New York City, USA
November 2011
And there's nothing you can do
At the front of the class, Professor Hale stops talking for a moment to look for something in her bag, and I gratefully drop my pen and flex my aching fingers. The woman talks a mile a minute!
I'm friendless today, because Meghan has been formally excused for reasons that are related to her sport and Chelsea chose a financial-heavy elective over this course on behavioural economics. Thus, I let my gaze drift through the room instead, catching the eye of a girl called Christine (or was it Christina?). I give her a polite half-smile, but she quickly lowers her head and stares into her book. Weird.
Shrugging, I turn to look to my left, where I see two other girls bent over a phone, obviously engaged in a heated, if whispered, discussion. What's betting it's about a man?
Professor Hale, having found what she was looking for, starts talking again and I take up my pen once more, poised to put her words to paper. It's hard work too, copying it all down, so I stay well-occupied for the rest of the lesson. It's only when Professor Hale finally stops and dismisses us until next week, that I can put my pen down again, stretching my arms backwards and rolling my shoulders against the tension.
When I draw my arms forwards again, my gaze once more finds Christina-Christine, who is back to looking at me as well. When she sees me noticing, she blushes and turns away. Which is really weird, because I don't think we ever spoke more than three sentences.
Some people are just strange, I guess.
Stuffing my notes into my bag, I fish out my phone instead. I shoulder the bag and start walking, pressing a button to make the phone come alive.
4 missed calls
Huh?
They're all from Ken. And there's a message, too.
Call me as soon as you see this. -K
Talk about weird.
Leaving the room, I quickly make my way along the hall, until I reach a smaller side corridor where I might have some semblance of privacy. I just mean to call Ken back, when the phone rings of its own accord. My fingers hurry to accept, so much so that it's only after I've taken the call that I realise this is in fact Jem, not Ken calling.
"Hey there," greets Jem as I raise the phone to my ear.
"Hey Jem," I reply quickly. "Look, it's nice of you to call, but I'm kind of busy right now, so could we just chat later?"
I'm all poised to cut the call, expecting Jem to agree easily (because, let's be honest, Jem has never called me about anything vital before), but instead, he hesitates. "Uh… this is kind of important. I'm not sure it can wait."
Taking a deep breath, I try to squash my irritation. "Make it quick, yes?"
"Sure," he answers, but then doesn't say anything else. Pushing the straps of my bag higher up my shoulders, I sigh impatiently, not much caring that Jem can certainly hear it.
It does seem to propel him to speak at the very least. "Um, look, Faith has this colleague. Her name's Leigh. They're working on the same ward."
And this concerns me how?
"Jem, I'm sure this is all absolutely riveting, but couldn't we talk about it some other time?" I interject, hoping that I might get him to stop.
He, however, is having none of it. "No, please," he calls out hurriedly. "I'm… this is heading somewhere, I promise."
Could have fooled me.
(It's weird, too. Jem isn't usually this…confused. On the contrary, actually. Normally, he gets straight to the point, even in situations where he should have held back.)
He waits for a moment, but when I don't reply, Jem finally continues, "Right. So, Leigh knows that Faith and I are together. She knows my name as well. I mean, she would. We're all three of us working in the same hospital after all."
I roll my eyes at no-one in particular and press my lips together to keep from saying something that might be taken to sound unkind.
"Faith and Leigh just had a short coffee break a couple of minutes ago," Jem adds, "and that's when she showed it to her. On her phone, I mean. She recognised the name, right? So, you know, I am just wondering whether it's correct."
Whether what is correct?
Breathing deeply, I clamour for patience. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Uh, about what's on the internet," is his answer, which doesn't really answer anything at all.
(Seriously, everyone seems to be acting out of sorts today. Has the entire world gone mad?)
"If there's stuff about Faith on the internet, why don't you go and ask her instead of bothering me?" I suggest, trying to infuse my voice with the pretence of helpfulness.
"Ah, well…" begins Jem and clears his throat, but then trails off without volunteering any more information.
I'm just about to tell him that I'm going to hang up, no matter what he says, when there's a kerfuffle on the other end of the line.
"You're making a mess of this, Jem," comes Faith's faint voice. "Here, let me do the talking."
A rustle as he hands over the phone to her and a second later, it's Faith I'm speaking to.
"Rilla?" she asks. "Are you still there?"
"Yes. Still," I retort, a sliver annoyed, but I should have known that this wouldn't deter Faith, as it did, indeed, not deter Jem. They've got that in common.
