London, England
February 2014

Please don't tell them how you found me

Sighing, I hang the dress back on the rack. It's nice, but until it gets discounted, it's a little above my price range. I'll keep an eye on it for the next few weeks, but right now, buying it isn't an option.

The problem with me and clothes is that I get judged for what I wear. Liberally. There are whole newspaper columns dedicated to what I'm wearing and entire blogs dedicated to chronicling every article of clothing I ever put on. It's creepy and it's annoying and it means I've long stopped wearing what I want to wear.

There's never pleasing some people, but for the majority of them, I've figured out an approach that keeps most of the critics silent. The cardinal rule is never to wear anything too short or too revealing. Brands should ideally be British or else Canadian. Too much American fashion or, God forbid, French, and I get chided for not supporting the British clothes industry. When I wear something too expensive, they call me a spendthrift, but when I buy something cheap and mass produced, I get lectured on national TV about the poor Bangladeshi children having to do 18-hour shifts in factories. (Which is devastating and should be stopped, don't get me wrong. But what's betting that the very people criticising me for it are also wearing clothes made in those very same factories? Hypocrites, that's what they are.)

Taking all of that into account, there are about a dozen brands I can wear relatively safely. The problem is, most of those deemed to be in an acceptable price bracket for me are actually much too expensive for someone on a mediocre wage having to pay rent on a flat near London. This even more so as I also have to rotate my clothing regularly and add in new pieces often if I don't want them to call me boring and question my fashion sense. I have, accordingly, turned the hunting of bargains and scouring of second hand shops into a fine art, supplementing my finds with items borrowed from Katie and Tatty.

All of which is to say, I can't buy this dress today.

Shouldering my handbag, I nod at the shop assistant with the sour face and turn for the door. I step outside –

And I'm blinded by the flashes going off.

"Rilla!" "Rilla, here!" "Any comment, Rilla?" "Who leaked the photos, Rilla?" "Rilla, look here!" "Over here, Rilla!"

Blinking against the sudden brightness, I lower my head and try to collect my bearing. Deep breath. Try to focus.

I can't see well with the bright spots dancing in front of my eyes and the cameras flashing mercilessly, but gauging from the volume of the voices shouting at me, I estimate about 20 or 25 photographers.

That's a lot, even for me.

Something has happened.

Gripping my handbag tighter and bowing my head some more, I try to slip away to the side, where the throng seems to be not as deep. Usually, after having gotten a few good shots, the photographers back away a little and allow me to leave (if, sometimes, to follow me), but today is different.

They stand, unmoving, shoving their cameras into my face and shouting my name.

Like a wall.

I try to push forward, but they push back. They push me backwards, until I can feel the handle of the shop door press into my back. Wherever I look, there's a dark mass of people surrounding me, and flashing, flashing. The shouts ring in my ears, something about photos (what photos?) and my name on constant repeat. Rilla, Rilla, Rilla.

There's nowhere to go.

I feel panic rising within me.

Feebly raising my hands, I try to move, looking for an outing, any kind of gap, but it's no use. Futile. They form an impenetrable mass and they're not budging.

I'm caught.

They're too close.

Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out the shouts. My breath comes in shallow gasps. I think I'm shaking.

I'm panicking and there's nowhere to go.

Nowhere, except –

Back.

Reaching behind me, I wrench open the door and stumble back into the shop. There's a surge among the photographers and for a second, I fear they might follow me, but they don't. Instead, they press against the glass doors, the cameras still clicking and flashing. Even after the door has shut, I can still hear them shouting.

Rilla, Rilla, Rilla.

My own name is starting to sound strange to me. Like it's somehow wrong, like the letters are out of order, like it doesn't make proper sense anymore. It's like even my name has lost its meaning.

Rilla, Rilla, Rilla.

Just meaningless sounds.

My back turned to the door, I stand in the middle of the shop, breathing heavily.

The assistant with the sour face raises an over-plucked eyebrow.

"Forgot something," I mumble at her. Grabbing some random clothes off a rack, I head for the fitting room in the back of the shop.

