April 2000
HARPER RETURNED A FEW DAYS LATER. I WASN’T SURE how to behave—I’d driven myself round in circles: from refusing her and phoning my security to see her out or just accepting whatever she asked of me in the knowledge she would grow bored of this as she did all things.
By the time she actually came, I was wired and shaky. I’d taken something, I think, but less than normal so maybe it was withdrawal, or the nerves, but I felt I might be sick.
She pushed a tin foil container toward me.
“Eat,” she ordered.
Was this it? I pictured the sort of hazing pranks we’d missed at CADS. I expected pet food or rotten fruit—was surprised to find pasta inside.
“What?”
“With the quantity of illicit substances you’ve apparently been taking I don’t imagine regular meals have been on the cards,” she waved that envelope again, which she didn’t needand had only brought as some sort of dramatic prop. “I’m not a monster. I’m not going to torture the malnourished.”
I hadn’t had any form of appetite for a long time, but in front of her, in the wake of the humiliation she’d inflicted and preparing for it all over again, I felt my first whispering pang of hunger. I picked up a piece of the fusilli and ate it. Cold, vaguely dry, a hint of cheese.
“There. Food consumed. So onto that torture you mention.”
“Have a seat,” she said, opening the bag she held. Scissors. My stomach tightened, and it didn’t ease when she added. “I’ve never liked this hair. Time to do something about it.”
“Harper, be serious.”
She quirked a brow. “Serious would be leaking those photos.”
I knew it was better to simply acquiesce—if I agreed, she’d get bored quicker. If I pushed back, she had more to enjoy.
So I sighed, put the pasta down, and sat down before her.
“Eat the rest of that later. You look gaunt, and I’m not having the tabloids give you credit for being skinnier than me when your diet choice really is heroin chic.”
“I haven’t touched heroin.”
“Well, look who suddenly has standards.”
She took a lock between her fingers and sliced without even looking.
I winced and found myself starting to detach myself from what was going on—but that had caused all this. So I forced myself to pay attention to the way she hovered above me, her quick fingers, the way each breath was a little too close.
“I remember your hair at school,” she said. “Strawberry blond and that subtle wave, like within London you’d managed to find salt sea air.”
As she spoke, she cut. I could feel the cold scrape of the scissors against the back of my neck and wondered just how close she was getting.
“I miss that hair,” she said.
“Well, I’m certain this is how you get it back.”
She laughed, reaching for another lock. Maybe she realized she was racing through this too quickly to savor it, because she slid her fingers down it slowly and trimmed with precision.
From the way it flopped against my ear while others rested at my jaw, I suspected an uneven hack job was what she was going for.
“Perhaps I should be relieved,” I offered, like I might regain the upper hand through sheer nonchalance. “The way you were carrying on with Joel, I thought you’d shifted your sights to outdoing Posh and Becks rather than me.”
“Oh god, how droll that would be?” she said. “I think Joel’s certainly interested in scoring more front pages than his teammates, but it’s not what’s driving me.”
“Is that it?” I asked. “What brings the two of you together? Fame-hungry whores creating competition to fuel you where your passion lacks?”
Harper stepped back, under the guise of examining her work. But I think it’s so she could look at me as she spoke, wanted to see me acknowledge how superior her life was tomine. “No. He’s considerate. He listens. We have the same sense of humor. He’s thoroughly besotted but still challenges me. Do you need a full list?”
