“My mom has started calling people, telling them it’s off.” Kyle finished his drink, walked calmly to the sink, and washed his glass. He set it in the drying rack and then took his coat from the hook near the door. “I talked to Marcy. She said you can stay there. Be gone by the time I get back.”
She was let go from the internship three days later, which she learned when a reporter called, asking her for a comment; one of the same reporters who’d called her a home wrecker. A slut. A chunky girl with a big nose and a daddy complex, with not an ounce of concern for this man’s wife. Priscilla Raine stood beside her husband at the press conference, stoic as she listened to him express his regret to the American public, his voice full of false contrition; as he went on to admit that he’d been weak, insinuating that Nell had seduced him—that she’d called him “handsome” and offered to work late. Raine draped his arm around Priscilla’s thin shoulders, explaining that he’d asked his family for forgiveness, that he was spending time with his minister, that he’d begun to seek treatment for alcohol, and that he would no longer pursue the presidency of the United States. They—the media, the pundits, the gossip magazines—all claimed Nell had bragged to her friends about the affair, saying Lachlan was going to leave Priscilla to be with her. Nell had never said that. She never thought that. Not an ounce of her wanted that.
Honking interrupts her thoughts, and Nell realizes it’s coming from her taxi. The driver leans out his window, waving his fist at a young man on a bike. “Move over! What is wrong with you?” The smell of a garbage truck three cars ahead of them consumes the taxi.
It’s Alma who told them, who revealed Nell’s identity to Mark Hoyt, who then must have told the press. It has to be. Nell’s been sure of it since the moment she got the phone call from Elliott Falk late yesterday evening, asking her to confirm her identity, telling her the story was going online in ten minutes.
Nell didn’t plan to tell Alma about her past, but it all came out, that first meeting, after she knew she was going to offer Alma the job. Nell had to tell her. Alma was going to be with Beatrice fifty hours a week. She needed to know, in case the moment Nell has dreaded for the past fifteen years actually came to pass—in case she was found out.
This.
The taxi crosses into Manhattan. She tries to pull herself together, and yet the tears come again. She hates herself. All the work she’s done, the steps she’s taken to become someone else. The years of therapy, hiding in London, where the accent became a natural part of her, getting a master’s degree, working at a small college, teaching people too young to have any idea who she was. Even Sebastian didn’t know, not until their eighth date, when she told him everything, convinced he would leave.
But he didn’t leave; he pulled her close. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” he said.
“I went along with it,” Nell said, pulling back from him, looking at his face. “It wasn’t all him.”
Sebastian nodded and took her hands. “I know. But you were just a kid.”
Nell studies her reflection in the window of the taxi: the short hair, the tattoo, the incredibly pert nose, the sight of which still startles her sometimes, in the mirror in the morning—paid for by the father she hardly saw, who lived in Houston with his second wife and two sons and called a few times a year. None of it matters, these steps to look completely different, to be completely different. She’s still her. She’ll always be her.
“We’re here,” the driver says. Nell hands him a twenty-dollar bill, opens the taxi door, and steps onto the sidewalk, back into the strobe of their cameras.
Two hours later she sits at her desk, going through the final version of the training manual and picking at the egg-salad sandwich Sebastian packed for her this morning, knowing she can no longer eat in the company café. Not with the way they’ll watch her.
There’s a light tapping on her office door. “Good morning, Nell.” Ian sticks his head inside and then enters. “How you holding up?”
She swivels toward him in her chair and forces a smile. “Oh, you know. It’s a little rough right now.” Nell is sure the editors at Gossip! are upstairs talking about the story, wondering what they should do, how they’ll handle writing about her. “It should all blow over in a few days. They’ll find fresh blood somewhere else.” The sharks like you, she means.
“The number of cameras out front this morning when I came in. Quite a crowd.”
“I talked to the head of security,” she says. “They’re seeing what they can do to keep people away from the front of the building.”
“They can’t do anything. They called me. It’s public property.” He pauses. “You know how this works, Nell. The cameras have every right to be there.”
“Yeah, well.” She shrugs. “You never know. There could be a humanitarian crisis somewhere. A stolen election. Maybe a government bombing its own citizens that Americans will want to read about instead of me. We can hope, right?”
Ian leans forward, a bemused expression on his face. “I gotta tell you, and I mean this sincerely—the British accent? Genius. I seriously had no idea.” His smile fades when she doesn’t respond. “I’m really sorry to hear about your friend’s baby. That must be rough.”
Nell nods.
“You were there the night it happened, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Were you one of the women who got into her house that night? Before the police secured it?”
Nell nods again.
“Yikes.” Ian closes the door. “So, what do you think happened?” He winks. “Anything you want to share? Just between us?”
“Stop with the winking, Ian. Don’t even try it.”
He sighs and leans against the door. “Okay, Nell, listen. I hate to be the guy to say this, but we think you should take some time off.”
“Time off?”
“The strain of all of this, it’s got to be getting to you.”
“I’m fine. I’ve survived this before, and I’ll survive it again.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “The thing is, Nell, you haven’t really been at your best since your return.”
“My best? Ian, give me a break. It’s been less than a week.”
“That’s what I’m doing. Offering you a break. Maybe we asked too much of you, coming back—”
“Ian, I—”
“We’ll pay you. Consider it a long-term leave of absence. Extended maternity leave, if you will. For a few months or so. A little more if it’ll help.”
Nell laughs. “Really? Extended maternity leave? Is this a new company-wide policy? The ladies will be thrilled.” Ian smirks, and she tries to dial back her anger. “When would you like my maternity leave to start?”
“Today.”
“Today? Ian, the security training is tomorrow. I’ve been preparing for it. I came back to work early to oversee it.”
“We’ve talked to Eric, and he’s going to take over your responsibilities.” Ian looks out the window, avoiding her gaze. “He’s not going to do the job you would, but we’re confident he’ll manage, including taking your place tomorrow. Go get the rest you need. Spend some time with Chloe.”
“Her name’s Beatrice. Look, I know this is inconvenient, but I’ve done nothing wrong. They found me. Fine. But what happened was fifteen years—”
“Nell,” Ian says, meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Talk to Adrienne.”
He bites his lip. “Why?”
“Because she knows. She’s known all along. And she doesn’t care. You can’t make me leave.”
“Adrienne’s the one who sent me down here. She feels awful about it. We all do. But we can’t afford this publicity. It’s too much of a distraction.”
Nell steels herself. “From what? Writing about it? From deciding which photo to use of me on next week’s Gossip! cover? Is that what this is about? I could put on a bikini and go get a flag, if that would help.”