I just want to hide.

Only when the curtain has fallen shut behind me, do I breathe a little easier. It makes no sense, of course, because it's not like a piece of cloth can in any way protect me, but suddenly, the smallness of the cubicle feels comforting. At least here, I'm alone.

Alone to find out what the matter is.

Because something must be the matter.

I sit down heavily on the little stool in the corner of the fitting room. With shaking fingers, I get my phone from my bag and type my own name into the search bar. I've gone off googling myself, but in moments like these, it's the best way to get information quickly.

And I'm not disappointed.

It's the very first entry in the 'news' section.

Brief Encounters – What Ken Truly Sees in Stripper-Rilla

I think I might be sick.

I don't want to, I desperately don't want to, but I click on the article anyway. Immediately, I'm transported to the online presence of one of the British rags that so love tearing me apart.

There's not a lot of text, but there doesn't need to be. The pictures make up for it. Do they ever make up for it!

If a picture is truly worth a thousand words, this article must be priceless. (To the so-called newspaper, I bet it is.)

Objectively speaking, the pictures are bad quality. They're all grainy and most of them are either overexposed or too dark. They were clearly taken with a long lens through a window.

My window.

All of the pictures show me in the crappy Croydon flat. The more harmless ones simply have me sitting on the bed or standing in the kitchen. That alone would be bad enough, especially as the different outfits tell me they must have been taken over the course of days, even weeks. They have nothing on the other pictures though. Me in various stages of undress. Not completely naked, thank God (I never did like walking around starkers, even when alone), but there are several photos of me in my underwear and two with just a towel wrapped around my body.

I lower the phone.

There's bile in my mouth and my breath comes out to fast. I'm hyperventilating. My cheeks are wet. I might be crying. I think I am.

My phone dials Ken's number without me being aware of actually having made any motion to call him. It's just… I'm stuck and I'm panicking and they took pictures through my bloody apartment window and… I want him. I want him here and I want him to make it go away.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

Rationally, I should have known this would happen, but as I listen to the brief message, his voice doesn't comfort me like it usually does. Instead, there's something bubbling up within me, something hot and bitter. Anger, I think, and hurt, and… betrayal?

Because he's up there in Scotland enjoying himself and I'm down here, not enjoying myself at all, and the least thing he could do is pick up the phone when I really, really need him. And I need him now.

Dropping the phone in my lap, I hide my face in my hands. I try to calm my breathing, try to calm my racing heart, but it's no use. Because what it all boils down to is that I'm caught in this fitting room. I can't go outside, can't face the mob again, not now that I know what they know. But I can't stay here either, because my little sanctuary is but temporary.

I need help.

But who to call?

Think rationally, Rilla. And breathe.

I'd try Persis, but she's at some kind of equestrian training camp with the rest of the British eventing team. Teddy is up in Edinburgh, studying. None of my friends have returned to London yet and they wouldn't be able to do anything anyway. Nor, let's be honest, would Ken's friends. To control the mob out there, I need someone with more authority, someone like…

"Rilla! How nice of you to call."

The moment I hear Owen's voice, I start to sob.

"He-hello. I… I'm… I'm sorry to… to bo-bo-bother… you," I manage to get out.

"Rilla?" He sounds seriously alarmed. "What happened? Where are you?"

And that's when it all comes tumbling out of me. "These photographers, they're… I'm in a shop, hiding – hiding in the fitting room. They're outside and they won't let me… they won't let me leave. They're crowding around me and – shouting. And they have these pictures and they're just awful and I… I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do." I can't say anything else after that, because I'm overcome by sobs.

On the other end of the line, Owen makes soothing sounds, waiting for me to collect myself somewhat. Suffice to say, it takes a while.

When the sobs have turned to hiccups and the tears don't spill as fast anymore, Owen asks carefully, "Can you tell me where you are?"

I give him the name and general location of the shop. Moments later, I can hear him repeat the information to someone else, his voice sounding slightly muffled.

