Oxford, England
October 2012

The dust of rumors covers me

I have just finished applying mascara when I hear my phone ring. Dropping the little tube into the sink, I hurry over into the bedroom, where I spot the phone lying on the window sill.

Caller ID tells me it's Mum. With flying fingers, I disconnect the charging cable and press to accept the call. "Mum? Is everything okay?"

"Of course it is," comes her cheerful answer. "Why would it not be?"

"Because it's the middle of the night for you!" I reply, incredulous.

"A little after three AM, yes," confirms Mum, sounding unperturbed.

I feel my heart slowing down again. At least there really doesn't seem to be anything wrong.

"It still begs the question why you're calling at three in the morning," I remark as I walk back into the bathroom.

"Your father had to go in for an emergency operation and I couldn't fall back asleep. So, I thought I'd call my wayward child," answers Mum, still with the good mood.

"I'm hardly wayward," I protest. "I am just in England."

"But you are awake, which made you a prime candidate for calling," she points out and I guess she isn't wrong about that.

Without waiting for me to react, she immediately adds, "Are you still enjoying England? Are classes fun?"

I can see my grimace in the mirror above the sink, but manage to keep my voice light. "England is pretty. Classes are fine."

"Made any friends yet?" comes the next enquiry.

Mirror Me rolls her eyes. "I'm not ten anymore, Mum. You don't need to worry that no children will play with me in the schoolyard."

"True," she agrees. "Not that I ever had to worry much about you in that respect. Di was the one with an unfortunate penchant for picking exactly the wrong girls as friends."

She was. How she didn't see through some of those girls, I will never know. They were positively awful!

"And Shirley was the one who got pushed around the most," I add.

After all, I should know. I had more than one 'talk' with some of those classmates of his. I may or may not have threatened to start the odd little rumour to get them to leave him alone. In my defence though, I could hardly have beaten them up, which is what Jem apparently did once to great effect when some boy in primary school bullied Walter. It got Jem grounded for a month, but according to Joy, the other boys left Walter alone after that.

Mum sighs. "He was." She hesitates for a moment, before continuing, "I'm not sure how his studies are going. He's not exactly forthcoming with information."

"That's Shirley for you. I'm sure he's doing fine," I try to assure her. "It's not like those computer geeks have anything to pick on him for."

Putting Mum on speakerphone, I balance the phone on the side of the sink and pick up a brush instead. Pulling it through my hair, I consider myself in the mirror, trying to decide how to style it for today.

"No, you're probably right," agrees Mum, but she does it with another sigh. "You're truly alright though?"

My reflection smiles at this. She might like to pretend to be a Cool Mum, but deep down, our mother worries quite a bit about our happiness. "I'm fine," I promise. "In fact, I had some classmates over just Tuesday, so I appear to me making friends."

"Excellent!" exclaims Mum and seems to mean it. "Is everything good with Ken as well?"

"Everything's great with Ken," I confirm. "I wasn't sure how well we'd settle into living together after being apart for so long, but it's going even better than expected. And we just passed the two year mark, which officially makes this the longest relationship I ever had!"

"That's what I wanted to hear." There's a softness to Mum's voice that is proof of her genuine relief. "Is Ken well? How is he enjoying his lectures?"

My hair whipped up in a simple ponytail, I pick up my phone again and take Mum off speakerphone as I leave the bathroom. "Why don't you ask him yourself? He's downstairs, hopefully preparing breakfast."

My stomach rumbles in agreement.

"A full English breakfast? My, how very British of you. They'll have you drinking Earl Grey in no time!" teases Mum.

"Definitely not a full English breakfast," I correct as I walk down the stairs. "I like my arteries transporting blood, not be clogged up by the time I'm thirty, ta very much!"

"Very health-conscious of you," replies Mum, still clearly amused.

"I will have you know that I live very healthily," I inform her. "I ride the bike! Daily!"

Mum laughs. "Consider me shocked!"

"I don't see why you would be," I argue, grinning to myself. "Out of us girls, I was always the best at sports back in school. Nan only did her dancing and I don't think Di ever voluntarily did anything sports-related at all."

I, meanwhile, did track and field in middle school, until it got entirely too sweaty, then played tennis until graduation. It's been a while, but I served a mean topspin back in the day.

"That's true," acknowledges Mum. "Though Joy was the best swimmer."

I wrinkle my nose. "Eh, chlorine. Does awful things to your hair."

"True as well," laughs Mum. "I heard it's been known to turn hair green."

Heard, huh?

