Roberto scowled. "You are neither trash nor Euro."
"German passport," Ben said. "Guess that makes me Euro enough."
However, while Ben felt no guilt about staying at Clarence House, other expenses had begun to trouble him. He paid for his lunches at work, but otherwise the food appeared in their kitchen as if by magic. Being driven to his office by a liveried chauffeur every day did not yet feel natural; if anything, Ben found it more awkward as time went on. James had spoken of taking a ski trip sometime soon, probably with Lady Cassandra and Spencer Kennedy. Not only would that be an ordeal in its own right, but it also would be given to Ben as yet another sumptuous gift.
It would help if he at least felt like he were really working for what little money he had, so Ben went in and spoke to Fiona.
"I actually had an idea about taking you off the copy desk," she said, surprising him.
Thank God. "You really think my sources won't overreact?"
"Business sources would. But what if we switched your beat?"
"I cover business and economics." Ben had pursued a tighter focus than many journalists, but it had always worked for him.
"Just hear me out." Fiona got a very strange look on her face, a mixture of hope and trepidation. "What if we moved you into pop culture?"
"Pop culture?" Did she want him to start reviewing movies or something?
Fiona rose from behind her desk, the jade beads around her neck picking up on the green in her vibrantly patterned dress. "There are people who normally don't talk much to the press who would talk to you. Actors, singers, directors, great authors . . ."
"You want me to start doing puff pieces?" Ben couldn't believe he was hearing this. "Fiona, be serious!"
"I am serious," she said, suddenly firm. "You want to pull your weight around here, right? Well, this is weight you can pull."
Slumping back in his chair, Ben tried to envision it, but he couldn't. "I'd be awful at it."
"No, you wouldn't. You turned in that great story about the Prince Regent way back when, though you didn't report on royalty, either."
"By now I'd think it would be obvious that I was unusually interested in James's situation."
"So get interested in movies. Come on, Ben, at least try. You're writing all these people off as vapid and shallow--admit it, you are. Isn't that what the rest of the world is doing to you? At least these people would understand that much, and not judge you for it."
Ben had to admit that sounded possible. Besides, working the copy desk was a job for kids just out of J-school. Making something substantive out of fluff: That would be a challenge, but he'd never run from challenges.
And he didn't know what else to do.
"Fine," he said. "We can try it."
Fiona beamed, but only for a moment. "You're sure you're all right? You've seemed a little down in the dumps lately."
"It's a lot to handle. That's all."
But Fiona de Winter must not have been the only one to glimpse Ben's increasing depression. The next day the headline of the Express blared TROUBLE IN PARADISE? and featured a photo of Ben looking grim. Of course the photo could have been from any morning, and probably his bad mood had more to do with the paparazzi in his face. But it illustrated the made-up story very well, with all its insinuations that Ben had become demanding, and that James would no doubt soon look to others for affection.
Ben knew these stories were invented, mere tabloid creations meant to fill the vacuum of real news. But that didn't make it easier to come home that night to empty rooms and know that James was out at a dinner for the Norwegian ambassador. To know that if there was even one single, attractive gay man at that dinner, that guy was doing his best to get to know James right now.
"I'm being paranoid," Ben announced to Happy and Glorious. On nights when James wasn't home, Ben had taken on the task of feeding the corgis, and his stock with them had risen accordingly. They wagged their tails and looked up adoringly as he spoke. "I'm making up problems, as if I didn't have enough real ones already."
Also, I am talking to dogs.
But it was strange being at Clarence House without James. Ben had never spent even a minute there by himself until they'd made the decision to come out together; now he often spent several hours alone in the evening. This was the unavoidable consequence of James's schedule, for which charitable evening events and diplomatic dinners were simply part of the workday. However, knowing that didn't make Ben feel any less isolated in this enormous, quiet, drafty space. Once or twice he put on the Slanket to stay warm and remember James's face when he'd unwrapped it. That was how bad it got.
