by Sara Forbes
He's raking his hands through his hair, making it stand up like some surfer boy's. Something tells me little brother's picking a fight. Or maybe he just wants reassurance. But even if he were to ask nicely, I have none to give.
“Was bashing the ambassador not good enough for you for one night? No, you had to go and produce a goddamn sequel.”
I put down my mug of coffee on a free patch of desk and flex my fingers. “Steady on, I didn't know she was his niece.”
He emits a groan as if my incredible stupidity has landed a punch in his gut. Ken would have made a great actor, an effortless Hamlet. “You must've known she was somebody. She was in Jayvee's. The VIP section. Couldn't you have at least found out before you opened your big gob?”
I stare him down.
His head shakes furiously. “Words fail me, Alex.”
“Good, then maybe you'll shut up about it.”
I rise, conduct a slow semicircle of the space in front of the desk, and end up leaning my elbow against the marble mantelpiece. My great–grandfather's portrait scowls down at me more sternly than usual this morning. Of course, now I know her name is Hayley Cochrane, niece of US ambassador Stig Lawson. According to YouTube, a further three hundred thousand people know who she is. The clip of her dumping her drink over my crotch has eclipsed the one of me insulting the US ambassador—her uncle.
The growing YouTube audience is enthralled by Hayley Cochrane and what she represents—the spunky commoner showing it to the wastrel aristocrat. They've even given her a nickname—Duchess Wet T-Shirt. I wonder how she's handling her sudden fame. She'll be endorsing products herself next. Cosmopolitans, maybe? Or knickers. If we ever meet again, those are coming off.
Someone in the club had a high–end camera trained on us the entire time. They captured the look of innocence on her pretty little face at that moment I handed her my phone. I'm not complaining—they also captured her curves underneath the damp T–shirt and her hard nipples jutting through the wet cotton.
“What's Mother going to say?”
I jab my finger at Ken's chest. “Let me talk to her before she sees the videos and someone else tells her what to think.”
“Fine.” Ken yanks up his towel that's been on the seat beside him. I hope he manages to thrash out all his frustrations against his beloved punching bag in the downstairs gym because I, for one, am starting to dislike the size of his biceps.
Hand on the door handle, he adds, “This would never have happened if Seb were here.”
“Well, he's not.”
The look he throws me is as withering as any Mother could muster up.
“You know what, Alex? I don't care anymore. It's your life. You want to waste time on flying your helicopters and wining and dining as if nothing's happened, then do that. But don't draw attention like this. The public hates us enough already.”
“I've put pilot school plans on hold,” I reply. It's a travesty, but something had to give. My flying instructor, Mike, looked devastated under his stoic mustache when I broke the news to him yesterday. I tried to sound convinced that it wouldn't be forever, but he wasn't buying it. Even Molly, his Irish setter, looked sad. That nearly killed me. I suppose it's what drove me to ruffle Lawson's feathers later on.
“On hold?” Ken scratches his jaw. “For how long?”
“Indefinitely.” The word escapes through my gritted teeth.
“That's something. But Seb had better come back soon. You're clearly not fit to run the estate.” Ken strides to the door and slams it behind him.
Given his cavalier age of twenty–three, I'll cut him some slack. He was Father's favorite—Father, who was supposed to live forever so we'd never have to deal with this bullshit. At this moment, I'd do anything to change the inheritance rules. Primogeniture has ruined my life. Because let's face it, Seb, Ken, and Letty would all be better candidates for the title and responsibilities of duke than me. Especially Seb, who's oldest and always has been the responsible one.
I pull out my phone to call Marty. I've three missed calls from him. Marty's an MI6 operative of vague job description. He did tell me the exact title that one time he was drunker than me, but I forget what it was. We've been best friends since our Charterhouse school days when I rescued the scrawny, curly–headed seven–year–old from bullies twice our size. That's my version, anyway, and I'm sticking to it.
