Page 89 of Darling
“Oh, the physical kind. Did he tell you about the accident?”
“No?”
That doesn’t particularly speak volumes. He never speaks of it. Not to me at least. Not to Stella back then, either. He saw a therapist for a short time, but she told us they were making very little progress, as he wouldn’t speak about it to her either. I don’t want to break his trust, so I keep it brief and vague.
“He was involved in quite a bad car accident when he was sixteen. He lost two of his friends.” He also lost his tennis career. Cal, his best friend, had also been in the car and came away with the least damage. Sometimes I think Cal is the only person on earth who understands who Leo is deep down. Cal, who was now living out Leo’s dream of playing professional tennis.
“My god,” whispers Gael, his eyes turning very sad.
“Yes. Stella and I lost about ten years off our lives that night, too. But he became a lot more closed off after the accident, reluctant to let people in. Then Stella passed, and his best friend went off to university here in the States.” My heart aches thinking of how alone he must have felt then. I was working every hour of the day, and he was trying to get through a university course he never wanted to take because he was always going to play tennis. “Anyway, what I’m getting at is that it’s been wonderful to see him opening up a little to you, to see him making a new friend here.” I give Gael a grateful smile, which he has some trouble returning. He sits stiff and tense in the chair, hands fisted on his lap. “And I’m not at all asking you to break his confidence, I just want to know if there’s anything that I need to be worried about. Anything concerning?”
“Concerning?” Gael repeats.
“Besides the hair, yes. He won’t talk to me about it, and I know he left his job a few months ago, though he never told me,and as far as I know, he doesn’t have another. I’ve no clue what he’s been doing.”
“Um, well…” Gael scratches the back of his head, looking a little uncomfortable. “I don’t know if it was intended to be a secret or anything—I wasn’t aware that you didn’t know, sir.”
“Know what?”
“What he’s been doing for work.”
I frown. “Heisworking?” Why wouldn’t he tell me? What on earth has he been doing that he wouldn’t want to tell me about it? “Doing what?”
Gael looks me right in the eye, almost apologetic when he says, “He’s been acting, sir. He’s making a movie.”
Twenty eight
Asher
Christian’s palace is lit up like the White House on the Fourth of July as we pull up in the Uber. The Uber isn’t allowed through the gate, only pre-approved vehicles are, so I get out first and help Am out, and we begin to make our way on foot towards the white security tent that’s been set up.
“This is actually insane,” she whispers, holding onto my arm. Since my legs are trembling with nerves, I really should be the one holding onto her. The most immediate fear is about not getting in; about there being an issue with our invite or security clearance that ends up with us being fucking arrested or something. The second layer of fear is about getting in and being surrounded by politicians and diplomats and millionaires who know from a single look that I don’t belong there, and as much as I love her, neither does Amata.
Why the fuck did you come then, is what you’re thinking, right? Well, because he invited me. Because, despite how risky it is for him, despite how impossible I am for him, he wanted me here. So I’m fucking here.
The line moves quickly, and then we’re being waved forward by the guard, all of whom have fucking assault rifles. Big ones. I’m not a gun guy, but these are the real deal.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Amata says breezily as we’re assessed by four sets of very dark, very serious eyes. This isn’t about customer service here, so they give her barely a nod and take the envelope I hold out to them and inspect it. Christian had it couriered over with my passport last night. He’d wanted to bring it himself, but he’d been too busy with work, and so I actually hadn’t seen him all week. He’d been in New York, then California, then San Diego, then fucking Ohio, of all places. He’d had some time last night, but he’d sounded exhausted on the phone, so I’d suggested he go home and get an early night, knowing I’d be seeing him tonight anyway. Which is likely all I’ll get: to see him. After the guards have confirmed my invite is genuine, and that we match the picture of us on their computer, they give us a quick search before sending us through those electronic security frames you see at the courthouse.
“He make you do that every time you come over?” Amata asks as we head up the drive toward the house.
“Ha. Funny. I’ve only been here once, when everyone was out of town.”
“I still actually can’t believe it, all those James Bond jokes and the guy is like on Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”
“His Majesty’sSecret Service. The queen died.”
“Shit, that’s right.”
“Anyway, tonight I’m the one on secret service. How the fuck do I pretend I barely know him?” The words of the great philosopher Elsa spring to mind:Conceal, don’t feel.“I’m gonna say something and fuck everything up, I just know it.”
“No, you’re not. Stop it. Pretend you’re back at HHM—don’t speak unless asked a direct question.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “And no one’s going to ask if you’re secretly fucking the ambassador, so it’ll be fine.”
“No, they only ask me that on the street outside my house.”
“Thomas, it’s going to be fine. I’m going to be right next to you,” Amata promises. “Now, how do I look?” We’re about to step through the large open door, where inside is a literal soiree of well-dressed people. I don’t need to look at her to confirm she looks fire in a vintage red Calvin Klein dress she’d thrifted online. Louboutins she hadn’t. Her make-up minimal except for a bright red lip.
“Like a fucking queen.”