New York City, USA
April 2011
Have another little piece of my heart
"Let it be known that I understood maybe every second word of what that dotty old man was talking about," Megan announces, though she sounds cheerfully unconcerned by it.
"Meg", chides Chelsea mildly. She looks to me for back-up but I just shrug and grin at her. Not even Chelsea could argue that 'dotty old man' is an inaccurate description for Professor Grey.
Shaking her head at us, Chelsea stuffs her notes into her backpack. Megan, I notice, didn't even unpack.
"What are you two doing tonight?" asks Chelsea as she hoists the backpack over her shoulder and nods at us to start walking. "I thought we might grab a bite to eat and try to parse today's lecture together afterwards."
"Can't," declares Megan, almost skipping up the stairs of the lecture hall. "I have practice."
"Well, colour me surprised," I deadpan. Megan grins at me.
Chelsea, holding the door open for us, frowns in thought. "Didn't you already have practice yesterday?"
"Sure," confirms Megan patiently. "But seeing as I didn't understand more than every second word of that lecture we just suffered through, I figured I'd better intensify my training. I mean, once I'm an Olympic fencer, my grades ought to be secondary, right?"
"Not aiming high at all, are you?" I tease.
Megan grins. "Got to have goals in life. We can't all waft through life and time as directionless as you."
I give her a sourly smile, causing her to laugh. (There's more than a spark of truth to her words, hence why they don't sit quite comfortably with me.)
"I take every day as it comes," I reply archly. "When can you do that if not as a student?"
"She has a point," concedes Chelsea in Megan's direction, and loops an arm through mine.
"Oh, you're just trying to sweet talk her into joining you in the library later," Megan observes cheerfully (and rightly, I presume).
Chelsea clucks her tongue in annoyance. "I am trying to do no such thing."
"I can't join you anyway," I tell her, feeling apologetic. "I would, but –"
"But the boyfriend," interrupts Chelsea with a smile. "Say no more."
"But the boyfriend," I nod, smiling wryly.
I didn't tell my friends who, exactly, the boyfriend is, but I did tell them that I have a boyfriend, which simplifies matters a lot. Instead of lying about where I'm spending my evenings, I can now merely point to the boyfriend and know that they'll understand. I kept vague about details though, merely hinting that said boyfriend was already out of college, that he worked with my brother-in-law (which is true in a very roundabout way) and that he lives the kind of busy grown-up life that doesn't allow him to join us on nights out. They accepted it readily enough, with only Seraphina expressing more than a passing interest in meeting him and even she was quickly distracted. When she pressed for a name, I offered up Alexander, which, in my defence, is one of Ken's several names (third or fourth, I think).
That I didn't tell them the entire truth might look like I don't trust them. It's not that though. It's that I realised that I don't feel ready for it. Telling my sisters exhausted me in a weird but very real way, and ever since, I've noticed a certain shift. They're being absolutely supportive, but I can see them looking at me strangely sometimes and their questions are often directed not at my relationship but at my relationship with the prince. Which I totally get and don't much mind, but still… it's nice to be just the same old Rilla as always, with my friends.
"You know what," Chelsea remarks pensively, "if neither of you is revising, maybe I won't either. There's that new show on HBO based on these fantasy books I read some years ago. Maybe I'll give that a try instead."
"A very sensible decision," I encourage and gently tug her along towards the staircase leading outside. "You study too much as it is."
Chelsea looks very much like she wants to argue (likely that there's no such thing as 'too much studying'), but Megan beats her to it.
"Tell me if that show is worth a watch, will you? I'm always on the look-out for good TV," she states. Then, with a frown, "Though you can't ever be sure until you've seen the very last episode. When I think of how much of my life I lost to Lost…"
"That finale was supremely bad," I agree with a shudder. Even Chelsea grimaces at the memory.
"It made me distrustful of TV," relates Megan earnestly as she pushes open a set of doors that lead us out of the building.
I allow myself a fine smile. "Just as well, isn't it? If you want to become an Olympic fencer, you better spend your time practicing rather than in front of the TV."
Chelsea gives a snort of laughter and, after a moment of thought, Megan joins in. "Can't argue with that logic," she concedes with a grin. "Which is exactly why I'm off to practice now. See you tomorrow!"
Says it, waves, and turns to jog off towards… well, towards wherever she does her fencing. I'm vague on where, exactly, that is.
