ash screeches, tumbling through from the living area, half-dressed in just his pyjama pants. "I'm Batman today!"
I pat him on the head and square my shoulders. "You know what? So am I."
***
After smiling and waving for about thirty cameras like I'm a fucking circus monkey, I'm finally allowed into my car. I even get to the office before Tuija, which is a rare occurrence—she must be having more trouble than me. Not that I expect her to be quite as polite to the paparazzi as I was. She doesn't have the same kind of image to uphold, or quite the same level of control where her temper is concerned. I don't call her firecracker for nothing.
I make my own coffee for the first time in weeks, and peel back the blinds in my office to let the milky morning light seep through. Both news channels flicker on silent screens, blurs of pixels, moving mouths. At least I won't see myself on there; my relationship with Leo is tabloid fodder, not national news.
Unlike the last time I was so popular.
Tommy's latest report on Rachel Fordham sits in my inbox, and I click straight on it. After our little phone encounter the other night, I expected Rachel's behaviour to change somewhat—and I was right. Yesterday, she didn't come anywhere near the Lore Corp building. Tommy thinks she might have skipped a therapist appointment, judging by her usual routine, but she went to work as usual. Huh. Perhaps I haven't provoked her as much as I feared.
Since I picked up her call, she hasn't called or texted Leo once. Which is...interesting.