New York City, USA
February 2012

Ain't no-one keeping score

"Look, all I'm saying is that you're not making this any easier for yourself," Ken clarifies.

I scowl at him (or rather, at the image of him on my computer screen). "That's easy for you to say, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" he immediately asks.

Isn't it obvious? "You have your protection people surrounding you, keeping the paps away."

"It's not their job to shield me from reporters," he points out. He was very sympathetic when I told him about Joy and Tracy earlier, but now I detect a sliver of impatience in his voice.

"No. It's their job to keep everyone at a distance. And don't tell me that doesn't also include reporters," I reply, pursing my lips.

Ken frowns. "I offered to contact the editors and ask them to have the pack back off a bit," he reminds, changing tracks.

That actually makes me laugh, but it's a curt, humourless one. "Would it work?"

"Not if you give them reasons to stick close to you." He rubs a hand over his face. "I mean, God, Rilla, I get that they can be annoying, but to snap and swat at them? That was extremely ill-advised."

"And look who I've been getting my advice from," I mutter darkly.

Ken choses to ignore it. "From where they stand, that video is pure gold. All I'm asking is that you try and not hand-deliver it to them."

"And all I'm saying is that it isn't as easy as you make it out to be," I snap.

I've seen the video, of course. There are pictures, too, but the video is worse. And yes, it does look bad. I know it does. But he wasn't there last night, was he? He doesn't know what it was like.

"They cut it to make me look bad," I tell him defensively. "They cut out all the bits where they're shouting nasty things at me, to make it look like I just blew up at them for no reason."

"You know that and I know that," agrees Ken. "But the majority of people out there don't. They believe what they see and what they see is that video. A video which doesn't show you at your best."

"And my behaviour reflects badly on you, is what you're saying?" I ask sarcastically.

He narrows his eyes. "I didn't say that."

"Why else would anyone care what 'people' think of me?" Raising both hands, I put air quotes around the word 'people'. "So what if I'm not keeping sweet every single bloody time? I'm nobody. It doesn't affect any of them what I do. I don't even know why they care."

"I care because it makes things harder for you," Ken replies. "It's simple logic. The more material you give them, the more they're going to follow you. And last night, you gave them plenty."

"Well, excuse me? They were shouting and pushing and saying things and –" I break off, breathing heavily.

"They were trying to get a rise out of you," he finishes in my stead. "It's what they do. Provoke someone until they get a reaction."

My scowl turns into a glare. "I know they do that!"

"Then why did you react to them?" Ken wants to know. "Why not just ignore them?"

"Why did I…?" I repeat, incredulous. "Because they made Joy lose her job, that's why! I can't just ignore that!"

"From what I gather, Joy had rather a lot to do with that herself. That arrangement was always questionable and both she and her husband should have known it. They're the lawyers, after all," he reasons, sounding maddeningly logical.

Jutting my chin forwards, I look down my nose at the screen. "But if it weren't for those reporters, no-one would ever have found out about it!"

"And if it weren't for me, the reporters wouldn't be interested in you at all," adds Ken, voice suddenly low and controlled.

Abruptly, I sit up straighter. "Now you're putting words in my mouth."

But of course, I've had the thought myself. Or rather, Joy had it for me. I mean, I still think it's mostly the fault of those reporters and their utter lack of respect for personal boundaries, but whichever way you turn it, if I hadn't spilled that wine all those months back…

With a loud, jingling sound, my phone starts ringing, making me jump.

Avoiding looking at Ken, I clamber over to the other side of the bed and grab it. When I see the caller ID, my heart suddenly beats in my throat.

Joy.

"I've got to take this," I tell Ken distractedly, my fingers already hovering over the phone, ready to accept the call.

He sighs. "Rilla…"

But I cut him short. "Talk later, alright?" Without giving him a chance to reply, I quickly shut my laptop, effectively ending our conversation. (And with an ocean between us, there's nothing he can do about it either.)

Taking a deep breath, I cautiously raise the phone to my ear. "Joy?"

"I'm downstairs," comes my sister's voice. "Can I come up?"

(I had Dan disconnect my doorbell back in November when it all began. Three days of having reporters ring at all times of the day – and sometimes, night – was enough to shoot my nerves nearly to pieces, so anyone wanting to see me has to either call my phone or get past Mrs Weisz.)