"Rilla?" he asks, after having returned to the phone. "Can you do something for me?"

"I guess," I sniffle.

"Just stay where you are. Don't go outside. If the shop people grow impatient with you, buy something and we'll take care of the cost. Someone will be with you as soon as possible. Wait until they come to get you," Owen instructs. "Is that alright?"

I nod, before remembering that he can't see it. "Yes. Yes, that would be… very nice."

"Marvellous." I think I can hear him smiling. "And chin up. There's nothing we can't solve."

I wish I felt as confident as he does.

But I've already bothered him enough, so I don't say that. Instead I thank him, allow him to reassure me once more that everything will be fine, and end the call. Looking down at the now dark screen of my phone, I feel some of the pressure lift from my shoulders. Someone else is taking care of things. I don't have to do this alone.

(Owen's not the someone I would have wanted to support me at this moment, but as there's literally no chance of Ken calling back before evening, he's all there is. And it is awfully nice of him to help me like this, no questions asked.)

Thankfully, the shop assistant with the sour face leaves me be (I'm pretty sure my credit card would be declined if I attempted to buy anything) and no-one else bothers me either. Therefore, for the next twenty or so minutes, I simply stay in the fitting room and try not to work myself into a panic again – with mediocre success.

Finally, I can see the curtain flutter slightly, but not open. Moments later, I hear Hanson's voice. "Miss? Are you in there?"

"Yes." I clear my throat. "Yes, I'm here."

I take a look into the mirror and sigh inwardly. I'm much too pale and my eyes are too puffy to deny that I've been crying. My mascara is smudged as well, and I angrily rub at it until it's no longer coating half my face. It's not exactly good, but I guess it'll have to do.

Collecting my bag and slipping my phone inside, I get up and open the curtain. Outside stands Hanson, his expression sympathetic. Behind him, I spy several more men I take to be PPOs. The shop assistant with the sour face stares at them, even forgetting to look sour.

"Shall we?" asks Hanson and smiles encouragingly.

I take a deep breath and nod. "Yes. Let's go."

As we move towards the door, the other PPOs fall in around us. I spy Beckett and Beaverstock (with Ken securely ensconced at his air force station, I guess there's not a lot to do for his protection detail at the moment), plus three men I don't recognise. There's a serious-looking tall one that seems to be giving orders to the others, but while he looks vaguely familiar, I can't fully place him.

Outside the door, the number of photographers appears to have doubled. I recoil instinctively.

Hanson places a protective arm around my shoulders. The other men form a tight circle around us. (Is this what it feels like to Ken and Owen and the others?)

"Keep your head down," advises Hanson quietly. "There's a car parked right behind the paps. There's a driver at the wheel, so we'll bundle you inside and then take off immediately."

"Okay," I murmur back.

One of the other men throws open the shop door and immediately, the shouting and the flashing starts again. Only this time, I'm not facing them alone. I just keep my head down, grip my handbag tight and allow Hanson to steer me, while the PPOs around us muscle the way free. Most of the photographers know better than to get in their way and retreat of their own accord, but the less clever ones get shoved to the side none too gently.

Once the throng has backed off somewhat, I see a sleek dark car parked on the curb. One of the PPOs in our group moves ahead a few steps to open the door and Hanson guides me to climb inside it. He follows me, the door is thrown shut and the car starts moving immediately.

It's a lot like well-oiled machinery, to be honest. It would be impressive to watch if it weren't quite so surreal.

"How are you?" asks Hanson as he settles on the seat behind the driver. I drop my handbag on the middle seat and buckle myself up automatically. Hanson, I can't help notice, doesn't so much glance at his own seat belt. (Might be a PPO thing.)

"I'm…" I hesitate. "I'm okay. I think. Bit shaken."

"Understandably." He nods. "They can get quite rabid. I imagine Reed stayed behind to give them a little warning."

"Who?" I ask. The name doesn't ring any bell.

"Reed. The tall one giving out orders," explains Hanson. "He's head of His Majesty's security detail."