Having reached the kitchen by now, I see Ken sitting at the dining table, his customary morning papers spread around him. When he hears me entering, he looks up.

I toss him the phone. "My mother for you."

"Good morning, Anne," he greets her. "I'm surprised you're already up."

A moment passes as Mum, no doubt, fills him in on what awoke her in the middle of the night. "I hope everything goes well," Ken finally remarks. (It takes me a second, but I think he means Dad's emergency operation.)

Very carefully, I go about trying to convince the coffee machine to supply me with caffeine, softly muttering placating words as I press the necessary buttons. It seems to be in a mellow mood this morning, because it only beeps angrily at me once before producing a perfectly acceptable cup of coffee.

Behind me, Ken is still being subjected to Mum's typical questioning, which Walter once likened to the Spanish Inquisition – with good reason.

"…a new course, so some things can be a bit chaotic," he's currently saying. "Today is the last day of a two-week introductory phase that had us do mostly case study discussions and team-building exercises, so it's a lot different from your usual course curriculum."

Cup of coffee in hand, I turn towards him, leaning back against the kitchen counter. He's perfectly amiable about Mum's questioning, but as I look closer, there's a fine line between his brows that wasn't there when he got up just a short hour ago.

"The other students are a very heterogeneous group, which means the discussions are varied," he continues. "Most of them are in their late twenties or thirties and held jobs after getting their BAs. There are some interesting people among them."

"It also means you aren't stuck between lots of little graduates still wet behind the ears," I point out over my coffee cup.

Ken raises his eyes to give me a brief smile, but there's still that line between his brows and a tension around his mouth that belie his attempts at pretending it's just a normal morning. Something has clearly happened.

Pushing off from the counter, I walk over to sit next to him, leaning forward to get a look at the newspapers. Quickly, Ken raises a hand, as if to pull the papers out of my sight but then, sighing, lowers it again.

"Anne? Can we call you back?" he asks. After a moment of listening, "No, nothing's wrong. I promise. It's perfectly fine. We'll just call you back later, alright?"

I'm vaguely aware of him wishing Mum a good night and cutting the call, but my eyes are already glued to the topmost paper.

'Barbie's Dream House', screams the headline. Below it is a full-size picture of our living room. A tad blurry, maybe, but unmistakable. Mrs Lynde's quilt is front and centre on one of the sofas.

I feel faintly sick.

Reaching out, I pull the paper closer to me, still unable to take my eyes off it. Below the living room, there are pictures of the kitchen, the dining area, the reception room and even the hall. Our entire ground floor, photographed and splashed over the front page of The Daily Mail.

And there's no question who did it.

"I showed Holly the guest bathroom upstairs," I murmur, staring down at the pictures. "The others must have taken pictures while I was gone. I didn't realise…"

Ken covers my hand with his own. "It's okay. It's not your fault."

"But… but shouldn't I have… seen through them or something?" I protest weakly. "Shouldn't I have known?"

"How could you have known?" he asks quietly. "It's not like people run around with a sign saying 'traitor' on their foreheads."

I raise my shoulders, finally looking up at him. "But… I should have… I ought to have…"

"At some point when you meet someone, you have to decide to put your trust in them. Some of them will betray that trust," Ken points out gently. "It's happened to all of us. I just wish it hadn't happened to you so soon."

"Has it happened to you?" I ask, though quite how that would make it better, I don't know.

He nods. "Sure. I once had a fling with a woman who then proceeded to sell her entire story to The Sun in maddening detail." He grimaces. "Let's just say no-one at the palace was pleased with me."

"And now they're displeased with me?" The hard knot in my stomach winds itself even tighter.

"No! No, absolutely not!" Ken is quick to assure me. When I lower my head, he slides two fingers under my chin to tip it up again. "Compared to that Sun story, this is nothing. Do you hear me?"

I'm not so sure about that. Beneath the pictures and some accompanying text about us living in Oxford together, there's a coloured box headlined 'Where have all our taxes gone?' Just the first two lines in it make it clear that they're accusing me of greedily spending taxpayer money on what they call out 'illicit love nest'.

"Who paid for our furniture?" I ask Ken, tapping a finger against the paper. Weirdly, I've never thought to ask before.

"I did. Privately. We will make sure to let them know." There's something grim about the way he says it and I hope it's directed at the papers and not at me.

Nervously, I gnaw on my lower lip. "Do I need to… I don't know… repay you? I never asked before. I don't know why. I should have. I shouldn't just have accepted all this without asking."