“I googled her,” I tell him by way of greeting. I never have to explain context with him. As heir to an earldom himself—albeit a scrappy one—he shares the concerns and constraints of my entitled world. He's my joker card. Every duke should have one.
“Yeah,” Marty says in his I've–been–up–six–hours voice. “Art student from Oregon and niece of the ambassador. It checks out. No criminal record. Nothing to see there, but—”
“Plenty to see on the video, though. Did you get a load of that?”
There's a telling pause on Marty's side. “The uncle. He's a piece of work.”
“Well, one is quite aware of that.”
“Alex, we all know Stig Lawson's not above a bribe or three, but thanks to your little tiff with him, some operatives in our internal affairs division started poking deeper. The cronyism you alluded to in your Oscar–winning speech yesterday is spot on, but it's just the tip of iceberg.”
“What iceberg? He's the US ambassador to Britain, for Chrissakes.”
“Just listen. This is important. Last month two Azerbaijanis met him in secret and bribed him to push concessions their way during the trade talks in Vienna last week. We think it's oil tycoons trying to smooth their way into the British market. Well, for whatever reason, belated guilt, who knows, Lawson flaked on them. I guess he figured they'd just forget about it because he hadn't taken their money. But our sources tell us these tycoons are seriously pissed off and could be planning to top him off in case he's some kind of spy for some other oil company.”
“What?”
“Yeah, our government knows everything, but wants to avoid an international incident. They certainly don't want a dead ambassador on their hands. I should congratulate you—we wouldn't have been alerted to this at all without your media splashes. Someone in MI5 was checking up on whether your slander had any basis or not and stumbled on the Azerbaijani meetings. You just made our job easier for once.”
“Glad to be of service.” I shake my head at the stupidity of the ambassador. Did I just stick my foot in a hornet's nest way bigger than I thought?
“And now, since your YouTube vignette, the Azerbaijanis are aware of his niece being here and she may be an alternate target. We could use your help.”
“My help? Why?”
“You've had contact with her. Don't you think it strange that she shows up in your Friday night haunt straight after you insult her uncle?”
“Marty, I've long given up trying to figure out the people in Jayvees.”
“She might've been looking for help.”
I hate having to think this early in the morning. If I do exert my mental faculties before nine, it's only ever to remember the name of the women wriggling under my sheets. I'm starting to feel grumpy. “She's got a funny way of asking for help. And she didn't seem to even know who I was. Unless she's a great actress, and I haven't quite banished that thought from the realm of possibility.”
“Either way, they're slated to fly back to the States tomorrow—there's been a flight re-booking early this morning—but that's a bad idea. They'll have no protection over there, whereas here we're watching them like hawks.”
My mind is whirling. “But they have full diplomatic immunity.”
Marty laughs. “You think these oil tycoons give a shit? They're criminals.”
I picture her innocent face, her rosy, apple cheeks, the glint of goodness in her clear, hazel eyes. She didn't seem the type to go to such lengths to attract the interest of secret services, if that's what she was doing. But it wouldn't be the first time I've been deceived by a woman's looks. And I suppose it demonstrates gr
eat loyalty to her uncle even if the net result is to potentially land them both in danger. It's a delicious irony with a bitter aftertaste. She doesn't deserve this. Underneath my budding curiosity, a familiar companion is clawing for attention: guilt.
“If I call her, I need complete privacy, Marty. Can you block her phone from the rest of the spooks so they can't snoop?”
He laughs uneasily. “Not if I want to keep my job.”
I remain silent. Marty just needs a few moments to think and then he'll come around. He's never refused me. I still remember the day after receiving our exam results, a lecturer sliding up and asking him if he wanted to do “something stimulating” in the foreign service. I told him it sounded like fun, so he went for it and he's been there ever since. In another life, I might have been a career guidance counselor.
“Come on. If she's in danger, I should warn her what Uncle Scumbag's really mixed up in because I truly don't think she knows.”
Marty sighs. “Fine. But no messing around.”