I look at him in surprise. "He's… Really?"

Hanson shrugs, then grins. "He sent out the cavalry for you."

Well… it would appear so.

I settle back into the cushy leather seat and briefly close my eyes, letting out a long breath. "Thank you," I tell Hanson, still with my eyes closed. "For, you know…"

"Anytime," he replies. A pause, before he adds, more quietly, "Probably was about time, too."

That sounded almost like a jibe and I open an eye to glance at him. But he's looking down at his phone, giving no indication of what he's thinking, and I don't pry.

Instead, I ask, "Where are we going?"

"His Majesty asked us to take you to Buckingham Palace," answers Hanson, pocketing his phone. "Unless you'd rather go somewhere else?"

I consider the question briefly, before shaking my head. "No, it's fine."

It's not like I have anywhere else to go, is it? The Croydon flat, already crappy from the beginning, now feels… compromised. It's less safe than it ever was. There's no other place in this city where I'd feel in any way secure, so I guess Buckingham Palace is as good a destination as any. At least it has high fences.

Quietly and efficiently, the car weaves through London traffic (followed, I notice, by two more identical cars, probably carrying the other PPOs) and as it does, I feel myself slowly calming down. Traffic being what it is in this city, it takes longer than it rightfully should, given the distance, but around half an hour later, I look out of the tinted window and see Buckingham Palace looming. (It really isn't very pretty, is it?)

"We're here," announces Hanson. Pointing at the golden figure standing in front of the palace, he remarks, "That's the Queen Victoria Memorial."

"Yes." I give him a wry smile. "I remember her from my tourist days."

Only that as a tourist, I bought a ticket and stood in a queue with the rest of the unwashed masses. Now, I'm whisked right past the gawking public through the northernmost of the three gates in front of the palace, past the actual palace building and through another gate at its side. The moment it closes behind us, I'm surrounded by calm. There are trees beside us and in front, I catch a glimpse of what I imagine is the palace garden. It's suddenly hard to believe that we're in the middle of London.

Someone opens the door on my side of the car and when I look out, I see a liveried man holding it open for me.

"Go ahead," encourages Hanson and I grab my bag before climbing from the car.

"This way, please, Miss." The liveried man points to a set of stairs that leads up to what I take to be a side entrance of Buckingham Palace.

(Part of me irrationally wants to ask Hanson to come with me, but I know I can't. He's just doing his job and this isn't it anymore. He delivered me safe and sound and now it's someone else's task to take over.)

I've been to Windsor Castle often enough for it to be familiar by now and know my way reasonably well around Kensington Palace, but this is the first time I enter Buckingham Palace as anything other than a plain tourist. I don't get much of a chance to take anything in (nor, to be honest, do I have much headspace for golden ornaments and woven tapestry at the moment), because the liveried man leads me straight up a non-official looking staircase and along a corridor, before stopping in front of a door.

"His Majesty's study," he announces. "His Majesty awaits you."

"Thank you," I reply and he inclines his head slightly.

As the man melts away, I raise a hand to tentatively knock on the door.

"Yes?" calls out a voice that sounds sufficiently like Owen that I dare open the door and peer inside.

When he sees me, a smile appears on his face. "Rilla. Come on in, please."

I slip inside the room (which has got to be the fanciest study I've ever seen in my life) and sit down on the sofa he points me to. Owen sits down on an armchair opposite me and immediately pours out tea from a pot on the side table.

(Seriously, the English and their tea!)

"How are you?" he asks as he hands me a delicate bone china cup.

I accept the cup, but when I try to answer, I find that I'm suddenly close to tears again. I calmed down somewhat during the car ride, but apparently, it just takes someone asking me how I am to have everything bubbling back to the surface.

"There, there." Owen reaches out to pat my arm as I grapple for composure. He waits until I've calmed myself somewhat and am not on the verge of starting to bawl anymore, before withdrawing his hand and taking a sip of tea.

"I take that to mean that all is not well," he remarks kindly.

I shake my head. "No, not really."