"Yes. Of course. Right away." I almost fall over my own feet in my scramble to buzz her in as quickly as possible. When I hold up the phone again, she has disconnected the call, so I'm left standing by the open apartment door, listening to her footsteps becoming louder and failing to get my heart to slow down.

When I talked to Mum at length last night, she told me to give Joy some time and that she'd come around. But I don't know if half a day is enough of time and, frankly, I have no idea what she wants.

But neither do I have time to prepare myself, because far too quickly, Joy's gold-and-copper head appears at the bottom of the uppermost staircase and I feel my hands clench in nervousness.

"It's mayhem out there," she declares when she has reached me. It's not a greeting, but it might be a peace offering and I'm willing to take whatever she's ready to give.

"I can imagine," I mutter, a sinking feeling in my stomach as I think of the mob of reporters likely gathered outside the house.

"Is it because of that video? I saw it." As she speaks, she angles her body towards the doorway, making me step back automatically to let her in.

Closing the door behind her, I watch her walk into the middle of the room and turn on her own axis once. Not knowing what to do with myself, I awkwardly shove my hands into the pockets of my skirt and lean back against the door for support.

"Ken already chided me for giving in to the reporters' baiting," I tell Joy, mostly because it's the first thought coming to my mind.

"Did he?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "Well, idiot."

That draws a surprised laugh from me. "You don't think he has a point?"

Joy seems to weigh this for a moment. "I think," she finally answers slowly, "that he doesn't know what he's talking about. I mean, he's always surrounded by his security detail, isn't he? They never harass him the way they do you."

"I probably should have kept my cool anyway," I cautiously point out.

"You should have," nods Joy, "but that's quite a bit easier said than done. I mean, I just had the singular experience of having to get through them. It's like running a gauntlet. Shouting at them was the least I wanted to do."

"It can definitely be trying, the way they –," I stop myself, shaking my head slightly. "But I shouldn't complain. I chose this, after all."

Shifting away from the door, I look quickly over at Joy, only to find her gazing at me, her eyes alert and searching. "No, you didn't," she says after a long moment.

"I didn't?" I repeat, unsure what she means by this.

"You didn't choose this," she affirms. "You fell in love with a man. You didn't choose the mess that came attached to it."

"Should have foreseen it," I murmur, though quite why I'm arguing her point is beyond even me.

Joy smiles softly. "Yes. But then, since when have you ever been good at planning?"

That gets me to look up, feeling a little indignant. "I'm plenty good at planning! You should see all the plans I made to help Betty with her wedding!"

"You're good at planning parties," agrees Joy, still with that fond little smile, "but you're decidedly not good at planning life."

I make a little hmpf-ing sound, to indicate that I do resent this very much, but it's not like I can convincingly argue this point. I can whip up a birthday party at the shortest of notices, but when it comes to life, I've always preferred just to see where it takes me next.

Much more importantly though, Joy is smiling and after last night, I'd take any amount of teasing, so long as it stays that way.

As I watch her, Joy turns and strolls over towards my little kitchen, where she absently riffles through my cupboards and my fridge, finally coming up with a half-eaten chocolate bar. "May I?" she asks, holding up the chocolate for me to see.

"Sure," I nod, but it's superfluous anyway. I'm not likely to deny her anything at the moment and we both know it. When I left her place last night, I wasn't sure she'd ever talk to me again, so to have her standing in my kitchen now, ribbing me and eating my chocolate…

"Are you still mad at me?" I blurt out.

Joy pops a piece of chocolate into her mouth and considers me, head cocked to the side. "Not on balance, no."

And what's that supposed to mean?

My face must have given away my confusion, for Joy deigns to explain, "Part of me is mad. The childish, irrational part that thinks it's unfair that just because of who you're in a relationship with, I have problems I wouldn't have otherwise."

"It is unfair," I interrupt quietly.

She nods. "Yes, it is. And yes, part of me is mad at you for bringing all of us into this situation. The childish part, as I said. But the more grown up part realises that this is beyond your control as well. This is happening to you as much as it's happening to the rest of us."