“What do you mean?” I ask coolly.
“She's not your usual type, okay? Uncle may be the ambassador but she's a nobody from Nowhereville, Oregon. Father's a simple law–abiding fisherman. Mother's dead.”
“He'll be happy to get his darling daughter back then,” I reason, and I read out the number from the coaster.
Hope Duchess Wet T–Shirt doesn't mind being woken early.
3
HAYLEY
BUZZZZ!
THE PHONE VIBRATES in my front jeans pocket. It feels angry. We're up to twenty–three ignores now. I know who it is. He's the only person other than Dad, Uncle Stig, and Mara who has my phone number. But what does he want? I'm so not in the mood for this.
It's a soggy morning. Yes, not only am I a newly–minted porn star in Britain—or as the YouTube comments would have it “Duchess Wet T–Shirt”—but Uncle Stig's had a hissy fit over my behavior and has decided we have to fly back to Portland tomorrow to avoid the situation getting worse.
No amount of arguing would make him change his mind. His secretary had already changed the flights. I sure as hell don't have the money to hang around London on my own. So, my patched–together plan of visiting the National Portrait Gallery and the Tate all in one day is the best I can do to salvage something of this trip. With less than thirty hours left in the country, I'm not going to waste one second of them dealing with His Grace.
Yup, the correct term of address for a duke is apparently “Your Grace.” Another interesting fact from Wikipedia. I wonder if anyone actually calls him that.
As London's art institutions infuriatingly take until 10 a.m. to wake up, Uncle Stig and I have wandered past Buckingham Palace, down Birdcage Walk toward the Imperial War Museums. There's a small independent gallery in some alleyway around there called Smithfield that actually opens at 8:30.
“Sooner we're home, the better, Hayley.” Uncle looks up from his phone. He's multi–tasking as we stroll and seems jittery as hell, often muttering to himself. “Give it all a chance to die down.”
I nod, but Uncle Stig, of all people, must know that hundreds of thousands of YouTube hits don't simply die down. They stay there forever, attracting new views with every generation. He's got several thousand of his own to contend with. My one consolation is that Dad hasn't seen the video yet. He'd have called me first thing if he had. But it's only a matter of time before some gossiping neighbor lets him know.
As for me, it doesn't matter how much art I'll ever produce over the next decades because I'll never be more famous for anything than for those five seconds in which I poured a Cosmopolitan over a British duke's crotch. It's partly the reason I refuse to answer the phone.
I've got several theories as to why the duke might be calling me. He probably thinks I feel sorry for what I did, now that I've found out how exceedingly important he is. He thinks I want to atone and he'll play with that for sure. Well, guess what? He can pay his own dry–cleaning bill, because I'm not answering.
“Uncle Stig, what's a duke? I mean, what do you have to do to become a duke?”
My uncle snorts. “There's only one way, and that's by being the oldest son of a duke, and having your father die, as his did, last month. Rather unexpectedly, if the accounts are to be believed.”
The duke's twenty–six, according to Google. That seems early to lose a dad. Of course, parents can go at any age, as I well know.
“Although,” Uncle Stig continues, “he'd have had the benefits of being a duke even before he gained the title.”
“Like what?”
“Apart from being heir to a ridiculously large estate and castle and somehow related to the Windsors? Well, there's the access to the top jobs in banking, politics, memberships to exclusive clubs, British Airways black frequent flyer cards—that's the level above gold. He'd also have courtesy titles, like Earl of this, Viscount of that. I believe there's a page full of his secondary titles. Of course, now that he's duke, those extra titles are just added fluff.”
Uncle Stig eyes me before continuing. “More practically, he'd get preferential treatment in restaurants, get seated with no reservations, that type of thing. And he'd get special service in banks, and high–end shops. No queues for this guy. He ranks higher than every minister, every envoy, bishop or member of the peerage in the land apart from his twenty–two fellow dukes. He can date whoever he wants—actresses and models usually, and has a high chance of marrying a foreign royal. Need I go on?”