Owen hums in thought. "Reed phoned to tell me about the situation at the shop. He says it was alarming."

"It was… pretty bad," I admit and grimace.

"Do they often hunt you like that?" Owen wants to know.

I shrug and take a sip of tea to win some time to think the question over. "Not… not like that, no. Since moving to London, I haven't been able to leave home without some of them following me, but… it's definitely been worse since Christmas. And today was… I think today was worse than ever."

"Because of the photos published today." Owen nods understandingly.

I grimace again. "I had no idea… I mean, I knew the photographers were scouring the area and I was used to some of my neighbours taking pictures of me every time I met them in the hall, but I wouldn't have thought –" I break off and take a deep breath.

"That they'd find a way to encroach on your privacy even more," finishes Owen for me and I'm grateful he understands.

Grateful enough, even, that I dare voice a suspicion that I have never said aloud before, for fear of sounding crazy. "Sometimes…" I hesitate and bite my lip. "I don't want to accuse anyone of something I can't prove, but sometimes, I had the feeling that part of my mail had… well, disappeared. And with some of the articles they wrote, I couldn't shake the feeling that the only way for them to have gotten that information would have been to, well…"

"Bug your apartment?" asks Owen.

I shake my head. "Not that bad. I hope not, anyway. But my phone, yes. I can't prove it, but either they guessed really well or some of those reporters must have… listened to some conversation they couldn't have listened to without… without employing illicit methods."

Owen considers me over his tea cup, his expression serious. "I think it's time we get you a secure phone," he decides after a moment. "And I'd strongly advise you to find another place to live."

I laugh, incredulous, and almost choke on my tea. "Like that's easy!"

"It might be easier than you think," he remarks evenly. "First of all, I suggest you stay here for tonight."

When I hesitate, thinking of George, an understanding smile appears on Owen's face. "We'll send someone to take care of your cat," he promises. I feel myself relax slightly and nod slowly.

Owen's smile widens. "That's settled, then. After tonight, we could move you into Kenneth's rooms at Kensington Palace until we've found you somewhere else to live. Or else, you two might consider whether you'd like to move in with him permanently."

Where did that come from?

I blink at him, trying to process both his words and my feelings, before answering cautiously, "I think I might like to have my own place at the moment."

"I understand." Owen nods and I feel he truly does understand, even the things I'm not saying.

He looks at me for a long moment, as if trying to figure out something else. Finally, he says, "There's no shame in accepting help from friends."

"I don't have any friends here." The words are out before I can stop them and they sound bitterer than I realised I felt.

"I think you will find that you have more friends here than you know," Owen replies with a kind smile. "I have some ideas who might be glad to help you out, both with a new home and with a job that is more respectful of you as a person."

So he, too, knows that they're basically selling me to the highest bidder at that job. (Only, of course, he's far too polite to say it that way.)

"If you'll allow, I would like to put out some feelers," adds Owen, inclining his head questioningly.

I shrug, then nod. At this point, I'm honestly not sure how much pride I can even afford anymore.

"Splendid!" He looks genuinely pleased. "And if you'd accept another of my humble suggestions, I do think we have reached the point where some public action against those photographers is in order."

For a moment, I eye him, trying to understand what he's playing at. When I understand, I shake my head. "I can't afford a lawyer, if that's what you mean. And I don't want to ask my parents." (Still a little proud, apparently.)

"I do believe we can help you out with regards to financial matters," intones Owen carefully.

I frown, feeling both surprised and a little confused. "Spending taxpayers' money on the girlfriend? I thought that wasn't allowed."

"For one, I decide what's allowed and what not," reminds Owen gently. "For another, not all of our financial resources stem from taxes. My grandmother's dowry was quite sizeable and Kenneth inherited the estate of his maternal grandfather."

Really? But what about –

"Leslie didn't want it and I believe Frank wanted it to go to both his descendants and the Crown, making Kenneth the perfect heir" explains Owen, as if reading my thoughts. "Teddy and Persis were not yet born when Frank died, but Kenneth put something in trust for them when he was old enough."

