New York City, USA
November 2011

You can have this heart to break

Of course, I don't sleep a wink for the longest of times.

Partly, that's probably because it's still the middle of the day, even though it feels like this day has already gone on for far too long. The bigger part, however, is because my mind is far too jumbled to settle down for something as banal as sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I get flashes of the photographers standing outside Joy's flat or the picture of me on the internet, so in the end, I don't close them anymore. Instead, I just lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and thinking up ever more creative bargaining tools, in hope that some higher power might yet be swayed and make this go away.

No such luck.

Instead, sometime during the afternoon, the hotel phone rings, and when I cautiously pick up, it's the mysterious Melissa on the other end of the line, introducing herself as "junior assistant to the private secretary of the Prince of Wales". It makes my head swim.

She's clearly the chipper type, Melissa is, though she does her best to sound suitably solemn. She even offers some semi-helpful advice about not speaking to anyone I don't share at least a quarter of my genes with, and about setting my social media to private and deleting all pictures that could, potentially, be of interest to anyone digging for dirt. (Shirley already did that, it seems. At least he wrote to tell me that he took down a couple of photos, but that he'd saved them just in case I wanted them back. When all of this is over, I really need to talk to him about boundaries.)

When I ask to speak to Ken, Melissa apologises profusely, but remains adamant that that's currently not possible. When, in turn, she politely but un-subtly starts sniffing around, trying to get me to name people who could potentially talk to the press about me, I cut her off, claiming tiredness. The last thing I need is to be handled by Ken's people. And besides, if information is what they're after, maybe they shouldn't have put the task to the second secretary of the personal assistant, or whatever.

Not that I'm actually tired, of course. Nor is sleep any closer than it was before. So, after another ten minutes staring at the ceiling, I pick up my phone (which is already working overtime as it is) and make the calls I probably should have made hours ago.

Mum lets me rage and cry without once saying "I told you so". Dad is understanding and kind and just the right amount of worried. Joy is already elbow-deep in trying to find out in which court we can sue the lot of them for publishing photos of me without my permission. (In the background, Dan sounds doubtful that such an endeavour could turn out successful, and junior secretary Melissa also advised against any legal steps. She said it would only make them mad at me and that's surely the last thing I want?)

When I put the phone down again after having talked to all three, I feel a little better than before. I'm still shut here in this hotel room, with no idea when it'll be safe enough for me to venture outside again (or, really, what needs to happen for it to be safe enough), but I'm not utterly alone. They might be far away, or otherwise unreachable, but it's a comfort to know that despite the world having spun off its axis, my family remains the same.

It even gives me the strength to work through some of my texts. A lot of them, I just ignore. To concerned and incredulous missives from close friends, I answer by backing up my earlier request not to speak to anyone and promise more information when I have them. A worried Nan, I assure that I'm warm and dry and fed (or, potentially fed – I do suppose The Plaza does room service, should I feel like I could stomach food again?). To Di, enquiring what I intend to do now, I answer that we're working on a strategy, which sounds more in control that I feel and which I reckon she isn't buying for a second.

My brothers, too, have been in touch. Jem, to message 'man, this is crazy!' and Shirley, to ask how attached I am to those pictures from my spring break in Mexico during first year (and to advise that I'd better not let Grandmother Marilla ever see me in that particular bikini, which he probably has a point about). He's also suspiciously cool about all of this, so much so that I can't help asking. Seconds later, a reply pings back to explain that he did some digging after locating me in Ken's apartment all the way back in spring and figured as much. (We really need to speak about boundaries. Privacy, too, come to think of it.)

From Walter, there's a carefully worded little message, expressing surprise and concern and hoping that I am doing alright. When I read it, I can't help sighing. Out of all my brothers, Walter was always the one most likely to be hurt by my silence. Shirley, by the sound of it, considers this entire situation a hacking challenge mastered. Jem wouldn't know a grudge if it bit him on the nose. Walter, however…

Measuring my own words with care, I answer to assure that I'm fine, to apologise for being secretive and to promise that we will speak about all of this soon. Then, feeling suddenly drained of energy again, I toss the phone on the nightstand. The battery is about to give out anyway.

But after having actually talked to people, the silence in the room feels suddenly oppressive, so I do what I always do when I need sound to fill the air and turn on the TV. It's set to some very respectable news channel or another and, not caring particularly what the voices are speaking about, I keep it that way.

Occupy Wall Street, Julian Assange, fighting in Syria, debts in Europe, floods in Thailand, continued power outages all over the Eastern US.

Nothing to make your own problems appear insignificant like five minutes of watching the news, right?