The next day some footballer was caught cheating on his wife, buying Ben a day's relief from the headlines. But that wasn't the same as a day's relief from the small degradations of being the Prince Regent's lover.
"Hello there!" said his editor from the publishing house. "Good news--they've moved up the release of The Corporation: A Biography. We're pushing it through copyedits to make sure it comes out in late October. Autumn is prime book-buying season."
His old publishing date had been the following February. Ben knew perfectly well why the date had been changed. "I wouldn't want the copyediting process to be rushed. It's important."
"Of course, of course. We've just got more people on it to make sure the job is done thoroughly but faster."
Ben decided to just say it. "I don't want to capitalize on my, ah, news coverage."
"Nobody wants to be exploitative. Still, we have to be realistic. Every reviewer in the world is going to cover this book now, regardless of how we react. We might as well maximize the benefits, right?"
"I suppose."
"Besides, now we can book you on every talk show, every radio program. We can reasonably expect to tour you worldwide."
"Wait." Everything seemed to be rushing away from Ben, faster than he could run after it. "I'm not going to go on all these shows and talk about my private life."
"Of course not." The editor sounded triumphant. "They'll all agree to that, and then they'll all ask about it regardless, and you'll politely shut them down and go on to talk about your book."
That was . . . exactly how it would go. Ben leaned his elbows on his desk and clung to the brightest part of this he could think of. "Everything's still on for book two, right?"
"You'd better believe it! The sooner you can get that done, the better. We could feature an advance chapter in the back of Corporation."
Ben reminded himself to call his literary agent to review all this, but that was unlikely to be much more soothing. Already his agent had already tried to get him to start blogging about "daily life."
That night James was home, and Ben felt as though he could vent about that part of it, at least, without bringing James down. After holding so much back for James's sake, it felt good to just talk. "Blogging!" Ben fumed as they ate their dinner, a complicated and delicious seafood stew apparently brought up by the kitchen staff just before Ben had returned to the palace. "About our sex life, I guess. Or cutesy photos of the dogs."
"You're the last person in the world who would ever blog about his personal life." James looked gently amused. "You never spoke much about the second book. I didn't realize it would be due so soon."
"I tried not to think about the second one until I'd finished the first, though. But yes, you're usually expected to follow up with the second in a two-book deal within the next couple of years."
"What's the second one going to be called?"
"Bubbles."
Ben deliberately didn't explain, the better to watch confusion muddle James's expression. "Did you say Bubbles?"
"Yes. It's about the various speculation bubbles that have wrecked economies over the years, all the way back to Dutch tulips."
James grinned. "And Beanie Babies?"
"I don't think those wrecked the world economy," Ben said. "But they might get a mention as one of the more half-baked 'investments' people have ever gone mad for."
Swiftly James lifted Ben's hand to his mouth and kissed it. "Your face lights up when you talk about your writing."
"I love it," Ben admitted.
Which was one reason why it hurt so badly to have it all but taken away.
Two days later, he was supposed to go back to being a reporter again. But this now involved having the car drive him to a ritzy hotel, where he was ushered into a suite to interview a movie star. She had glossy black hair, six-inch heels, and a tan so uncannily even that Ben suspected airbrushing. The hotel suite was more lushly decorated than the private suite of Clarence House.
She was at least sympathetic. "Oh my God, those guys out there, they're, like, piranha. Right?"
"Being in the public eye can be intense," Ben agreed smoothly. "How have you handled it?"
"Well, I mean, oh my God, what can you do, right? You have to, like, remember that you're above all that. You have to rise above life's pain and suffering. Which is kind of like our movie, I guess?"
Ben tried to make the leap with her. "Your new release is--a romantic comedy about Olympic skiers, isn't it?"
"Yeah. And, you know, my character, Caitlin, she has to rise above her fears that she only gets endorsement deals because of her looks."