Taking my own leave from Chelsea with a brief hug and the promise that tomorrow, we'll have a stab at revising whatever the dotty old man tried to teach us, I start walking in the direction of the Subway station. Luckily, once there, I don't have to wait long for a train to arrive, but unluckily, it's fairly packed, forcing me to stand for at least three quarters of the journey. And while I manage to secure a seat for the last few stops at least, it's a small mercy. (Somehow, shoes never pinch quite as badly as they do when you're forced to stand for an extended period of time. It's a law of nature, I think. Specifically, a law of new shoe nature.)
Glad to leave the Subway behind for today, I hurry home. As I climb the steps to the front door, I wave at Mrs Weisz, sitting at the window of her flat with a book in her hand, and gain a nod and smile in return. Coming out successfully from the daily fight with the front door, I have only just stepped into the hall when my phone rings somewhere in the confines of my bag.
Dropping my keys into the bag, I let my hand roam for the phone instead, pressing to accept the call the moment I find it.
"Yes?" I ask, slightly out of breath.
"It's me, sweetie," comes Mum's voice.
Slipping the handle of the bag back over my shoulder, I start my ascent up the stairs. "Hey Mum."
"How are you doing?" she asks, her voice carefully schooled into cheerfulness and I immediately know that she's just making small talk and waits for any opening to talk about whatever she called to talk about.
"Good, good," I answer, because as long as I can keep her talking about inconsequential things, she can't talk about what she called to talk about. It's brilliant logic. "Just came back from university. We did Sherlock Holmes today, which at least didn't make me want to hurl my book at the wall."
Mum makes a noncommittal sound. "That's lovely, darling. But I was really calling because I was wondering –"
I don't let her get any further. "What's your take on Holmes and Irene Adler? We got into a bit of a discussion on them, and decided it's quite strange how many adaptions insist in having him be in love with her. It's not really in the story, is it?"
"I don't think Conan Doyle meant for Holmes to have romantic feelings for any woman," answers Mum, somewhat distracted. "But, sweetheart –"
"See! That's what I said!" I interrupt her once more as I tackle another set of stairs. "He admires her as a professional, but all these simpering love affairs in later adaptions are just ridiculous. I mean –"
This time, it's Mum cutting me short. "Rilla!" she calls out, not unkindly, but definitely firmly. "While part of me would be interested in seeing just how long you can filibuster this phone call, I have a call with my editor scheduled in fifteen minutes and don't really have time for this."
Pursing my lips, I ask (somewhat petulantly, I must admit), "So talking to your editor is more important than talking to your own child?"
"Don't be melodramatic, darling," replies Mum with a laugh and, I'm sure, an eye roll. "If you'd like to, we can talk about Holmes all you want, later this evening."
"Can't," I answer, setting foot on the final staircase. "Ken's here."
"Yes, I see. It's quite a coincidence that you should mention him actually, because that's precisely what I wanted to talk to you about," remarks Mum.
I bite my tongue to keep from cursing. I walked right into that one, didn't I?
Stopping in front of my door, I heave a most dramatic sigh. "Okay. Shoot."
As I grapple for my keys (the new door has more locks than anyone could possibly need), Mum carefully enquires, "Did you see the latest news about him?"
Groaning, I lower my hand holding the keys and lean against the door instead. "You shouldn't believe everything the tabloids write, Mum."
"I didn't say I believed it. I asked whether you'd seen it," Mum corrects.
I have, as a matter of fact. A whole long article linking him to a really famous Irish model. Legs for miles and the kind of red hair that I'm not entirely sure is natural.
"I saw it," I confirm, doing nothing to keep the annoyance from my voice. "So what? Tabloids will be tabloids. Making up stories to sell papers is what they do."
Really, I'm not even sure what Mum is on about. When Hello! ran that article about him and Lady Tatty, she was the one to explain the inner workings of tabloids to me, not the other way round.
Pushing off from the door, I insert the key into the last lock, giving the door a shove to open it. Inside, I immediately see Ken sitting on the bed, a laptop on his knees, typing with one hand and using the other to stroke a semi-sleeping George. (It's asinine that he has to lock the door when he's inside the apartment, but apparently, it makes his PPOs sleep better at night.) When they hear me enter, both raise their heads to look at me. Ken smiles. George immediately settles back into his sleeping position.