Dispassionately, I watch as the political reports give way to the entertainment section, presented by a very blonde woman in a questionable orange top. Apparently, Lindsay Lohan is going to prison again, which should surprise just about no-one. Such a pity, too. Some of her old films were quite, well, fetch.

In less juicy news, a French man won a French prize for his French novel about French warfare, or something. It sounds like Grandma Bertha might enjoy it.

Yawning, I just consider turning off the TV and trying for sleep again – when suddenly, a jolt goes through me and I sit up straighter.

Because that's my own face staring back at me from the screen.

For several long seconds, I just stare at my apparition, not even registering what the woman in her ghastly orange top is saying. Because surely, that can't be right? Surely, gossipy sites on the internet are one thing, but this is quite another? Surely no respectable news channel would ever think me important enough to report about. Surely this must be a mistake?

As if in slow motion, I watch my hand raise the remote and switch the TV off. Were I a character in a Hollywood movie, I would now throw the remote across the room, right at the screen, but I am not, so I don't.

I'm just me. And this, this is… too much.

Burrowing my face in the pillow, I pull the thick eiderdown over my head, curl myself into a foetal position and proceed not to move at all. Childish, perhaps, but then, nothing I can do has any chance of solving this mess anyway, so I might as well not even try.

And despite everything, I must have fallen asleep at some point, because when I wake up, it's night-time.

For a moment or two, I stare blearily into the darkness, trying to figure out where I am, why I am here and what on earth that pounding noise is. It all comes rushing back just when I realise that the noise is someone knocking on the door. Loudly.

Crawling from the bed, I pad over to the door, but don't dare open it. They said not to speak to anyone, didn't they?

Instead, I tentatively ask "yes?" through the closed door, my hand still hovering undecided over the doorknob.

"Rilla? It's me. Open up, please."

Ken?

Fumbling with the lock, it takes me a moment to get the door opened, but when I do, it's indeed Ken on the other side. He looks absolutely knackered. He's pale, with dark shadows under his eyes and yesterday's stubble on his cheeks. His hair is all rumpled, too, as are his clothes.

Still, I might never have been happier to see him than I am now.

Stepping backwards, I let him into the room. He makes sure that the door is securely locked, before turning and, wordlessly, holding his arms out to me. I curl myself into his embrace, my hands clutching at his pullover.

"What are you doing here?" I murmur against his shoulder.

He laughs, humourlessly. "You didn't seriously think I was going to leave you alone with this mess, were you?"

I thought that, yes. I thought he was busy.

"I would have come sooner, but I had to let people be disappointed in me first. That took a while," Ken adds, his arms tightening around me.

"Why disappointed?" I ask cautiously, angling my face so I can look at him in the dark.

He sighs heavily. "For allowing it to get this far. My father has been pressing for a controlled reveal for a while now. Rightly, too. I just thought we still had time, so I put it off and… now it's too late."

"A controlled reveal?" I repeat, frowning. I'm not sure what he's talking about.

"Nothing official, Heaven forbid! Just a hint dropped to a sympathetic reporter in exchange for a friendly portrayal. That way, we would have kept momentum," Ken explains. "As it is, we can only react. And our press people just love being blindsided." That last of which is said with dripping sarcasm.

"I suppose they also don't love you being here right now?" I ask slowly.

Ken shrugs, a curt movement. "Depends on who you ask. Some think it's best that I get to you before you go renegade. The others think I should have stayed in London and let some underling deal with you."

Because, once again, I'm the liability in this. The problem they're all paid to solve.

"How did you manage to get here this quick?" I wonder. The digital clock on the nightstand says it's just a little shy of midnight and that's not all that much time to cross the Atlantic.

"I called in a favour. It's always quicker with a private plane. And, me being who I am, I get preferential treatment at customs as well," explains Ken, matter-of-factly. "I tried to call, but your phone is switched off and the landline to the room is engaged."

I twist my mouth into a wry smile. "My battery died a while ago and I took the receiver off the phone to block the line." What I don't say is that I did it to prevent another enquiring phone call from under-assistant Melissa. Instead, I remark, "You must be exhausted."

"It's been a long day," Ken admits, sounding weary. "But more importantly, how are you?" He leans backwards slightly, his hands coming up to frame my face, as he studies me in the gloom.

"I don't know," I sigh. "It's surreal. Part of me still thinks I'll wake up tomorrow and it'll all have been a bad dream. I know it's not, but…"

But I would like it to be. Very much so.

Ken shakes his head slightly, his arms slipping to wrap around my waist again. "I'm sorry this is happening the way it is. I should have… handled this better. Prepared you better. I fooled myself into thinking that we could fly under the radar a bit longer, but that's no excuse. I messed up."