Ken shakes his head decidedly. "Don't even think about it. I insisted on the big house after all, so it's only fair that I pay to get it furnished."

I don't think that's right, to be honest, but he sounds sure of it and I don't have it in me to argue the point. I'd much rather just believe him.

Wringing my hands, I turn my eyes back towards the paper. "Is there more?" Somehow, I have a feeling that there is.

And yes. There is.

Ken hesitates, but then, with a sigh, he turns a crinkling page, revealing two additional articles. One has a picture of the two of us on his motorbike and the words 'Mayhem Caused by Motorcycle Menace', with a smaller 'Prince and His Squeeze Panic Oxford Locals' beneath. Below that is a smaller photo of an elderly woman with helmet-like hair, apparently representing the aforementioned Oxford locals and looking Very Indignant indeed.

The other article is accompanied by a picture of me outside some clothes store and headlined with 'Fashion Furore in the Fortress as Barbie Dresses Ken'. (Some distant part of my brain notes that Grandma Bertha would have words about the bad alliteration. It's not like a fortress is even the same thing as a palace, is it?)

Skimming the second article, I realise that this, too, must be the work of Ginny and the others. Of course, it's total nonsense – something about me trying to dress Ken in leather trousers for an official event and the palace having to intervene – but it makes my mind immediately flash back to the conversation we had before classes on Tuesday. I don't think I've ever talked about leather trousers with anyone else, anyway.

Groaning, I fall back in my chair, covering my face with both hands. "Tell me. How bad is it really?"

Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "On a scale of 'Persis is not wearing pantyhose for Trooping the Colour' to 'Great-Aunt Tanya marries a pool boy thirty years her junior?'"

Peering at him through my fingers, I can see that he looks much more relaxed than I feel. There's worry in his eyes, but I think it's for me, not because of what I did.

"Yes?" I ask cautiously.

"I'd say this is about level with 'Teddy openly prefers the entrance of Louvre to that of the British Museum'," Ken decides.

Finally lowering my hands, I consider him for a moment. "That's not so bad."

"Not bad at all," he confirms, reaching out to stroke my face. "I promise it isn't. The pictures of our home annoy me, but mostly because The Mail should have known better. The rest is just the usual made-up drivel that they're trying to sell on basis of the one grain of truth in it. Tomorrow, it'll be yesterday's news. If we even want to call it that."

"So… you're not angry?" I ask slowly. The knot tightens again.

But Ken shakes his head. "At you? Not for a second! I'm angry at The Mail, though not actually surprised. Mostly, I'm angry at those girls for betraying your trust."

Yes. There's that.

"I have classes with them in less than an hour," I murmur, swallowing rising nausea.

Ken watches me with concerned eyes. "Do you want to call in sick? Wait until this blows over until you face them again?"

The offer is tempting. Part of me wants nothing more than to take a long bath and spend the day curled up with a book in front of a fireplace, hoping that tomorrow will be a better day. But even as I think it, I know it won't do.

"If I don't come, they'll know why. Everyone will know why," I answer as I gather my thoughts. "I don't think they get to have that kind of power over me."

I must appear more confident than I feel, because Ken's lips rise in a smile. "There's my girl! Don't let them get to you!"

Taking a deep breath, I return his smile, hoping that mine won't look as wavering as it feels, and accept a quick kiss. I'm very glad he's not angry about how naïve I was. And, I realise, his support makes me feel a bit better about all of this.

But when, forty-five minutes later, I walk into Seminar Room E, the knot in my stomach is as tightly wound as it ever was.

It's not helped at all by the fact that the first person my eyes fall on is Ginny. Standing directly next to the door, she practically pounces the moment she sees me enter.

"Rilla!" she cries. "I am so sorry! Such an awful thing to do, to betray your trust like that. It's absolutely disgusting!"

I stop in my tracks and stare at her, blinking rapidly as I try to process what she's saying.

"I wish I had known that they were planning this," she continues. "You must believe that I would have stopped them! I never would have allowed them to sell you out like that, but I had no idea!"

Slowly, I shift my gaze from Ginny over to where Holly and Tammy are sitting on the other side of the room. They're both watching us intently, their expressions tight and nervous.

Ginny takes a step to the side, re-entering my vision and effectively blocking the other two. "I can't tell you how absolutely sorry I am."

"I know you're sorry," I reply slowly. "But you're only sorry that one of them was too quick in selling what little you had."

"That's absolutely not true!" claims Ginny. "I didn't know anything until I opened the paper this morning."

