nonstarter. We would have to find another way, even if it meant devoting my life to prayer. It is not an option. Freddie is not an option.
I put on my sunglasses, pushed open the heavy emergency exit whose alarm they’d disabled for me, and stepped into the empty back alley. Before I climbed into the back seat of the Range Rover that was idling at the corner, I casually dropped the brochures into a trash can, where they landed on top of a discarded Starbucks cup and a half-eaten serving of what looked like chow mein. They didn’t need to come home with me.
But it was harder to leave my thoughts behind, and my conversation with Dr. Akhtar was playing on a loop in my mind all the way back to Apartment 1A. I kissed a waiting Nick hello without really seeing him, and didn’t even notice my phone was vibrating inside my purse until he poked at me.
“That’s your pet rock talking, isn’t it?” he said.
Startled, I dropped my purse onto the carpet, and scrambled to grab it back. My fingers fumbled with the clasp, but I fished my phone out and took a steadying breath once I saw UNKNOWN NUMBER shouting at me on caller ID.
“Hello?”
“Greetings and salutations, Rebecca.”
Showtime.
“I wondered when you’d call back, Clive,” I said, for Nick’s benefit. His forehead vein started to pulse.
“I’ve just come from the National Portrait Gallery,” Clive said. “That painting is really something. It truly captures your essence.”
“Yes, as someone not to be trifled with,” I said.
“We could have had a good thing going, Bex,” Clive said, in a faux wistful tone that sounded practiced. I flashed on an image of him standing in front of his bathroom mirror, running through his lines. “You in the palace, me in the press writing fawning stories. You could have planted anything you wanted.”
“And what do you want?” I asked. “We both know this isn’t a social call, so to speak.”
“It is a courtesy call,” he said. “One last chance to trade me some information, to protect yourself.”
“Clive, spit it out, or hang up,” I said. Nick reached out and we bumped fists.
“I know you can’t get pregnant,” he said. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want that made public. That your failures are threatening the entire path of succession.”
“Thanks for the concern,” I said. “But if that’s all you’ve got, I’m afraid I’ll have to go. This is much less compelling than I’d hoped.”
At this, Nick nodded enthusiastically.
“Then how about this. Nicholas had an affair. So sorry to break it to you,” he said. “But I did warn you away from him. I’m sure you wish you’d listened.” He laughed coldly. “New Year’s Eve is a devilish holiday to spend apart, Bex.”
My stomach twisted a little. I knew this wasn’t true, but I still hated hearing those words in that order, and I didn’t need to hear any more.
“Thanks for calling, Clive,” I said. “But unfortunately, your career isn’t of interest to me. Best of luck in the future.”
I hung up and turned to face Nick, who was practically climbing out of his skin, standing behind the sofa.
“He knows about the infertility,” I said, tossing the phone onto the coffee table, where it landed with a clatter. “I don’t know how. Maybe…” I briefly flashed on the brochures I’d thrown away in Dr. Akhtar’s back alley trash can. “Maybe he’s been following me. Or maybe he’s bluffing, and got lucky.” I faced him. “But he also knows about Annabelle, or at least he thinks he does. And I’m pretty sure he’s going to run it.”
Nick covered his face with his hands. “That fucking party. Those bloody people are lying through their teeth.”
“Right, but the thing is, they don’t think it’s a lie,” I reminded him. At this, Nick uncovered his face, and I saw that it was pale. “Someone must have decided to talk. Apparently Clive has been working hard to massage some actual sources. I’d be proud of his work ethic if I didn’t hate his guts so much.”
“God, Bex. I am so sorry,” Nick said.
“So it seems likely that now the whole world is about to think you cheated on me,” I said. “I guess you got more of a tit-for-tat than you bargained for.”
Nick rubbed at his face again. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to be funny, or you’re furious, or…”
“All of the above,” I said. “It’s almost poetic. Same reporter and all.”