"You lost your job, Joy," I remind. "That's… that's much worse than some guys with long lenses photographing me while I buy an avocado."

I can see Joy swallow heavily at my words, but she quickly masks it by eating another piece of chocolate. "No argument there," she agrees. "And I'm not going to lie to you. After how hard I worked for this… it bloody hurts. I'm not even sure it has fully settled in yet and it already… let's just say that it's bad. I'm not going to pretend it's not."

Inside my skirt pockets, my hands clench into helpless fists.

"But Dan, maddening as he is, has a point when he says that we knew our arrangement was potentially problematic," Joy continues. "He and I both did and we both thought we'd get away with it. If we had been upfront about it and stuck to the rules, we wouldn't be in this mess."

She's not looking at me, but while she speaks, her posture slightly changes as shoulders move backwards and her chin rises up. She's in lawyer mode, I realise, because that's the only way she can be here right now. Her coming to see me was her logical side winning out against the emotional one. She's still mad and she's still hurt and in some way, she still blames me. That she's standing in front of me is solely because logic told her to.

"They wouldn't have found out," I point out carefully. "No-one would have been interested in us, if I weren't…"

"Maybe, maybe not," Joy replies briskly. "But if we hadn't tried to bend the rules in the first place, there wouldn't have been anything to find out."

She smoothes out the tin foil over what remains of the chocolate bar and takes a moment to place it back into the fridge. Then, sharply, she looks up at me. "Besides, you're also in more trouble than just being papped while buying avocados. Did Dan explain it to you?"

"They could throw me out. Ban me from coming back." I just keep myself from shrugging.

It seems so insignificant compared to what Joy and Dan are up against. In three months, I'll be gone anyway, and Dan said they're unlikely to resolve this case before then. And even if they manage to chuck me out sooner… well, Mum isn't a professor at Dalhousie for nothing. I'm sure she could wangle some arrangement that would allow me to finish my degree in Halifax.

"I'm glad to see how well you're taking this." There's the tiniest hint of sarcasm in Joy's voice, her left eyebrow creeping up the slightest bit.

But instead of explaining myself, I chose to return to practicalities. "What are you – we – going to do now?"

A second of hesitation, but then Joy lets go of a long breath, her posture relaxing. "Dan and I saw a lawyer this morning. A specialist. She reckons we might get away with saying that you were just spending time with the kids because you wanted to and the money we gave you was a gift among family. It's still fishy, but it could work."

"Good," I nod, not knowing what else to say.

"Of course, we can't be seen to be doing anything untoward from now on. No-one can stop you from seeing Jake and Izzie, but there can't be any money changing hands," Joy adds. "I already talked to Mum and Dad and they're increasing your monthly allowance to make up for it. It's just for three months anyway."

And a good thing that is, too, because I'm quite sure that I also managed to lose my real, legal job. Maureen wasn't very happy that I ditched work last night and she definitely wasn't happy that, upon her calling me to order me back, I told her to go to hell. So… I'm not too confident that income source hasn't also dried up.

Not that I intend to bother Joy with that information. Instead, I cast a quick look her way and gather up my courage to ask, "Did the lawyer also say anything about your job? Will you get it back, when…"

Joy freezes. The shake of her head is almost imperceptible, but it feels like a punch to the gut.

I take a deep breath. "I'm so sorry about that, Joy," I murmur, not knowing what else to say. "If there's anything I can do…"

But again, she shakes her head. "There isn't anything. It is the way it is." Her jaw is set and her eyes fixed at some point in the mid-distance. I can see how much she's fighting to keep her composure.

I am saved from having to think of something else to say, when, for the second time today, my phone rings.

Reaching out to take it, I see Mrs Weisz' name on the caller ID and raise a finger to signal to Joy that I need to take this. Just last week Mrs Weisz fell in her kitchen and couldn't get up by herself. Not wanting to bother anyone, she stayed on the floor until I dropped by some two hours later. After which I gave her express instructions to immediately call me if it ever happens again.

"Mrs Weisz? Are you alright?" I ask after accepting the call.

"I'm feeling fine, Marilla. Thank you," is her answer and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"However," she adds and I tense again, "there's a friend of yours downstairs and she doesn't seem to be feeling very good."