Mum, meanwhile, is still talking. "Of course they do. That's not really what I meant though. I've just been thinking –"
But I have heard quite enough of this. Following an impulse, I lob the phone in Ken's direction, where it comes to lie on the bed next to his knee. (George, thusly disturbed, glares at me.) "Can you please tell my mother that you aren't having an affair with a model, Irish or otherwise?"
Looking quite nonplussed, Ken nevertheless reaches out to pick up the phone and raises it to his ear, moving the laptop to the floor with his other hand. "Mrs Blythe? This is Kenneth speaking."
(I can't be totally sure from those few words, but somehow, it seems to me as if the poshness of his accent is more pronounced than usual. Probably an unconscious thing, but still a bit funny.)
Dropping my bag next to the door and slipping off my pinching shoes and not-quite-warm-enough coat, I listen to Ken's side of the conversation with pricked ears. "I assure you, Ma'am, that there's no truth to that story. I don't think I've ever even met the woman."
Did he seriously just Ma'am her?
Biting back a smile, I turn toward the kitchen and fill up a glass of water from the sink. Behind me, I can hear Ken make quiet hmm-noises, indicating that he's listening to whatever Mum is explaining to him.
She obviously has a lot to say, because it takes some moments before he speaks again. "Yes. Yes, I do see your point, Mrs Blythe."
Hey! Traitor!
Turning, I give him a wounded look of betrayal. He smiles back, his eyes crinkling slightly, but seems otherwise quite interested in what Mum has to say.
"Yes. No. You're right," he adds.
I move my lower lip forward in a pout. He wasn't supposed to agree with her!
Mum is apparently speaking again, with Ken nodding along to her. "I could have someone put out some feelers to the editor of the magazine," he suggests. "That way, we could find out if it's just the usual drivel or whether they have something of substance."
What on earth is he talking about?
I open my mouth to ask, but Ken is speaking again. "Yes, we're entirely on the same side on this, Mrs Blythe." Briefly, he raises his eyes to look at me. "Be assured that I'm doing everything I can to ensure it."
I'm beginning to question whether it was a good idea to get those two talking. They seem awfully chummy!
"Glad we agree. And thank you for trusting me with your concern. I will take care of it at the earliest opportunity," Ken promises. Then, "Yes, me, too. Thank you. Have a good evening, Mrs Blythe."
He lowers the phone and looks at me, raising an eyebrow when he sees my face.
"What was that?" I ask indignantly.
"I talked to your mother. Just as you asked me to," he replies in a maddeningly unconcerned way.
"You weren't supposed to agree with her on – on whatever she made you agree on," I protest.
Laughing, he holds out both arms to me and, somewhat reluctantly, I walk over to the bed to stand in front of him. "She had a point. I could hardly not agree with her," he explains, sliding his hands to lie on my hips.
"What point?" I demand, even as I reach out a hand of my own to pat down a strand of his hair that's sticking up a bit.
"She's worried because that model they linked me to is a redhead. She thinks someone might have found out about me dating a women with red hair and that, not knowing her exact identity, the press is now taking shots at any red-haired woman they can find, hoping something will stick," Ken elaborates. His thumbs lightly brush over my hipbones.
Hm… I didn't even think about it like that.
"Do you think it could be true?" I ask, feeling my stomach coil at the thought.
Ken shakes his head. "Unlikely. If they had any real intel, they would have found out for sure before publishing. The way they are doing it now, if they had anything, they'd just give away valuable info to the competition. I don't think they'd do that. It's probably just the usual drivel."
I must have looked unconvinced, for he moves his hands upwards to settle on my waist instead, applying the lightest of pressures. "I'm looking into it, I promise. I wouldn't be too worried though. We've been very careful so far and I can't see how anyone would have found out," he assures.
Scrutinising his face, I come to the conclusion that he looks perfectly sincere and also not too concerned. He genuinely seems to believe that there's nothing to this and, well, he's the expert, isn't he?
With a sigh and a turn, I allow myself to flop down on the bed, coming to lie next to Ken. George, feeling disturbed in his beauty sleep, picks himself up with a most disdainful expression, does an elaborate stretch (burrowing the nails of his front paws in Ken's leg as he does, making him wince) and hops off the bed.
Stalking off towards the kitchen, he is momentarily distracted in his haughtiness by a piece of fluff in his way that is, very clearly, just asking to be murdered most brutally.
