The Heir Affair, стр. 70
My phone lit up. Bea. I declined the call. It immediately lit up again, and we did the dance two more times. My stomach was churning. I wasn’t ready to hear my failures cataloged by Lady Bollocks.
A text popped up: ANSWER THE PHONE, REBECCA.
“It’s all over the internet,” Nick said, scrolling through his phone. “But only The Sun used the photos. They must have paid a fortune. Or Clive has this jackal on retainer.” He dropped the phone and rubbed his face. “Those disgusting pricks.”
My phone blazed again. I closed my eyes and swiped to answer. I couldn’t hide from Bea forever. “I assume you’re going to have me executed?”
“Not this time, but I believe this is, in your parlance, strike two,” said a voice that definitely didn’t belong to Bea.
“Dammit,” I blurted. “Sorry. Hi, Your Majesty. I am so sorry.”
“I presume this means you’ve seen the latest drivel produced by Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Eleanor said.
“Yes,” I said. “You can take it from me. Unfortunately.”
“And so you know how unacceptable it is.”
“I do, but—”
“And you can envision my reaction to it.”
“I can, and—”
“And you are enormously sorry for the impropriety and reckless exhibitionism.”
“I am, but I can explain—”
“Enough. Take this from me, Rebecca,” the Queen said. “While I relish your squirming, this may not be the disaster you imagine.”
Nick gestured at me to hand him the phone. I swatted at him.
“Neither is it a delight,” she stressed. “But your Clive overplayed his hand. If you read his piece without the visual aids, it sounds as if you and Nicholas stripped down and fornicated in front of the press pack. But anyone who sees the pictures can tell that the two of you…”
“Thought we were alone,” I finished for her. “Which we did.”
Nick nodded vigorously at me.
“Yes,” Eleanor said. I could hear the rustling of papers through the phone, and I pictured her at the desk in her private quarters, my breasts in front of her, and wanted to die all over again. “It was a clear, studied violation. Many people have come down on your side.” She paused. “Yes, Mummy, I’ll tell her. Mummy wants you to know that actual Idris Elba retweeted a criticism of Clive. Xandra Deane called him a calculating reprobate. Clive, not Mr. Elba.”
I couldn’t help giggling. Next to me, Nick watched in astonishment.
“Stop laughing, Rebecca,” Eleanor snapped. “This isn’t amusing. It was certainly invasive, but that doesn’t mean your judgment wasn’t poor. No one is impressed that you were bonking on the job, I can assure you.” A smile crept into her voice. “Although they are impressed you are bonking at all. I would not have endorsed this as a way to close the book on the rumors about your tiresome love triangle, but it may have worked.”
“Wow,” I said. “That is unexpected.”
“It is indeed.” The smile disappeared from her voice as quickly as it had come. “And this will be the final unexpected moment from the two of you. Finish the remainder of this tour impeccably. No excuses. No mistakes.”
“Roger that,” I said. “You won’t need to call again.”
“I will if the Cubs don’t snap this absurd losing streak. It’s embarrassing to me,” Eleanor sniffed. “Good luck. Do tell the mayor that the Mets ruined my week.”
“I would, but he’s just seen me half-naked.”
“Pish, everyone knows what breasts look like. Yours aren’t remarkable,” Eleanor said, and then she hung up on me.
We pulled up alongside the towering white cupcake of a building that was the Plaza Hotel. The mayor, tall as a skyscraper himself and about as blocky, awaited us on the curb near a discreet entrance on the side street between the hotel and Bergdorf’s, and seeing him, I was suddenly seized by nerves. We’d gotten lucky that the sleazy photographer in Whistler had incited pity, but one more misstep and we’d burn through the goodwill we’d earned by being charming at the beginning of the tour. I didn’t want an expensive disaster on my hands, nor the blame for it laid at my feet.
The mayor, as befitting a professional, gave no indication he’d seen the photos—though it seemed as if he tried extra valiantly to block us from the paparazzi who’d gathered on the curb, as if he, too, was worried one of them might be the same jerk who’d cashed in on my body. Nick and I performed our standard song and dance of seeming surprised and delighted by the attention of the public, and we’d almost gotten to the door when someone at the back of the crush of spectators called out in a loud Brooklyn accent: “Don’t let the bastards get you down!”
Our smiles in those pictures are extremely genuine.
We rode up the private elevator to the fashion designer Tommy Hilfiger’s two-story penthouse atop the hotel, where he was hosting a welcome reception for us with, per our New York City Day One: Coming to America binder, “local luminaries, top businesspeople, and select influencers.” The penthouse was an enormous salute to Italian marble, with a deck overlooking the green expanse of Central Park, and a turret room hand-painted as a tribute to Eloise that felt like it was trying too hard. The mayor led us into a dramatic living room with black glossy lacquer walls and leopard-print marble columns, where everyone tried to pretend they didn’t jump ten feet when the doors opened. Some of the faces were strange to me, but many, I knew: our host, petite and preppy; the famous actor who owned half of Tribeca; the singer who hated Kanye, next to the other singer whose husband toured with Kanye; the bobbed British editrix of Vogue, whose handshake was warmer than I would have anticipated. Next to her stood a dark-haired young actress starring in an upcoming adaptation of