Well. That's nice of him, I guess.

"I talked to Kenneth when you were on your way here –" begins Owen.

I interrupt him immediately. "I couldn't reach him!" And just like that, it's back, the hot feeling in my stomach. If he didn't even bother to call me back…

"That's because you can't have the Minister of Defence put a call directly through to his airplane," explains Owen calmly.

The hot feeling in my stomach cools somewhat.

"We both agreed that it's time we put up better protective measures around you," Owen continues. "Starting, if you permit it, with an official warning from both my office and his, telling the press to give you more space."

"But…" I frown at him. "Ken always said that any kind of official action would just make them, you know, bother me even more."

"That was true for the first two years of your relationship, but I don't think it holds true nowadays," replies Owen. "I mean no offence, but in the beginning, few people thought your relationship was serious, so by not officially acknowledging it, we bought you some time and privacy. By now though, no-one can doubt the seriousness of it, so I believe it is time we adjust our response accordingly. We probably should have done that some time ago and I'm truly sorry that we didn't."

He seems to look for a response, so I nod and murmur, "It's alright." Then, struck by a thought, I ask, "And Ken really agrees with this?"

"He does," Owen assure me. "I don't think he realised how dire your current situation is, but once I informed him of what happened today, he advocated a more offensive course of action."

Right.

That's good, isn't it?

I take a deep breath and attempt a smile. It comes out rather wry, but I suppose it's better than nothing.

Owen reaches out to pat my hand. "I promise you it will get better. Our lives might not always be straight-forward, but we know how to look after our own. And that means it's time we start looking after you, too."


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'It Never Rains in Southern California' (written by Albert Hammond and Mike Hazlewood, released by Albert Hammond in 1972).


To Mammu:
Glad to hear the chapter delivered! I hope this one does, too, and the next one especially. I worked towards the next one for over a year!
Seventeen hours of work? That's seriously ungood! Don't do that! From now on, I advocate that you sleep. Sleep is very important and much more fun than work, too.
I think Rilla really would have preferred her friends not to watch, but didn't outright ask them not to. Had she done it, I think they would have respected that. But she probably figured that they'd hear about it anyway, so they might as well watch it. If she had her way, no-one would know about what Chad and her other exes had to say, but she's realistic enough to know that now it's out in the open, everyone will know.
Yes, yes, that was one of the bombs. And the next one followed right on its heels! You decide which is worse ;). I can confirm that we will meet another ex-boyfriend of Rilla before the year (2014) is out and I can promise that the sunshine will come even sooner. Much sooner, in fact. I've been torturing Rilla enough. (Time to torture someone else!)

To JoAnna:
Of course you don't count the Russian tsar! He was a foreign ruler, at a time when Poland was divided and occupied by both the Russians and the Germans. Between the two of them, Poland was treated
horribly for centuries, though of course, no-one beats the Germans for awful treatment of other nations. But, as you said, enough of politics and history. (Let me just say that I much prefer elected monarchs to hereditary monarchs, if there has to be a monarch at all.)
I shall most definitely come and visit Krakow when I can arrange it, and Wroclaw, too. I also want to see Zabrze one day. My paternal grandparents were born there (back when it was called Hindenburg) though they didn't meet until they both came to Western Germany after the war. I think it would be interesting to visit one day.
But back to the story ;).
Eric is very, very nice. He's like Dan in that they're both quintessential nice guys. I consider both of them much better boyfriends/husband than Ken is, because they're kind and supportive and
there. I'd actually go so far as to say that Eric is too nice for Rilla, and I think she senses that, too. Not that she doesn't deserve someone nice, but... well, she treated him abysmally and there's no way around it.
Ken didn't get a preview of the TV special. If he had, he would have prepared Rilla for what was to come. I think he saw the previews and he knows about these kind of TV specials, so he had a good guess at what they were going to say (and
how they were going to say it).
Drama is good! Drama is fun! And yes, the Leslie drama is much, much closer. It's getting warmer... ;)