Hearing Ken chuckle behind me and watching George chase the fluff through the entire apartment with much fervour, I observe, "I meant to clean the place today." But it sounds less than motivated to my own ears.
"Did you?" asks Ken non-committally. When I turn my head to look at him, I can see him watch George with some amusement.
"Yes," I confirm. "And you should feel bad about it. I've been cleaning for three for months now." But the accusation is half-hearted and further robbed of any strength by a yawn overcoming me.
"I could help," Ken offers immediately, sounding more alert now.
Eyeing him dubiously, I ask, "Have you ever even come into the vicinity of cleaning detergents before?"
He shrugs, a relaxed smile on his lips. "No. But they did teach us to make our beds back at Sandhurst." Sandhurst, as I've learned, being the Army officer school he went to. He also attended both Navy and Air Force schools, but my brain has deleted the whereabouts of those.
"So you're in charge of the bed," I decide, suppressing yet another yawn.
"For once, you mean?" Ken quips, and starts laughing when I glare at him in response.
"Yes," I confirm haughtily. "For once. Don't get used to it."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he shoots back and for that, at the very latest, he has earned the punch I direct against his shoulder. (George, in the meantime, has obviously decided us to be quite mad and curled up on his favourite windowsill instead.)
Making a great play at appearing wounded, Ken drops down next to me on the bed, before immediately engulfing me into the kind of bear hug that never fails to make me smile.
"I don't want to clean today," I confess after a moment, my body still folded comfortably in his arms.
"You don't say?" teases Ken, but escapes further assaults for this latest example of cheek by the fact that he has me well and truly captured.
"Uh-huh," I reply earnestly. "Cleaning is no fun. But we might watch TV instead. Chelsea says there's that new show on. Something about thrones?"
Ken shrugs, allowing me to wiggle out of his hold as he does so. "Sure, if you want to," he agrees easily.
Thus encouraged, I scramble to get the show on for us, settling back into Ken's welcoming arms afterwards and waiting, half-drowsy, for it to start. When it does, I must say that it doesn't look half-bad to me, but Ken, very obviously, grows bored very quickly.
After ten minutes, he's nibbling at my earlobe. After twelve minutes, he's kissing my neck. After fifteen minutes, he's reached my navel. After sixteen minutes, he has my undivided attention.
When, much later, I turn back towards the screen, the episode is long over.
"You made me miss it," I state half-accusingly.
Ken grins down at me. "Weren't complaining five minutes ago, were you?"
Well. No. I wasn't. (Can't be blamed for it either, I think.)
"Still," I persist, stretching lazily. "I might have liked to have seen it. It looked promising."
But I'm just being contrary for the sake of it and he knows it perfectly well.
"It didn't look very accurate," he points out, flopping down to lie beside me and drawing me close. "More fantastical than anything."
"What gave it away? The undead frozen people at the beginning?" I tease, but can't help giggling when Ken, smiling, reaches out a hand to ruffle my hair.
"No, the frozen dragon eggs," he counters.
Dragon eggs? Hmm… must have missed those.
"Missed those, did you?" he observes, the smile widening into a grin.
Deciding against answering, I instead huff to express my indignation and turn my head away.
Laughing, Ken cuddles me closer. "Come here. I apologise. And I shall make up for it. I'll ask them to give me the whole thing on DVD. Do you just want the first episode or and advance screening of entire season?"
I snort, incredulous, and turn to look at him. "They'll never do that!"
But Ken just cocks his head to the side and looks at me and I realise that yes, if he asks, they totally will.
"My life does have the occasional perks," he points out easily. "And since it looked like they filmed at least part of it back in the UK, it should be even easier for me to get my hands on it. Now, what do you say?"
"Whole season, please," I decide. Then, after a moment of thought, "What makes you think they filmed it in England? The rest of Europe has plenty of old castle-y buildings as well."
"Just a hunch," he replies. "And who made you an expert on old European castles anyway?"
"Not an expert," I parry, snuggling closer to him as I speak. "But I did see a couple of them back during my gap year."
Ken makes a thoughtful noise. "Didn't you spend your gap year babysitting for your sister? I seem to think you did."