Standing up on my tiptoes for a moment, I kiss his cheek. His stubble is rough against my lips. "How did they find out?"

"Who knows?" His voice sounds heavy. "I put Emmett to the task, but we might never know. Could be that someone talked. Could be that someone saw me fly into New York either last month or in September and then started to dig. Could be that our trip to the movies didn't go as unnoticed as we thought it did. There's a number of ways this could have come out."

"But that was two weeks ago," I point out. "Why would they only reveal it now?"

"They covered their bases. Made sure they had a real story on their hands. You can accuse them of a lot, but not of failing to do their research," he explains flatly.

Letting me go, he reaches into his coat pocket and produces a tube-shaped something that, when I finally switch on the light, reveals itself to be a rolled-up magazine of the glossy kind. Holding it out for me to take, Ken adds, "This is the print version to go with that online teaser. Officially, it's only out tomorrow, but Arlene threatened someone to get an advance copy."

From the cover, my own face is staring back at me – again! –, with a smaller picture of Ken at the side. The headline is an attention-grabbing hot pink.

The Royal Mitzi – Prince Ken's Barbie is Canadian!

"What is a Mitzi?" I ask, puzzled. (The bigger part of my brain is still trying to process the fact that someone put me on the cover of a magazine. It defies reason!)

"A Canadian doll. Originally meant to rival Barbie, but discontinued after a short time, decades ago," answers Ken. "Or so I have been told."

I blink. "So, they don't even need me to be called Barbara to do the Barbie puns."

"They never need a reason to do the Barbie puns," sighs Ken, pushing a hand through his hair.

Turning the magazine in my hands, I ask, undecided, "Should I read this?"

"Your decision. It's not earth-shattering. Broadly accurate, but without too many details. They give some general facts about you, but nothing worrying. It's mostly sympathetic, if a little condescending," replies Ken. "What they do have, however, is a picture of you with your niece that I think your sister might like to sue about."

Yes, I bet she will.

Ken rubs his hands over his face. He's clearly as tired as I feel.

"Do you want to sleep?" I reach out to weave our hands together. "There's still a small chance that it might just be a nightmare after all."

I mean to lighten the mood somewhat, but Ken barely raises a smile. Instead, he pulls me over to the bed, sitting down heavily at the edge of it and making me sit next to him. Curling a leg beneath me, I watch him alertly from the side.

"I would love to just go to sleep," Ken answers, raising a hand to lightly brush it against my face. "But first, we have to talk about some things. It's our only way to gain back some agency."

Things?

What kind of things?

As if having heard my silent questions, Ken continues talking, "First of all, I need to know whether you told anyone I don't know about yet."

I shake my head. "No, Grandma Bertha was the last one I told. I meant to talk to my brothers but… yeah. In the end, I didn't. Jem and Shirley appear fine with it, but Walter seems to be a bit put out at me keeping secrets from him."

"He will understand. With a job like his, he knows about the importance of secrets," Ken replies distractedly.

Frowning, I incline my head to the side. "What do you mean?"

But Ken just waves the question aside tiredly. "Not my place. Ask him sometime."

Which answers just about nothing.

I don't get a chance to press though, because Ken is already talking again. "We also need a list of anyone who might have something unfavourable to say about you to the press. Doesn't even have to be anything major. If there's an old classmate out there willing to gripe into the next microphone about how you didn't invite her to your fifteenth birthday party, chances are that someone will pay for that 'exclusive'. Maybe not right away, but certainly once the more interesting information dries up."

Staring at him, I take a deep breath. Then another. Ken, noticing this, turns his head to give me a wry smile. "Sorry. I know it's a pain, but we don't want to be blind-sided again. We can't protect you from what we don't know about and I need to give my communications people something to work with."

Right.

His communications people.

"They also need a list of the men you dated before me," he adds and at least has the decency to look uncomfortable about it.

Three times, I open and close my mouth, not getting out a word.

Ken raises his hands in defence. "Look, I know it's a lot to ask. But the press will definitely sniff them out and will just be delighted to plaster your relationship history all over their front pages. They aren't known to be gentle about it either. That's why we need to get to those exes first and ideally convince them to keep mum."

I press my lips together. It sounds reasonable and I hate that it does. Because this isn't anyone's business but mine. Not the press's, not his communication people's and, really, not even Ken's.

Still, when he offers me a pen and paper, I reluctantly accept and start writing.

Carl Meredith

Alain de la Bruyère

Jorge

Eric Reese

?