She's good. I must give her that. Lips slightly parted and eye wide, she looks the picture of wounded innocence. But the jig is up, as they say. I might be naïve, but not that naïve. She was downstairs with Tammy when those pictures were taken. There's no way Tammy could have done it without her noticing. And Ginny was the only one I talked to about the palace sending Ken notes on dress codes, so that story can't have come from anyone but her.

Besides – does she really expect me to believe that her preferred morning reading is the sodding Daily Mail?

Suddenly, I feel very, very tired. "Spare yourself the breath, Ginny. In fact, spare both of us this charade. The only thing I believe you is that you had nothing to do with selling those pictures to The Mail, because you're cleverer than that," I tell her. "You know that in sticking around and lying low for a while longer, you might have gotten some real secrets to sell. That's the only thing you regret about this. If Tammy and Holly had been more patient, this could have been so much worse for me – and so much better for you."

The change coming over Ginny is so sudden and so extreme that it would be fascinating to watch, if it weren't quite so awful. The wounded innocence is gone, replaced by an expression so cold and calculating that I have to stop myself from taking a step backwards.

"You're right," she admits, but there's not even a sliver of regret in her voice. "I would have waited and we both know that I wouldn't have had to wait long. You're desperate enough for friends that you would have spilled all your secrets before long."

The awful thing is… she isn't wrong about that.

"I lost out there and I can't deny it. But on the plus side," she adds, "at least now I don't have to spend any more time with you."

I don't know where I get the composure to nod coolly and remark, "That's one thing we agree on then."

"You bet!" she positively spits, before turning on her heel and marching back to where Holly and Tammy are sitting.

It means that she gets the good exit, so I'm left with nothing to do but jut my chin out, throw my shoulders back and walk to a place at the back end of the room, ignoring all those eyes fixed on me.

Thankfully, Prof Schmitt enters just moments later and loses no time to delve right back into whatever statistical measures he's trying to teach us today. With the other students turned to the front, I allow myself to relax a little bit and ease some of the tension out of my shoulders. But my head remains high, for all those to see who keep turning to snatch a look at me, probably hoping to see me break.

For all my outward composure, it's not that I'm not close to breaking down though. My eyes are prickling and my thoughts are tumbling in all directions.

How could I have gotten it so very, very wrong?

There's no answer to that question, much as I try to make sense of what happened. With my jumbled thoughts, there's also no chance of following Prof Schmitt's explanation, so I don't even try. (There's a nagging little voice in my head telling me that I should, but what does the voice know anyway?)

Almost without meaning to, I pull my phone from my back and position it on my thigh so that it's somewhat hidden by the table. Opening Facebook, I log into my account (which is both super private and easily the most boring one out there) and find myself scrolling through my friends' pages. My real friends.

There's Betty, who still isn't done posting pictures from the wedding and the Caribbean honeymoon. There's Chelsea, who's in Chicago working for a big, important company and obviously thriving there. There's Megan, whose office job is barely worth a mention to her but who seems to love her sports as much as ever. And most importantly, there are Nia and Seraphina, still in New York, still continuing with their studies and looking the same as ever.

I haven't really been homesick since coming here, but right now, the pain hits me so suddenly that for a moment, I feel dizzy.

I want them back. I want my friends back. The friends that I've known for ages and through various stages of life. The friends that I'd trust with my life, not to mention the layout of my kitchen. The friends that knew me before I became someone worth knowing for the rumours alone.

They aren't gone and I know that. They're really just a quick message away. But right now and right here, on a rainy Friday morning in the last row of Seminar Room E, it feels like they're unreachable.

My eyes are burning now and there's a lump in my throat that makes it hard to swallow. Almost angrily, I close the app and drop my phone back into my bag. I can't let anyone see me cry!

I don't cry, not during the lecture nor in the computer class afterwards. How I manage not to, I'm not even sure myself, but it's probably just plain old stubbornness pulling me through. I've always hated to let anyone know that they'd won.

Still, when Prof Schmitt dismisses us for the day, I can feel the relief washing over me. Pointedly ignoring all my classmates, I pack my stuff back into my bag (my notebook is still bereft of notes in a way that can't be good but I can't bring myself to care about either) and finally walk towards the front of the room, where Prof Schmitt is also packing.

"Sir?" I ask politely.

He raises he head and considers me for a moment. "Miss Blythe."

I hesitate, waiting until a large group of students has left the room, until I speak, "I know I indicated by email that I'd do Tuesday's assignment in a group, but I'd rather do it alone after all. I hope that poses no problem."

