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“I can’t do this. Not again. This can’t be my life.” There’s no one to talk to, no one to hear me. Not here. And I can’t start crying out in the open. Whoever took those photographs was here last night, judging by the photos already online. They might still be on the estate, hiding in the hedgerows or waiting to pop out of the priest hole. Oh, god, what if they got pictures of us going into the priest hole? But I checked, there was no one— But there was no one on the road to the wishing well either.
“Move, Lolly.” That’s how bad it’s gotten. I’m talking out loud, giving myself orders. But at least my feet obey.
I scurry to the nearest car—the brand-new silver Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriolet that speaks of nothing but a gobton of money. Its top has been optimistically and unhelpfully left down given the kind of weather one can usually expect in England in late winter, and my desire to hide. But time is of the essence. I yank open the door, slide into the driver-side two-tone leather seat, and—fuck—there’s no ignition. It’s one of those cars that start magically if the keys are nearby. But how? Where? In frustration I grab the steering wheel and yank it back and forth. The engine purrs to life just as the mansion door flies open. That means the keys are somewhere; I don’tcarewhere. All I care about is my escape.
“Lolly!” It’s Mariano, fully dressed, his hair and eyes wild. “Stop!”
Another sob rips from my throat—I can’t bear the way he says my name—and I stomp on the gas. I peel out of the car park in a spray of gravel with no idea where I’m headed, pushing every button on the center console trying to figure out how to get the car’s top back up. All I want is to disappear, but no matter what button I push, the top stays down.
Alicia. I need to talk to Alicia. She will listen or make me laugh or let me cry. She will help me figure out what to do. I put my phone on speaker, dial her number, and drop the phone in my soggy lap as it starts ringing.
It’s sometime in the middle of the night in Maine. I can’t even manage the math to be sure how late, but Alicia answers. Of course she does.
“Lolly?” Her voice is slow with sleep. “What’s happened?”
The worry in her voice. Her kindness. My eyes swim and my nose burns with unshed tears.
“He’s—” The fact I’ve barely even texted her these last few days—that I ignored her, my best best best friend in favor of Mariano-the-cad, and now he’s the first thing I talk about to her in at least a week... It’s just all kinds of wrong, and it makes the stinging tears stream down my cheeks. “Oh, god, I’m so sorry, Dish-Lish!”
“You’re sorry? What for?”
“For being such a terrible friend!”
“And you called me in the middle of the night to apologize? Um… Okay? You’re forgiven!”
Even though Alicia is trying to cheer me up, the fact that she’s being so lovely makes me ugly cry.
“So… Maybe you weren’t calling to apologize? Can you at least talk? Because if you can talk, you’re going to be okay, all right? Is anything broken?” Alicia goes right to our standard operating procedure.
“My heart!”
“Okay, heartbroken’s bad. We don’t like heartbroken, but it’s not Teena, is it?”
“Noooo.” It comes out in a warbling wail.
Alicia lets out a sigh, the kind that lets me know she was afraid itwasTeena. “Mariano, then?”
“It’s all so bad, Dish-Lish. It was so good. So so so good and the sex was—and now it’s all gone to shit. He’s a total shit!” I ought to focus on the road and pay attention to the scenery that’s only a blur of barely processed greens, but I know the drive from the mansion, down the lane, and across the estate by heart. Lord knows I snuck out of that house enough times as a teenager—in the dark, in the pouring rain—with no headlights on. My tears are somehow harder to see through than sleet, even in full daylight, and there’s nothing at all sneaky about what I’m doing. Not the Porsche, not the speed at which I’m driving, not the direction in which I’m traveling, not the convertible top still fucking down so anyone could see me. “Shit! Shit shit fuck damn!” I whip the car off the lane and onto the grassy berm along a wooded section of the estate. Through the trees, down past the pond and its folly and I’ll be at Dottie’s garden gate.That’swhere I need to go. And I don’t need to be parking a beacon of a sportscar out front.
“What’s going on Lolly? You’re freaking me out.”
“Hold on.” I delve into my dress, wriggling my arms and shucking my shoulders, until I rip Mariano’s shirt off and toss it onto the passenger seat. I don’t want it. I don’t want to ever see it or smell him again. I definitely don’t want any reminders of him. If I could rip off myCarmendress and go naked without exciting any more attention, I would. The instant I get to Dottie’s, I’m going to jump in the shower and rinse every bit of Mariano away. I snatch up my phone, slam out of the car and run across the lane and into the trees.
“To sum up while you apparently run a marathon at three AM: You’re heartbroken. Mariano’s a shit. Teena’s fine.”
“Yes, but it’s worse. So much worse. There’spictures.Everywhere. Go online. Like, right now, and just type in Mariano’s name. You’ll see what I mean.” I give up trying to speed walk across damp English countryside in my heels and kick them off, leaving them behind in the woods. Off in the distance a car approaches, slows. I break into a run, branches snagging in my hair.
“Pictures? Of what? TheGolden Horseshoes? Mariano and the Queen’s Cup? What am I looking for here?”
I stagger almost to stop. “Of him. Withhis patroness. Or—” I don’t want to say any of it aloud. What if someone’s listening?
“What do you mean? I don’t see anything except polo stuff.”
“It’s in all the tabloids, Alicia!”
Her pitch matches mine with frustration. “What is? What tabloids? I’m not seeing anything—” There’s a pause. “Oh, wait. Is thatyou?” Her voice goes incredulous. “Are you going down on him while he’sdriving?Niiiice car!”
“There’s more than that. Lots more.”