Tristan Fairfax

"I'm supposing you don't want the name of every guy I ever went on a failed date with?" I ask, somewhat snippily, when I hand over the slip of paper to Ken.

He shakes his head, his eyes fixed on the names. "Can you tell me more about them?"

I don't really want to.

I do it anyway.

"I told you about Tristan," I begin, pointing to the last name. "He's my friend Seraphina's cousin. Old family. Mayflower connection, I think. He studied at Yale, by virtue of his father's wallet. I met him when Seraphina took us to their Hampton house the summer after first year. We dated for about a year. He's a nice guy. Funny. A bit goofy. He lacks any kind of backbone though. When his mother decided that I wouldn't do, he backed away. Didn't even have the guts to break up with me properly. He just didn't call back so stubbornly that eventually, I ended it. By text."

Skipping up the list all the way to the top, I put my finger on Carl's name next. "Carl and his family live close to our holiday home on PEI. We were best friends all throughout childhood and when we started growing up, everyone commented on what a cute couple we would make. I think that we both got told it often enough that we just ending up… going with it. I truly loved him. In fact, I still do. But I was never in love with him, though I didn't know that then. When we broke up after graduation, I was more scared of having lost a friend than actually heartbroken. We went back to being friends though, thankfully."

With one look at Alain's name, I quickly skip past it and move downwards again. "Eric, I met when he was interning at the law firm Joy works for. I dated him for a good chunk of my first year in New York. He's the exact opposite of Tristan. Hard-working, clever. No money or connection to prop him up. Still, the perfect boyfriend in many ways. But he was already close to graduating and I was only starting out and when he began talking about moving in together and marriage and children, I… I got scared. I baulked. I wasn't ready for that kind of commitment."

"Which gets me to him." My finger taps against the question mark on the list. "My Coyote Ugly moment. I told you. Happened during spring break down in Mexico. I couldn't tell you his name any more than I could tell you how I ended up in his bed. I ran the minute I woke up and never saw him again. Not my best moment. Maybe my worst. I like to think it wouldn't have happened had I been sober, but that's no excuse. It was awful of me. I did tell Eric and it reliably put paid to that relationship. He was kind about it, too, which made it even more horrible."

I dare a short glance in Ken's direction to gauge what he thinks about what was, very certainly, me cheating on my boyfriend with some drunk stranger. His face though, betrays no emotion.

Which leaves me with no excuse to not tackle the most painful part of this.

"Alain…" I begin slowly. "Alain, I was in love with. As fiercely as it was ill-advised. I met him when visiting Paris during my year in Europe. He was… I idolised him. Joy was wary even then, but I thought I had the perfect romance. I went to visit him in Paris almost every weekend and floated on cloud nine during the rest of the week. Until one day I decided to go surprise him and Joy proved to be right. I'll spare you the details, but it turned out that he never saw us as exclusive, or really going anywhere. Just a bit of fun, you know?" I stop to take a breath. "I never broke my heart over any of the others, but Alain certainly did a thorough job of shattering it."

When I look at Ken, I can see a muscle twitch at his jaw. His gaze is fixed on the paper.

Not getting a proper response from him, I turn towards the last name. "I moped around for weeks. Poor Joy put up with it for a while, until she finally snapped and decided I was to take up travelling again. I spent two miserable weekends dragging my feet around Copenhagen and Graz, but the third weekend brought me to Lisbon and to Jorge. He chatted me up at the station and offered me a ride to my hostel on his scooter and, well… I never did end up going to that hostel. Instead, I spent the weekend with him. He showed me the city during the day and we spent the evening with friends of his and… you know. It was just two days, but he made me laugh again after the Alain fiasco. On Sunday, he took me back to the station and I never heard from him again."

Turning towards Ken, I find that, strangely, it is this last reveal that finally draws a reaction from him. "You just went home with a stranger in a foreign country?" There's a deep frown etched between his brows and his voice sounds… almost disapproving.

Still, the last thing I want is to fight, so I take a deep breath and try for calm. "It was fine. I mean, I suppose it was a bit reckless, but it turned out fine. Jorge was lovely and he really helped me take that first step towards getting over Alain."

"But you do realise that that was probably his MO? Pick up young female tourists at the station and take them home to –" He breaks off, moving his hand to the side abruptly.

"So what?" I ask with a shrug, trying to keep my annoyance out of my voice. "We both knew it was never going to extend past that one weekend. He never promised me anything but a good time and I didn't want anything else from him. We were both on the same page about it. Even if he did it with others… where's the harm?"

"Where's the harm?" repeats Ken, incredulous. "Do you really need me to explain that to you?"