His brain thoroughly fried, Ben returned back to the office just in time for the tabloid afternoon edition that had printed the word SLACKER over his face. This troubled him less than the story's content.
"They're reporting about my work on the copy desk," Ben said. "They're calling it a demotion."
"Which is bullshit." Roberto was reading over his shoulder.
"I know that. But still." Ben kept scanning, his eyes narrowing all the while. Not capable of handling real news stories likely to start doing puff pieces about movie stars next only chasing celebrity himself: It went on and on, in far too much detail. The lies and slurs didn't bother Ben nearly as much as the few glimmers of truth.
He rose and went to Fiona's office; she was on a call and held up one perfectly manicured finger, gesturing for him to wait. So Ben stood there silently until she hung up, when he announced, "We have a leak."
"Huh?"
Tossing the newspaper onto her desk, Ben repeated, "We have a leak. Someone within the office is feeding details to the tabloid press. In with all the usual made-up junk are some facts about my work here that nobody outside Global Media should have."
Fiona frowned down at the newsprint. "Nobody here would ever say you weren't capable. You're one of the best reporters we have, and everyone knows it."
"Sure, that part is made up. But the fact that I'm going on the celebrity beat? That's real, and not the kind of thing they'd invent."
Her face fell. "Do you want me to start questioning people? I understand how you feel, Ben, but--a witch hunt, here in the office--"
"Just keep an ear to the ground." It could be something very innocent, Ben realized. Another Global Media employee might be blabbing too much to a friend or lover with unknown tabloid connections. Maybe it was no more than that. Maybe. "Okay?"
Fiona nodded, though she obviously had other, higher priorities. "Speaking of the celebrity beat, I'm going to have my copy by deadline, right?"
"Right." Just as soon as I figure out how to regurgitate sap.
***
To the extent he could, James rejiggered his schedule to spend more evenings at home with Ben. Although Ben was too taciturn to speak of it, James could tell when he came back late in the evening that Ben had been lonely. Tonight he was especially glad to be able to listen.
"It drives me crazy just thinking about it." Ben kept pacing the length of the room, the only outlet he gave to the dark energy James could see driving him. "All right, strangers want to think badly of me, make up lies about me--that much I signed up for. But a coworker? Someone I know personally?"
James had been betrayed by any number of "friends" over the years, starting with boyhood pals from school who had gleefully tattled on his behavior to reporters bearing sweets. He'd closeted himself so tightly as a response to that, and to his mother's dire warnings; she had never found anyone she could truly trust outside the family. That hardly seemed the point at the moment, though. Surely he needed to think of Ben's pain, not his own.
But then, hadn't Ben said he wished James had talked to him about the photos of the plane crash that had killed his father? Maybe it helped Ben to know he wasn't the only one.
As James opened his mouth to speak, however, the kitchen phone rang.
They looked at each other in mutual dismay. By now Ben knew as well as James did that this phone seldom rang, and almost never for a casual chat. "Sorry," James said as he went to get it, but Ben waved him off.
It was Hartley. "I hate to trouble you, Your Royal Highness, but we're having a difficult night."
"How bad is Indigo?"
"She's in her closet, sir, and I believe she has taken one of the blades with her."
Fuck, fuck, fuck. James felt his gut drop, and the floor seemed to wobble beneath his feet. "I'll be right there."
Quickly he hung up and dashed to his bedroom, where he'd left his mobile. As he texted the security service to get ready to take him to Kensington Palace, his mind was racing. Why, oh, why had he let Indigo keep that box cutter? He knew the closet was important to her, that she needed to be able to shut out the world sometimes to feel safe, but he wanted to run over there and rip the door off its hinges. Anything that would keep her from hurting herself again--
"Ben?" James hurried toward the stairs. "Ben, I'm sorry, I've got to go."
"I heard." Ben was already standing there, James's coat in his hands. "What set her off this time?"
"I don't know. Sometimes it's not anything in particular." Running one hand through his hair, he said, "I'm so sorry to leave you when things are rough."