“That's okay, thanks, Uncle Stig.” I turn my head to examine the patterns on the gates of James Park so I don't appear too keen for information.
We totter along another half mile or so in silence until we reach the chipped painted gallery entrance adorned with a hand–scrawled sign demanding a five–pound entrance fee. We loiter in the doorway to get out of the drizzle more than from any great enthusiasm to see the exhibits.
Uncle Stig shakes out his umbrella. “As long as the British continue to treat people as special on the basis of their birth, then they'll have some kind of aristocracy. Note it well, my dear, because the art world's a popular resting place for the idle dukes and earls of this world.”
“Yeah, I guess they have money and time to spare.”
He nods. “And it's all about connections. It doesn't matter if you have no talent whatsoever, because if you can get noticed by the right agents, galleries, and buyers, then you're in the game.”
I take a promotional brochure from a wire rack and pretend to study it, because I need to bolster myself against Uncle Stig's gamification of everything I'm working hard for. I came here to immerse myself in art for two weeks, to give myself a huge advantage in my new semester at college. I'd have notebooks crammed with sketches and ideas for new directions with my paintings and dissertations. I didn't mind my uncle vetting where I went at night so long as I had my days free to explore. That was the deal.
Uncle Stig's belief that I need guidance through the realities of life—the realpolitik as he calls it—perfectly complements Dad's grassroots fear of letting me go anywhere or do anything. Between them, they'd crush the life out of me if it weren't for the spirit of Mom fighting back. My memories of her are vague, as she died when I was eight, but her influence is huge. I often imagine how she would have reacted, were she alive today. She was a talented artist who didn't need lofty connections. Although all her paintings were sold to an anonymous buyer and I never got to see her work, her artist spirit guides me through the hardest of times, giving me strength.
Mom abandoned her dreams to be with Dad. Don't get me wrong—Dad's the kindest, most self–sacrificing and downright decent dad a gal could have, but still. She didn't know how long she had left and she spent those years looking after us, facilitating Dad's dreams. Even though her own artistic aspirations lay elsewhere. I can't help but wonder if, given a second chance, she would have done things differently.
And so, I've always done what I can to learn to do stuff for myself so I'll never fall int
o the trap of depending on a man. It helps that I can read machines pretty well. Change a car tire? Install an oven? Fix a boiler? Check, check, and check. Dad didn't encourage me to learn these things but neither did he discourage me, especially when it became clear I'd inherited his engineering mindset.
BUZZ! Twenty–four.
And … ignoring.
Uncle Stig pats his pockets. “Is that your phone?”
“Just the alarm.”
“This guy, for instance.” He pokes his finger at a brochure featuring a local sculptor. “Zero talent. The only reason he has an exhibition is because his mother's close with the Minister of State for Schools.”
“Mm–hm.”
He flashes me a sympathetic smile. “Don't worry, my dear. You'll be back here again in London pretty soon. I'll make it up to you. Your father can't cling to you forever, especially now that you're an adult.”
“I see this trip as the first stepping stone,” I say breezily to cover my irritation at his usual dismissal of Dad. “And I really do appreciate all you've done, Uncle Stig.”
“We just need to set you up on a new tour, get to know the movers and shakers.”
I let him ramble on as we enter the exhibition and wander around the abstract copper and iron sculptures. My mind's made up. I'll never come back here with him. I'll wait until I graduate and have an independent income source—in a few years—and then I'll return on my own terms. No Uncle Stig. No VIP nightclubs.
Maybe he's fulfilling some paternalistic fantasies with me. His own two children are in their early thirties, both engineers, and there's not much he can do to steer them any longer. I probably sent the wrong signals by accepting this trip. I don't need my uncle's help. Any success I will have as an artist will be by merit alone. My teachers are encouraging enough to make me believe it's possible with some really hard work and dedication. And, given my YouTube infamy, it may also involve a name change.
