I hurried along the canal and then up the steps that took me to street level so I could cross the bridge. And, right there, slumped against the railing so inconveniently that I nearly tripped over his feet, was Billy Boyle, Ellery’s stalker-paparazzo. I’d only met him a couple of times before and on each occasion I’d afterward found myself the subject of some nasty column inches, mostly speculating about which Hart I was banging. I didn’t like him, is what I’m saying.
He used his teeth to pull a Lucky Strike from the packet he was holding and lit it with a flick of his lighter. “All right, Ardy?”
“No comment.”
“You know nobody really says no comment, don’t you? Only Tory MPs when they’ve been sending pictures of their willies to fourteen-year-old girls.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
I did my best to evade him, but there wasn’t much I could do short of running into traffic, so he fell into step beside me. His cigarette smelled different—nastier—to whatever Caspian smoked. But still. It was familiar enough to make my heart ache afresh.
“You back with Ellie, then?” he asked.
There was no way I could answer that question without it implying something I didn’t want to imply. Which was probably the whole point. “No comment.”
“Good choice, mate.” Boyle grinned wolfishly. “She’s by far the best of them. Can’t beat sticking your dick in crazy.”
“You’re disgusting.”
He shrugged. “Just telling it like it is. But what a family, eh?”
I walked a little faster. There were people around and cars on the road so I had no reason to feel threatened. Which I didn’t really—more sort of fucked with and prodded at and imposed upon. And I wasn’t sure what I could do about it in any case. Since I was pretty sure being icky wasn’t breaking any laws.
“The dad was a Boy Scout. The mum’s a snooty bitch. And the brother…well, you’d know more about that than me, wouldn’t you, Ardy baby? But the stories you hear.”
I knew he was trying to get a reaction. So I gritted my teeth and refused to give him one.
“That’s the rich, though. Think they can do anything.”
I kept my head down. Kept walking.
“You should think about telling yours.” Boyle cast his cigarette butt carelessly into the gutter. “Story, I mean.”
Startled, I stopped a moment. “Wait. What?”
“Thought that’d get your attention.”
“Not in a positive way.”
“Don’t be like that. I’m trying to help you.”
“No, you’re not. You’re trying to exploit me.”
Normally, I cut through Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park on my way to the station—which probably sounds a bit morbid, but it was actually a lovely place, full of grass and stone and quiet, especially in the morning—but the prospect of Billy Boyle chasing me through a graveyard, or lurking there on future occasions, was seriously non-ideal. I turned onto Bow Common Lane instead, stifling a sigh when Boyle turned with me.
“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.”
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, skeptical way. “You can’t 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 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.”
And now he was probably just digging. Trying to freak me out. Unfortunately it was 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. Not feeling great, in all honesty, and also running slightly late.
I made a dash for the station and made it just in time, leaping between the Tube doors the instant 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 kind of 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 for 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 most likely all I had to do with Boyle was ignore him. Count on my own irrelevance and the fact Caspian was already well guarded from this nonsense like this. I’d as good as resolved on a course of resolute non-action 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 specialized 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 dialed 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 toward 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 this the second nebulous threat I’d received today, but it wasn’t 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 will never, ever go to the papers.”
A very slight pause. “Then why are you calling me?”
“Because Boyle’s hanging around again. 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 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, but I cut him off. “But for the record I only phoned because I wanted to get rid of Boyle.”
“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to advise you.”
“Yeah, you’ve made that very clear.”
He sighed. “Start on the IPSO website. 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 harboring 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.