At least I have more hope of Faith getting to the point of this. And yes – she very much does. "There's an article on the internet. About you. They say you're dating Prince Ken. They've got pictures of you and everything. Your full name, too."
And just like that, I feel as if the floor has been ripped from under me.
Reaching blindly behind me, I lean against the wall for support. My heart is beating at top speed and my breath is coming out too fast. I might be hyperventilating.
"Rilla?" Faith's voice again, sounding concerned. "Say something."
But when I try to speak, there's just a strangled sound coming out.
Because suddenly, it all makes sense. Christina-Christine being unwilling to look at me. Those other two girls debating something on the phone. Ken phoning repeatedly and insisting I call back immediately. Jem stuttering such nonsense.
They all knew. And in truth, they didn't act weird at all.
The world might still be about to go mad though.
"Rilla?" Jem again. His voice sounds a little off, making me realise that one of them must have put me on speakerphone.
"Yes?" I croak back.
A beat. "Is it… um, true?"
"Uh-huh," I manage. There's much more I want to say, so much, but I seem to be unable to get my voice under control. At least my breath comes out a little slower.
There's a moment of silence as they process it. "Wow," Faith finally breathes. "That's crazy."
Tell me about it.
"Any particular reason you didn't tell anyone?" wonders Jem. He doesn't say it accusingly, which, in some distant part of my brain, makes me feel relieved.
Clearing my throat, I find that my voice is cooperating again, though it sounds curiously hollow. "I told some people. I meant to tell you as well, but…"
But I didn't want any more people weighing in on my oh so complicated relationship. Plain and simple. Between Mum and Grandma Bertha and assorted sisters, I got quite sick of everyone having an opinion – and not being shy about voicing it either. I mean, I was all set to gather my brothers together and tell them, back when we were in Ingleside in August, but then I just… didn't.
"I meant to tell you over Christmas," I add as an afterthought. (It's true, too. I did totally mean to do that.) "Walter and Shirley, too."
"So, I'm not the only one out of the loop," Jem deduces.
"And even if you had been, you'd have gotten over it," Faith declares decidedly. "She doesn't have to tell you anything, okay?"
"Okay, okay," mutters Jem. I'm absolutely sure he's rolling his eyes and reasonably sure that he's grinning at the same time.
Faith clucks her tongue. "Good. Now, Rilla – what are you going to do?"
Good question.
What am I going to do?
"I… Well…" I stutter. "I just meant to call him, actually. Before you called me."
"Sounds reasonable," decrees Faith. "But you must tell us when there's anything we can do. Right, Jem?"
A rustle, as she no doubt either prods or elbows him into action, before Jem hurriedly assures, "Sure, yeah. Anything we can do to help,"
"Thanks," I murmur, meaning it. I don't think there's anything they can do, but I appreciate the offer.
"Just one thing before you hang up," Jem quickly adds. "What do we do if someone asks us about it?"
How am I supposed to know?
"We'll pretend ignorance, of course," declares Faith matter-of-factly. "And we'll do it until there's some form of protocol in place."
Yes. Yes, that sounds very sensible.
Jem makes a grumbling sound. "So, if someone with a TV camera asks me, I just have to pretend to know nothing? These could be my five minutes of fame you're depriving me of, Faith!"
I blink. I mean… I'm sure glad someone is able to joke about this?
Faith heaves a long-suffering sound. "You'll live," she decides. "And now we'll let Rilla go so she can figure out how to deal with this. Alright, Rilla?"
Nothing about this is alright. In fact, it's probably as far from alright as it could possibly be. And yet, I nod slightly, never mind that they can't see it. "Alright," I whisper, my voice catching in my throat.
Cutting the call, I let my head drop against the wall behind me, closing my eyes and trying to process what I just heard. I know it's enormous – it feels enormous – but it's also… surreal. Like, why would anyone be interested in putting pictures of me on the internet? And why would people want to look at them?
Something, I know, has irrevocably changed. It's just that I have no idea what that means and it scares me.
With a sigh, I open my eyes again – and look directly at Brian Kovac.
He's standing maybe a meter away from me, watching me with what can only be called an unsure expression.
"Brian," I greet him wearily.
"Hello," he replies quickly.
I wait for him to continue and say whatever he's got to say, but he falls silent, merely standing there and moving his weight from one foot to the other. He looks utterly uncomfortable.
"Yes? Can I help you with anything?" I finally prompt. I don't have time for this.
"Actually… I just talked to Harriet and she says that there's something on the internet about you. They're saying…" Brian trails off, blinking rapidly.
Sweet Jesus, how big is this thing?