It's meant as a rhetorical question, but I take a moment to think over my answer anyway, watching him as I do. He looks all tense. High-strung. Impossibly tired.

But that just makes two of us. It's no excuse.

"No, I'm not interested in your explanation," I reply, intoning my words carefully. "In fact, what I really need is for you to leave."

Abruptly, he raises his head. "What…?"

I cut across him. "No. I'm not listening to this. You don't get to come here, make me talk about things I don't want to talk about, only to start judging me. It doesn't work that way."

"Rilla…" He reaches out a hand towards me, but I draw back, getting up from the bed.

"I'm not discussing this right now. We're both tired. It's been a long day, it's no use." A beat. "Can you get a room here?"

He nods curtly, pressing his lips together.

"Good. Go there. Sleep. We can speak tomorrow." I have no idea where my sudden firmness is coming from, but it might just be because I'm done with it all. I just don't have any patience left.

For a long moment, Ken looks at me, but whatever he sees seems to dissuade him from arguing. He gets up from the bed and it's only when he's at the door that he pauses again, looking like he might speak.

"Tomorrow," I remind him.

A moment, before he sighs, nods, turns to leave the room.

I remain sitting on the bed, staring at the door, and wait for something, anything to happen. But not even tears will come. It's like I'm all out of feelings. Out of strength to feel them, anyway.

Instead, I just sit there. And I sit there still when, after half an hour or even more, there's yet another knock. A second later, I can see something being pushed in under the door. Then, the sound of footsteps walking away down the hall.

Slowly, I get up from the bed and walk over to the door. Two envelopes lie on the carpet. Both have Ken's writing on them.

I'm sorry, says the first.

I'm really sorry, says the second.

When I gingerly open the first envelope, small pieces of paper flutter out of it and land on the carpet. It takes me a moment to realise that it's the list I made, ripped to shreds.

The second envelope contains another list. This one is intact, and its written in Ken's hand.

It's a list of women's names. Longer than mine, but shorter than those gossip rags would like to have their readers believe. I recognise some of them, either because they got reported as his girlfriends or because they're known in their own right, be it through acting or modelling or It-girling. Several have hyphenated last names, some titles to boot. There's even a Scandinavian princess on there.

This is him evening the scales, I realise.

And I know that I could go over to his room and ask him to tell me about every last woman on the list. And, someday, I will. But for now, it's raw enough as it is. Nothing to be gained by picking at fresh scabs.

Instead, I rummage in my bag for my charger, connect my phone and wait for a few seconds before I can switch it on again. It immediately starts beeping, even more calls and messages from this evening, but I don't take any notice of them yet. Selecting Ken's number, I start typing.

It's alright. I'm not mad. Not very, anyway. I think I want to be on my own tonight though.

His reply comes so fast that he must have been sitting right next to the phone.

I understand. I'm sorry. For all of it. I love you.

And for a moment, my fingers hover above the phone, but then I type it anyway.

I love you, too.

Because let us be honest – if I didn't love him, I would already be running. Fast.


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'And So it Goes' (written by Billy Joel, released by him in 1989).


To wow:
Yup, Ken messed up. Both in the last chapter and in this one. No-one knew Rilla was being tailed by paparazzi, so he had no advance knowledge that this would drop when it did, but regardless, he definitely should have prepared her better. That he didn't was a mistake and it's entirely on him.
And in comparison, Brian suddenly seems like the hero, doesn't he? ;) Awkward and bumbling, but he's the most heroic one in that chapter for sure! Though Shirley also acts sensibly, so we can award kudos to him as well.
You might be pleased to know that Gilbert isn't harassed at work, nor is anyone else but Rilla. She is where the story is, and while the reporters will find her family, they're all on her trail for the time being. Her family is just calling to check whether she's alright, not because they themselves are hunted by paparazzi.
Your comment also made me think some more about what Rilla owes her family. It's an interesting thought experiment. Does she owe it to Jem, to whom she isn't all that close, to tell him details about her love life when Jem never would have (and never did) tell her the same about his? Does she owe it to Anne or Bertha to act like they want her to, even though she didn't really ask for their advice in the first place? I actually don't think she does, to be honest. She listens to them, she talks to them, she makes sure they don't have to worry about her too much (she texts her family immediately when she has a quiet moment and calls her parents and Joy within three hours of learning about the reveal) - but she is still her own person and makes her own decisions. I don't think she is obligated to take their opinions on board or act the way they expect her to, even if, objectively speaking, they might be right. She has a right to make her own mistakes, doesn't she? I mean, I appreciate that some might see this differently and I truly respect that, but in my opinion, at this point, I don't think she owes her family much more than she already gives them.