I really do hope that, because there's no way in hell that I'll ever exchange another word with Ginny or her cronies.

Carefully, Prof Schmitt places his netbook into a well-worn leather bag before he looks up at me again. "Barely two weeks in and our would-be princess is already asking for preferential treatment," he remarks coolly.

What?

I stand as if struck by thunder.

"I'm sorry, but…" I stutter.

"Let's not fool ourselves, Miss Blythe," continues Prof Schmitt. "You and I both know that you didn't get this place because of your excellent academic record. I saw your application. There's no use trying to lie to me."

"I wasn't trying to…" I assure him weakly, but don't even get to finish the sentence, because he silences me by raising his hand.

"There will be people who will treat you like you're special because of who you are dating." A beat as he considers me through slightly narrowed eyes. "I just want it to be absolutely clear that I will not be one of them."

I open my mouth, but no words come.

Shouldering his bag, Prof Schmitt takes a step towards the door, before he looks back at me. "You may do the assignment on your own. I wish you luck."

He says it and sweeps out of the room. I remain where I am, trying to gather my thoughts and understand what just happened. I…. I just don't…

"You okay?" asks a cautious voice from behind me. Turning, I see a girl and two boys standing some steps away, all three looking at me with something that I realise is pity. They must have heard the entire exchange.

Mumbling something that might be constructed as an answer, I turn my back towards them and walk out of the classroom, my steps slow and measured and so unlike how I feel inside. It's all a mess.

I have no idea how I make it home, but I feel vaguely grateful for the rain because at least when it's raining, no-one can see you cry. And I am crying now. I've held myself together all morning but this was too sudden, too unexpected, too much to keep in. By now, I'd give anything for this day to be over!

But apparently, I just don't have that kind of luck. When I finally reach home, dropping my bike on the driveway and stumbling towards the front door, I almost fall over something that, when I bend down to retrieve it, reveals itself to be a folded-up newspaper. (Why is it even here? Shouldn't Ken's officers prevent random strangers leaving things on our doorstep?)

Unfolding it, I take one look at the headline and the two words scrawled atop it and only just manage to stagger into the hall, kicking the door shut beneath me.

Heartless bitch!

And below that, in bold block letters: 'The feline forgotten by Cinderrilla'.

They've even got a picture and it's seeing it that undoes me. There's George, all orange and furry and lovable, staring back at me from the pages of a newspaper and my heart clenches painfully.

It's all so unfair!

I didn't forget him. I never could forget him. The mere thought is inconceivable.

But he's half city cat and the streets of Brooklyn have always been his home as much as my Shoebox was. To pull him out of what has been his territory since birth, only to stick him into the transport box he hates and let strangers handle and carry him unto a thundering airplane, finally to release him in a country that's even less his home than mine… He would have hated it! He's much better off at home, where he can stalk the streets and romance the girls and get his favourite food and his cuddles from Everett and his family.

No matter what the papers says, to take him with me only so that I could live easier, ignoring what's best for him, that would have been heartless. (And he's fine! Everett continuously says he is!)

It still hurts though. Out of all my friends, I might miss George the most. I miss his self-righteousness and his arrogance and his entitlement and the way he curled up against my stomach when I went to sleep, all warm and soft and purring in contentment.

It's unfair.

With as much strength as I can muster, I fling the paper away from me, not caring where it lands. My unsteady legs give way beneath me and I drop to the floor, curling myself up into a ball, and start to sob.

I don't know how this happened.

Just this morning, I was absolutely happy and now… now…

Where did it all go so utterly wrong?


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Restless Farewell' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1964).


Important A/N:
Look. First, let me say that I did not plan this. Never has it been my plan to put the story on hold at this very moment and go on holiday, but... I'm afraid that's exactly what's happening right now. I can only stress again that this is not my fault, so in keeping with the spirit of the story, let's blame it on fate, yes?
Alas, I
am going on holiday and won't be posting while I'm gone. We must therefore skip two Wednesdays, which means that regular updating will resume on Sep 18th (baring unforeseen circumstances). In the meantime, I am, as ever, looking forward to all your thoughts and opinions. Every little review is appreciated!


To Mammu:
Yes, chocolate vanilla fla is acceptable as well. When I was a child, I put chocolate chips in my vanilla fla, so the effect was probably similar ;).
You do, of course, know where George is now. (His story hasn't come to an end though!) You also know that you were right not to trust Ginny and her Minions. They were fishy from the very beginning and acted accordingly. As for Ken's family, that'll still take a little while, but I promise we're getting there :).