"Harriet appears to be right," I answer resignedly. (Harriet is the girlfriend he acquired sometime last spring, after I gently told him to go looking for one somewhere else, because I wasn't auditioning for the role and never would be. She's a year or two below us and seems to be rather sweet.)
Brian nods, lacing his finger together and unlacing them again. "And what –," he begins.
I don't let him finish though. "Look, Brian," I interrupt, "I appreciate your… concern, or whatever this is, but I really don't want to talk about it, so… could we just not?"
He swallows visibly. "Of course. I'm sorry. I know it's private. It's just…" Once more, he does not finish his sentence.
"Just what, Brian?" Between him and Jem, my patience is worn thin and I'm afraid it shows in the tone of my voice.
Brian takes a careful step back, but still doesn't leave. "Ah, it's just… there are reporters out in front of the building. I think, well… they are probably looking for you. I wanted to let you know."
Reporters?
Here?
But… why? How?
There's a peculiar feeling rising within me that I belatedly recognise as panic. Because if there are reporters camping out there that means I am… trapped.
My breath, I realise distractedly, is coming out in shallow gasps. The hand still clutching the phone has started to shake.
"Rilla?" asks Brian. He looks almost fearful now.
I couldn't have answered, even if there had been anything I wanted to say.
Brian, however, quickly continues talking. "I don't know if you know it, but I'm working for Professor Grey this semester. I have a key to the staff entrance in the back. When I checked some minutes ago, there was no-one waiting there. I could show you the way?"
Not trusting my voice, I merely nod, but within me, I feel a wave of gratefulness towards Brian. Awkward, bumbling Brian Kovac. Who knew he was also kind?
With a weird little smile, Brian waves for me to follow him. I keep my head down and walk after him as he leads me along several corridors, thankfully running into just a smattering of people. When Brian finally holds open a door for me, the street behind it is, indeed, deserted.
I breathe a silent sigh of relief. "Thanks, Brian. I owe you."
"Not at all," he hurries to assure me. Then, after an awkward second of silence, "What are you going to do now?"
"Go home," I shrug. "Call K- I mean, make some calls."
Brian shifts his weight uneasily. "Is it… I mean, is it a good idea to go home? If they know that you study here and know your name, wouldn't they also know…"
Where I live.
Of course.
A shiver runs through my body and I wrap my arms around myself. I feel cold and it's got nothing to do with the sub-zero temperatures we've been enjoying for some days now.
"Yeah," I mutter through a constricted throat. "Probably. I'll find somewhere else to go then."
For a moment, I think he's going to ask where I intend to go, but he swallows the question. Instead, he holds out a hand for me to shake. "Good luck."
Chances are, I'll need it.
Having taken my leave of Brian, I quickly start walking along the street, turning to look behind me at intervals. Thankfully, there's no-one there, but even so, I don't even stop when I ring Ken, just pressing the phone to my ear as I walk.
The call goes straight to voicemail.
Forced to a halt by the red little guy on the traffic light, I slowly lower the phone again. Around me, the city hustles and bustles, back to its normal self after the nasty winter storm we had some days ago, but I suddenly feel strangely… lost. I can't go back. I can't go home. There's nowhere I can go, except for –
Joy!
Of course! Joy and Dan's place isn't far from here. I have a key. It's perfect!
With new-found vigour, I start walking again, stepping over unseasonal snow mounts, dodging around people on the sidewalk and generally trusting in the fact that the busy-ness of New York will be enough to hide me yet. I mean, not all of these people follow weird gossip sites on the internet, do they?
It's just a ten minute walk from university to Joy's place and today, it's even quicker. Turning into her street, I reach into my bag for my keys. It takes me a moment to locate them and I come to a halt, the better to search the bag. When my fingertips finally find metal, I pull them out triumphantly, raise my head – and that's when I see them.
There's two of them. Two men, standing on the other side of the street, looking supremely bored. Two men holding cameras. The professional kind, that are big enough to smash somebody's head in.
After a moment of panic, I quickly walk backwards around the corner, praying to whatever deity still looks favourably upon me that they did not see me. That I might remain undetected yet.
In my hurry to get away, I almost stumble over my own feet, only just managing to maintain my balance. An elderly man stops to look at me, asking if I'm alright, but I ignore him. I just want to get away.
But where to? My head's a jumble, but I know there's no place I can go. If they found Joy's home, who knows where else they're liable to turn up? These men with their cameras who are trying to grab a piece of my life without ever asking my permission!
Blindly, I hurry onwards, not knowing or caring where I'm going. It's not like it matters anyway. I'm out here on my own and where's Ken when I need him?