"I'm not in danger of hurting myself. Go."
James went on tiptoe to kiss Ben, then descended the stairs two at a time. Behind him he heard the squeak of the hinges as Ben shut the door. For one moment it pierced him through, the thought of Ben alone yet again--but then he remembered Christmas day, the blood all over Indigo's legs, and after that he could concentrate on nothing else but willing the car to get him to Kensington Palace even faster.
By the time he reached Indigo's suite of rooms within the palace, Richard had gotten there too. "Am I to understand," Richard said, voice quivering with rage, "that you allowed her to keep a knife?"
"She always gets something from somewhere," James shot back, though inside he cringed with guilt. "Which might not matter if you weren't confronting her every morning with the worst of the tabloid coverage, scaring her to death--"
"If she grew up and learned to face facts--"
"Facing facts? You think her problem is about facing facts?" James had never struck Richard before, but tonight might just be the night. "You're a bitter, angry man who's never been able to accept that you lost the throne by forty-five minutes. If that's how you want to live your life, I can't stop you. But you could at least stop taking it out on a girl who's not well."
"Taking it out on her? I'm doing my best by her, which is more than you say can. Too busy with your boyfriends to bother, most likely."
This was outrageous, and James might well have lost it at that moment. Then he heard Hartley's wavering voice from upstairs. "Your Royal Highness? If you could hurry, sir, I think it would be best."
Both James and Richard knew which Royal Highness was being referred to. With one final venomous glance at Richard, James went to his sister's room.
As soon as he walked in, he saw blood on the bed. Not as much as Christmas, his brain supplied in a desperate attempt to find hope. "Indigo? It's me. I'm here."
"I'm sorry," she said, so faintly that her words were barely audible, yet James could tell she was still crying.
Next to the closet door was a chair. Hartley must have pulled it up to remain near her, as his nearly octogenarian knees wouldn't allow him to easily get down on the floor
any longer. James glanced toward the door, where Hartley stood, clasping his hands together. The naked pain James saw in the elderly man's face pierced his heart. He mouthed, Let me try for a while.
Hartley nodded and walked out, but James knew the elderly butler would wait just outside, in case Indigo called for him.
James moved the chair and slid down the door, allowing her to hear him sit down on the floor just outside. "Are you all right?" he said as gently as he could.
"I won't need stitches. I promise."
That was hardly a yes. "Can I come in and sit with you?"
"No. I can't look at you now. I can't look at anyone now. I'm so ashamed and so stupid and I don't know why I don't just--just stop. It seems like something as useless as me would just stop working, stop living, and drop off the face of the earth."
"Don't say that. You're not useless."
"I can't do anything!" Her voice cracked, and the next words came through sobs. "I read the papers. People are angry because you might not become king, and that leaves me, and they know I won't do. They all know it, James, and I do too."
May the Good Lord damn Richard and his newspapers and his belief in torment disguised as "tough love." James forced himself to put his anger aside and think about his sister first. "I'm not done fighting for my throne yet, Indigo. And it's not going so badly."
Though the polls hadn't budged a bit on the question of the church--
"What happened?" he said gently. "Was there something?"
"I was talking to Zale, and he didn't understand why I wouldn't come to Copenhagen--and I don't understand either, I don't understand what's wrong with me--"
"Was he unkind to you?" All James's old doubts about Prince Zale revived at once, making him scowl.
"No," Indigo whispered. "But he thinks that I'm toying with him. Because I won't go see him. I won't make this real. He can't know that it's not because I don't want to. He'll never understand."
James had thought she might eventually be able to tell Zale the truth. But she could only do that when she felt truly safe with him, and that would take a longer, deeper relationship than they could ever achieve while Zale still didn't know the whole story. It was a perfect Catch-22. "I'm so sorry, Indigo."
"I wish you didn't have to worry about me," she said. "I wish I could be queen and leave you to go be happy with Ben, far away from any of this."