"I did both. Dan had a year-long placement with the Geneva offices of the UN and since Joy had just had Izzie, she asked me to come along and help her. Kind of as an au-pair of sorts. I didn't have anything else lined up and hadn't made up my mind about university yet, so I agreed. I spent Monday to Friday helping her with the children and regularly used the weekends to travel Europe. That's how I got to see London, too," I explain readily. "And when the year was over and they returned to New York, I went with them."
What I don't say is that my decision to follow Joy and her family to Switzerland was also the death blow to my relationship with Carl. He had asked me to go travelling with him as well, but since his idea of travelling involves backpacks and tents and my idea of travelling involves hotels and bathrooms, I chose to decline. So, in a very honest conversation, we agreed that he'd go alone and called it a day on the romantic part of our relationship. And when, two years later, he returned to the world of bathrooms again, we found to both of our relief that we had slipped back into friendship instead.
"Sounds like fun. Just to hop on to a train and go explore whatever city you chose to." Ken sounds a little wistful, saying this, and it takes me a moment to understand why, but when I do, it's pretty obvious.
"You can't do that, can you?" I ask carefully.
His mouth twists into a wry smile. "Don't get me wrong. I get to see the most amazing sites when I'm travelling and I get to see them without standing in line for hours in the scorching sun. When the itinerary calls for me to go up Eiffel Tower, they close it down for the day. It's convenient, but it's also unreal. I know most people would kill to get to see Angkor in the morning sun, totally devoid of tourists, but the experience can also be strangely… aseptic. And it requires months of planning. I never get to go anywhere just because the fancy strikes me."
"You can't ever just sit on the Spanish Steps to eat ice cream or drink a coffee on St Mark's Square," I realise.
"I don't think anyone should drink a coffee on St Mark's Square," Ken points out. "I mean, how much do they charge? Twenty euros for a cappuccino?" The wistfulness is gone from his voice, replaced by something lighter, and I'm glad for it.
"I don't know," I reply airily. "Euros are like Monopoly money to me anyway. I managed to get the hang of Swiss franc after a while, but only by necessity."
He laughs and presses a quick kiss to my temple.
After a moment of thought, I add, "Is it true that royals never carry money, by the way?"
"Myth," he answers, unperturbed. "I mean, my grandmother never did, but the rest of us do keep cards on ourselves at least, especially when we're home. On official trips, we don't usually bother with foreign currency ourselves though. It's not like we ever have opportunity to just spend an afternoon shopping anyway. It's usually planned to the minute. I remember when I was in Geneva for a conference some years ago and I never saw anything but the inside of my hotel, the inside of a car and the inside of that conference hall."
"Oh, I know you were in Geneva," I nod eagerly. "You ruined Joy's Halloween costume."
There's a moment of silence as Ken processes this. "I did… what?"
Laughing at his confusion, I push myself upwards a little to look at him. "See, it was like this. We were trick or treating, having just collected a piece of eel for our effort, and were just walking down the road, minding our own business, when some official looking cars sped past us and splashed Joy and Dan with water. Ruined both their costumes. She was a kangaroo and he a platypus. We had an Australian animals theme, you see? Jake wanted me to be an emu, but I figured dingo would look cuter."
Once more, Ken just blinks at me in silence for several seconds. "There are about seven different things I need explanations for, the piece of eel being one of them," he finally replies slowly, "but for the time being, won't you explain to me how the ruining of costumes was my fault?"
"Certainly," I agree helpfully. "Dan concluded that it was you and your entourage in those cars. So you, by extension, did the splashing. Joy was so mad!"
"Uh-huh," makes Ken, still looking a little befuddled, "and you only thought to tell me this now, did you? After I agreed to her dinner invitation?"
Eh… whoops?
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Piece of My Heart' (written by Jerry Ragovoy and Bert Berns, released by Big Brother and the Holding Company in 1968).
To AnneShirley:
Glad that you liked Ken and the sisters :). I had lots of fun with that chapter, but also tried very much to give them distinct reactions. It's good to know that it worked!
Yes, I should think George would find the Cats musical and everyone involved with it supremely embarrassing. I mean, all that singing and the ridiculous costumes... it's an affront to cat, that's what! ;)
Oh, and once more, all the best on your exams again! Friday is the big day, isn't it? Which subjects are you taking? (If I may be so bold as to ask.)
Looking forward to more detailed thoughts on this chapter whenever you have the time :).
To the anonymous Guest:
You're very welcome! I'm glad you're enjoying this story and hope you will like what I have in store for all these characters.