Once more, I try his phone. It rings, but no-one picks up.
And so, I keep walking. Just onwards, head bowed, not looking at anything but my feet. All around me, life continues as normal, when in fact, nothing is normal anymore. It feels… all wrong. Like some kind of nightmare that I can't seem to wake up from. I never knew what people meant by an 'out of body-experience', but now I suppose this is what it feels like. Just because a part of my brain knows that this is true, all of it, doesn't mean it feels real. Because surely, this can't be happening? Not to me?
My phone, still tightly clutched in my hand, rings and beeps intermittently, an array of family and friends trying to reach me, but I don't pick up. I am, desperately, waiting for Ken to call back, hoping against hope that he might be able to put this right again.
(What, I wonder, are my chances that this is all just a big misunderstanding?)
I have no idea how long I've walked when his name finally pops up on my screen. I stopped feeling my feet a while ago, but I reckon that if I could still feel them, they'd be burning.
"Rilla? Thank God," breathes Ken when I pick up.
"I tried to call you! For ages! You didn't pick up!" I accuse, my voice cracking. "You didn't pick up!"
"Sorry. Crisis meeting," he replies, sounding somewhat distracted. "Look, Rilla, I –"
"There are reporters!" I interrupt him. "At college. Outside Joy's flat. Probably outside mine as well. They don't get to be outside my apartment! It's my home. They have no right! They have no right to do this!"
In some distant part of my brain, it registers that I'm crying.
"Rilla. Rilla, love, breathe. Just breathe for a moment, alright?" He's trying to soothe me, I know. But I don't want to be soothed. I don't want to breathe either. I want this to go away and I want to go home.
Not waiting for a reply, Ken continues, "Can you tell me where you are?"
Where I am? Slowly, I raise my head and look around. At first glance, there's nothing to help me identify my location, but as my gaze follows the street into the distance, I see some greenery not too far off.
"Near Central Park. I think." Have I really walked this far?
"Good. That's good," answers Ken.
I want to ask what's good about this, because I have no business being here, but before I can form my thoughts into coherent sentences, he's already talking again. "Melissa is booking you a room at The Plaza. Go there. Stay there."
Who is Melissa?
"Rilla? Can you do that?" There's concern in his voice, I notice. I don't know what to do about it though.
"I think so," I hiccup. When I wipe a hand over my face, my fingers come away covered in black mascara smudges.
"Good. Great. Look, I must hang up now, but I will call you back when I can. Someone from my office might be in touch before that, but don't talk to anyone else, alright?" Ken asks. "And let your family know not to talk to anyone either. Your friends, too. The press will sniff them out. Best if no-one says anything at all, even if it's well-meant. It just gives them ammunition they can spin to suit their purpose."
Ammunition? But this isn't a war!
Or is it?
"Ken?" My voice is strangely small. "Can you make this stop? Make it go away?"
For a long moment, there's just silence on his end, before he sighs heavily. "I can't. No-one can. Not anymore," he answers wearily.
Because now, they know my name.
A sob escapes my throat as fresh tears run down my already heated face. (I must look a right mess.)
"Rilla, sweetheart… God, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I love you. I'm sorry this is happening to you." He sounds stricken and I know he's sincere. But it doesn't change anything, does it? Him being sorry, even him loving me… it doesn't change a thing.
He's as powerless as I am.
How I manage to find my way to The Plaza in my state, I will never know, but when I stumble into the lobby, it's an oasis of calm. Warmth, too. I've never been here and normally, I'd stop to marvel, but nothing is normal right now. And yet, if the young man at the lobby thinks that there's anything out of the ordinary with me, he doesn't show it. Instead, he produces my booking – whoever Melissa is, she did as promised – and acts quite as if messy women with splotched faces stumbling into the hotel were an everyday occurrence. So, too, does the other young man accompanying me upstairs, his face never once betraying any kind of surprise – or disgust – at my state.
When I step into my room and close the door behind me, I feel as exhausted as I've ever been, even though it's only just past noon.
The room itself is an inoffensive mixture of whites and golds and beiges, the furniture being vaguely French in what might be the style of Louis quinze or Louis quatorze or whichever Louis preferred these fancy type of chairs.
I don't think I've ever felt as out of place anywhere as I do here. (I want to go home!)
It's eerily silent in the room. I'm so far up that even the street noise is just a faint buzzing in the distance. And suddenly, I have to suppress the urge to call back the bellhop (do they still call them that?) with some request or another, just because I can't stand the silence.