Suppressing a sigh, I shake my head lightly. "Mrs Weisz, you know that my friends have my phone number. They can just call me."

More than once, I've had people turning up at the front door of the house, claiming to be a friend or a relative or once, memorably, my fifth grade music teacher. (Never mind that I didn't even take music in fifth grade!) Each and every one of them was just an imposter trying to wheedle their way into inside the house to presumably take a picture of the stairs or something.

"I think this one is too shy to call you," opinions Mrs Weisz. "She seems very upset."

Could it be…?

"What's her name?" I ask, somewhat warily. Joy, I notice absently, is watching me curiously, obviously having taken the opportunity to pull herself together again.

Mrs Weisz seems to pass the question on, for her voice becomes muffled. "What's your name again, dear?" After three or four seconds, she returns to the phone to answer, "Her name is Tracy."

Thought so.

I open my mouth to reply, but then find myself closing it without having uttered a sound. Do I even want to see Tracy?

"Marilla?" Mrs Weisz sounds both impatient and a little disapproving at my lack of a reaction.

"I might not be up for seeing her today," I carefully intone.

Mrs Weisz clucks her tongue, having obviously arrived at fully disappointed by now. "And why would that be?"

"She… she hasn't been a very good friend recently." As I speak, I notice Joy looking over to me, surprise now written on her face.

"And you have always been a good friend to all of your friends?" Mrs Weisz wants to know, her voice clipped and sharpish.

"No…" I answer slowly. "But I –"

She talks right over me. "So, you can't be pointing fingers."

I… I might? I mean, selling your friend out to the press is surely up there when it comes to friendship transgressions, isn't it?

When I don't answer, Mrs Weisz heaves a sigh. "See the poor girl, Marilla. She is very distressed."

Pursing my lips, but unable to deny a direct request from Mrs Weisz, I answer with a somewhat sullen, "Okay. Send her up."

"Good girl," praises Mrs Weisz, now decidedly pleased. "Be nice to her."

Well, I'm not making any promises.

Saying goodbye to Mrs Weisz and tossing the phone back on my bed, I move over to open the door again. "Tracy is coming up," I explain to Joy. "She's the one who sold my work schedule to the press. Which, I might add, instigated this entire mess."

A moment passes as Joy processes this, before I can hear her whistle softly. "'Not a good friend' is one way of putting it."

See? That's what I said!

"She also took a picture of my locker and sold it on," I add as an afterthought. "They put it on the front page."

When I look over my shoulder, I can see Joy shaking her head. "Your life is complete madness, did you know that?" she enquires.

Well, duh.

For the next few moments, we both remain silent, listening to Tracy's footsteps on the stairs. When she finally appears before me, I give her a quick once-over. She really doesn't look well, her face being somewhat peaky and the discoloured smudges under her eyes leaving little doubt that she slept badly.

"Tracy," I greet her coolly.

"Hello Rilla," she replies, obviously unsure whether it's alright to look at me.

I take a few steps backwards to indicate that she's allowed to come in. Nodding in Joy's direction, I explain, "My sister Joy. I told you about her."

Tracy gasps audibly. "You're…" she stammers. "You're the sister who… God, I'm so sorry. If there's anything…" She trails off, obviously realising that there's nothing she can do, not for all the goodwill in the world.

Joy considers her for a long moment. "No need to apologise to me," she finally assures. "My job isn't on your conscience."

Watching her out of the corner of my eye, I can see Tracy's shoulders slacken with relief.

"But selling details of Rilla's work schedule to the press?" Joy continues. "That wasn't your best move."

Bit of an understatement, isn't it?

After a second of hesitation, Tracy turns to me. Almost instinctively, I fold my arms in front of my chest.

"It wasn't," Tracy agrees. "I'm sorry, Rilla. I know I shouldn't have done it. Please believe me."

Truth is, I do believe her. Believe her that she now knows it was wrong, that is. Forgiveness, however…

"Why did you do it?" Joy enquires, her tone almost conversational.

Tracy blinks at her – once, twice, three times – as she processes the question. I don't think she expected Joy to actually take an active part in this conversation.

