Page 76 of Darling
She’s blonde. I didn’t realise I’ve had an image of a dark-eyed, dark-haired woman until I’m looking at a picture of Stella Louise Darling neé Williams 1980 – 2020. Blonde and pale and very beautiful in a distinctly English sorta way. She had a very wide, genuine smile, which looks to have come easy for her because in every photo of her and Christian together, she’s smiling, sometimes at the camera, but mainly at her husband. He looks at her in a way that makes my heart a little sore—adoring and very in love. As I scroll through the images, I come across a picture of him with Stella and Leo: “Darling, he’s home!” reads the shitty headline. It’s some magazine article about them at home, it looks like. Christian looks younger, and between his parents, Leo (aged maybe 13) sits beaming. I scroll past it quickly before something else catches my eye, Christian pale and grey and dressed in funereal black, his handsome face creased with grief. They photographed him the day he put her in the fucking ground? My heart pinches for a different reason this time.
“Poor bastard.” I toss my phone aside onto the passenger seat as I start the engine.
The following morning, I’m woken up by the sound of the doorbell. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa after a blistering shower, candy coma, and doom-scrolling for any news about Christian Darling and a sex worker. There’d been none. (I’d only found a single piece of negative reporting on him, which seemed not to be about him at all, but about some other dude he worked with). I sit up and reach around for my phone, groaning about the neckache my stupidity has gotten me. There’s no missed call from Christian this morning, either. It’s like afternoon there, and he hasn’t listened to his voicemails yet? Or had he listened and decided not to call me back? Either way, I’m pissed.
“Yeah, okay, I’m coming, Jesus,” I yell as the doorbell goes again. I call it a bell, but it’s more like a buzzer, a flat, grey monotone that pierces through my skull. I pull open the door to a burst of yellow sun and the backlit sight of Christian holding a paper bag and two takeout coffees.
“Breakfast delivery for America’s Porn Darling,” he says, chipper as a jaybird.
Panicked, and all the way awake in an instant, I poke my head out to make sure Sunday Times Stephen isn’t watching from his car before I reach out and yank him inside. He stumbles over the threshold into my apartment as I slam the door closed.
“Did you see anyone outside when you got here? Guy in a burgundy rental? Tall, glasses, looks like a college student.” I peer through the spyhole as I lock the door twice. I turn around to find Christian staring at me, dazed.
“Your neighbour, Doreen, is it? She was leaving as I came in, lovely lady. What’s the matter?” He looks worried as he sets the bag and coffee down.
“I think someone is following me. Us, I guess. A journalist stopped me outside on Sunday, some guy from London.The Sunday Times,he said. His name was Stephen Gardiner. But I couldn’t find him when I Googled him, so I dunno. He wanted to know about you. I think there’s photos, I mean,he saidthere are photos—I didn’t tell him anything, and I said I don’t know you, but I don’t think he believed me, and fucking hell, what if he’s outside and saw you come in here? I don’t want them to see you here; I don’t want you to be…” I’ve not taken a breath, and then Christian is on me and pulling me into his arms.
“It’s alright, calm down,” he says calmly. He’s so fucking warm, and his chest rumbles as he talks to me in a low, steady voice. “You’re trembling, darling.”
I pull my head up to look at him, confused.
“Didn’t you hear what I said? They have photos, Christian, of us leaving the fucking hotel!”
“Yes, sweetheart, I know they do.”
“Y-you… know?”
He takes a small step back and takes my hand instead. “Come and sit down and have breakfast with me,” he says in that same, steady voice. He picks up the bag and tugs me with him into the kitchen, where he releases my hand and goes to get plates.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in London?” I ask, as it just occurs to me he wasn’t supposed to be due back until Tuesday night.
“I thought I’d surprise you,” he says.
A tickle of happiness in my gut. “Well, colour me surprised.”
He throws a look over his shoulder, a smirk really, before his eyes dip over me hungrily. He looks a little tired, but hot as fuck, with a layer of dark stubble over his throat and jaw, which gives him a less-polished vibe than he usually has, like his edges have been roughened. I watch as he finishes plating up the food: eggs, French toast, and bacon, it looks like, and sets it down on the small kitchen table with the two takeout cups. He pulls out one of the chairs and points at it.
“Sit and eat,” he says authoritatively.
I do as I’m told. “I tried calling you last night.”
“Yes, I saw that,” he says, taking the seat opposite. “I was on the way to the airport when you rang. It was a very last-minute decision because I missed you. I realised if I got home today, then we could spend the day together before I have to go back to the embassy on Wednesday.”
He missed me. He came back from London early because he missed me.
When he looks at the French toast and lifts an eyebrow, I get that he wants me to eat something. I slice off a corner soaked in syrup and bacon grease and shove it into my mouth. My stomachrumbles gratefully.
“How do you know about the photos?” I ask at last.
“A friend in London.”
“Did you also know that the journalist had come to my place?”
“He’s not a journalist,” says Christian as he sips his coffee.
“Yes he is. ForThe Sunday Times.”
“He likes to tell people he’s a journalist. He was, once, but now he works for an old friend of mine, digging up information that can then be used for nefarious reasons. Did he offer you money, too? How much?” he asks when I nod. He almost sounds amused.