Not that I do it, of course. Instead, I slowly walk over to the King-sized bed at the other end of the room and, after a moment's hesitation, gingerly sit down on the edge of it. Letting my bag slide from my shoulder, I drop it by my feet, the sound barely registering on the thick carpet.
Through it all, I have kept my phone in my hand. What I'm waiting for, I don't quite know, but when it rings and Dad's work number shows up, I realise that I don't have the strength to talk to any of them. I don't have the strength for all those questions I have no answers to.
After some seconds, the ringing stops and Dad's call joins the ranks of all those other calls I didn't answer today. It wasn't his first, either, as I notice when I slowly start scrolling through the list. They all called, with varying frequency, Mum the most often.
There are texts, too, from my family, my friends and even people I didn't even know had my number. Some are disbelieving, many are curious and the messages from those close to me are, increasingly, worried. What stands out from the melee is a text from Shirley, informing me that he took the liberty to set all my social media accounts to private and that he hopes I don't mind. (I should. Mind, I mean. He can't just hack all my accounts, even if it's well-meant. He's crossing about eight different boundaries, doing that. But the thing is, I'm too tired to mind. And I guess I'm just relieved not to have to take care of it on top of everything else.)
Remembering what Ken said, I slowly compose a message to tell that I'm alright, that I will be in touch and please not to speak to anyone and send it to all those who I think might truly care. To my parents and Joy, I send an additional text to inform them where I am and promising to call soon. (Though how soon that will be, I can't really tell.)
Having sent all my messages, I stare at the home screen of my phone for several long seconds. Then, I watch as my fingers, of their own accord, open the browser and type my name into the search bar. (Shirley always chides me about using google because of how much data they collect. I have no idea why I'm remembering this just now.)
I've googled myself before, of course. It's just never it never turned up anything interesting. Just my Facebook page, some ancient report about a school play I was in and a years-old results list of a local 'best turned out pony' competition in which I won a white ribbon. So far, so utterly normal.
Now though, the first entry has been replaced by a link to the website of some magazine or another. When I click on it gingerly, it loads a site with a picture of me, just walking along the street. They must have photographed me when I went home from the Subway one day. And I never noticed a thing.
Above the photo, the headline screams at me in bold letters.
Ken's Cinderilla – Does the royal shoe fit?
I swallow heavily. I'm feeling faintly sick.
Cinderilla was our joke. The one that goes all the way back to when we first met. They don't get to take that as well, do they? They shouldn't be allowed to take it as well!
With a frustrated sigh, I fling the phone on the bedside table and I let myself drop backwards, into the downy pillows. Staring at the ceiling, I try to arrange my thoughts into something resembling order, but it's no use. It's all jumbled. Nothing is as it's supposed to be anymore.
There's no answer written on the ceiling either and I let my eyes drop shut. If I just fall asleep now, couldn't some benevolent power intervene so that I might wake up in my own bed tomorrow and everything will be back to how it was?
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Road to Hell' (written by Chris Rea, released by him in 1989).
To Aoggfan:
Rilla certainly seconds you about missing Ken ;). He should be making appearances, even if just remotely by phone or chat, in most of the upcoming chapters though. He might not always be adorable about it, but... well, it would be boring if it was always adorable, right?
To AnneShirley:
I wouldn't over-interpret the inclusion of Roman Holiday :). If Ken orchestrated the showing of it (and it's not even certain that he did), he meant it as a light-hearted joke, not as a form of subliminal messaging. In fact, if there was any foreshadowing in the last chapter, it was the song they listened to, much more than the movie they saw. I mean, not that's it's all hellish, but some of what the press is going to throw at Rilla from now on might, at times, make it appear like she's stuck in her personal form of hell.
Rilla's studying definitely has shades of the green hat! She'll never be academic or overly interested in her studies, but she's just stubborn and tenacious enough that it should pull her through. Plus, it distracts her from the lack of Ken in her immediate surroundings, which, as you said, makes her life feel off kilter in a way it's not supposed to.
Shirley and his Torty wrote themselves in there of their own accord ;). But even Shirley wasn't always brilliant, as Rilla helpfully points out, and he was never overtly interested in flora or fauna to begin with. That was Carl's metier in their youth (and, let's be honest, still is). So while Jake would definitely be disappointed, we might be so kind as to overlook this gap in four-year-old Shirley's knowledge. (And in case you wondered whether the hiding of the favourite stuffed animal was a move I pulled on my sister back in the day... yes, I totally did that. With gusto.)
I'll see what I can do about lyric requests :). And have fun with Audrey!