"I… my husband and I… we've wanted to go on a vacation for so long, but we never had the money… then one day, he brought home this reporter, who was very nice and… it didn't seem so bad then. Just… just a few pictures and the schedule for a few weeks," she finally explains haltingly, repeating what she told me last night.

"If you had gone on vacation at least," I mutter. I'm not sure whether I mean for either of them to hear, but apparently, they both do.

Joy raises an enquiring eyebrow at me, so I continue. "He drank the money away. Her –," swallowing what I really want to say, I instead make sure that my emphasis is at its nastiest, "her husband drank it away."

As I spit out the word husband, Joy's eyes flit over to me, asking a silent question. I've told her about Tracy before and when I now give the tiniest of nods, there's understanding dawning on her face. She knows that I have all kinds of reasons to dislike the husband and most of them don't concern me at all.

"Rilla doesn't think much of him. She thinks I should leave him," Tracy explains meanwhile, her watery, flickering smile trying and failing to diminish my opinion.

"That part was obvious," nods Joy, matter-of-factly. "What about you?"

Tracy seems so flabbergasted by the question that for several long seconds, she just gapes at Joy. Finally – "He's my husband."

"That wasn't what I asked," Joy informs her. She isn't unkind, but there's a firmness to her words that disallows any lies.

Tracy tries anyway. "He can be very nice," she replies quietly.

I scoff.

"Quiet on the peanut gallery, if you will," orders Joy immediately. When I glare at her, she just smiles back sweetly.

Apparently more cowed than I am, Tracy falls silent, causing Joy to take a step towards her. "I gather money is an issue?" she coaxes and I can see that she's making an effort to be encouraging, rather than strict.

Tracy nods shyly. "He… We had a small business. Shawn couldn't open it in his name, so we put mine on the papers and…"

"And it went bust," finishes Joy with an understanding nod. "And I assume there are also some maxed-out credit cards knocking around?"

Silent, Tracy just nods.

"And you can't pay the premiums on your own." Joy's mind is obviously going a mile a minutes. I don't know what it is yet, but she's clearly concocting some kind of plan.

From Tracy, another nod.

"Something could be done about that, you know? There are ways to help people get on top of their debt," Joy tells her. "Counsellors to help with debt consolidation and that kind of thing. Or, if debt management isn't an option, there's bankruptcy, which can be another way out of it."

"It… it's a lot of debt," Tracy admits slowly.

Joy makes a thoughtful sound. "Something could be done about that, too, I think. If you weren't actively involved with the running of his business, you could argue that you didn't know the consequences of putting your name on the papers. That might get a court to reshuffle the debts to him – where, I'm sure, they belong."

Tracy stares at her, mouth agape.

"Joy," I warn quietly.

Not that she's wrong, of course. It's just that she's too fast. In symbolic distances, Joy is already somewhere in New Jersey, while Tracy has barely left this apartment.

"Right," Joy takes a deep breath to reign herself in. "Of course all of this is your call, Tracy. And I understand you don't know me and you don't have to talk to me, but… look, let's not talk about your husband, okay? Finding a way to manage your debt is a good thing regardless, don't you think?"

"That would be… amazing," Tracy admits tentatively. She still looks like she has no idea how she walked into this particular conversation, but she's trying her best to keep up with Joy.

"Great," beams Joy. "I'm no expert, but you and I can definitely chat a little and figure out what's the next step. Does that sound good?"

"Very good," agrees Tracy.

And it's the glimmer of hope in her eyes and the energy in Joy's expression that makes me smile as well. Because there might still be no way around the fact that Tracy wasn't a good friend to me recently, but if Joy, in light of what happened to her, is willing to forgive me, I can hardly not forgive Tracy, right? Especially knowing what I know.

It doesn't look like those two are in immediate need of me either, so I pick up my phone and quietly walk over to open the window that leads out to the fire escape. (Which I know to be the biggest New York movie cliché ever, thank you very much.) I have a boyfriend to make up with, after all.

I just think I'll manage to climb out without disturbing the two of them, when I hear Joy's voice behind me. "Rilla?"

"Yes?" I ask, looking at her over my shoulder.

Joy grins. "Make him grovel."

Yes. That was the idea.

The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'City of New Orleans' (written by Steve Goodman, released by Arlo Guthrie in 1972).