SATURDAY

The following morning arrives with Big Important News; Frances had arranged for our engagement photos to be taken in the garden at their estate.

Estate? They call their house an estate?

I suppose it's too big to be called a house, really.

This is a peace offering. I can’t refuse it.

I take a hotel car to the ‘estate’. Before even entering the driveway, I can see a bustle of people. Camera equipment, bundles of flowers, a buffet… this is far more than I expected. When I step out of the vehicle, I’m immediately ushered to a dressing room that has been set up in the house. They have a selection of dresses for me to try, and an army of people with scissors and pins to force things to fit.

These are ballgowns – not what I’d normally consider appropriate attire for wandering in a garden. Even worse are the shoes. Fashionable heels with thin straps in dozens of sizes. The sort of thing I would struggle to walk in on perfectly smooth flooring.

Someone takes my engagement ring to clean it – it has to be absolutely perfect for the photo shoot.

Once dressed, I’m cloaked in a plastic smock and placed in a chair. A team of people surround me with brushes and spritzer bottles, sharp pointy combs and single-use applicators. My nails are manicured, then determined to be of insufficient quality. False nails are applied instead. My feet are assaulted by a woman armed with a selection of medieval torture devices.

Finally, I am permitted to stand. The shoes are immediately uncomfortable. Someone fusses with the folds of my dress.

I hear Frances’ voice – she’s telling someone to pick up the pace.

Finally, I’m brought out to the garden, supported on both sides by workers. A third carries the train of my gown so it doesn’t get dirty. There’s a secondary make-up station set up out here for between shots.

It’s so excessive.

Jaq looks like a doll, still in the packaging. He is normally very neat and put-together. Today, he isn’t fully human. I spot Lionel standing a safe distance away, by a tree. He has a bowl of dry pretzels in his hand. They don't seem the sort of snack Frances would keep on hand. I wonder where he got them.

Frances casts a critical eye over me.

‘She’ll do. Put her on the stage.’

I’m escorted to a small raised platform. Jaq and I are posed like mannequins, directed by Frances. The photographers obediently snap picture after picture.

I wobble over to a flowerbed, and my dress is artfully arranged around me. A bouquet is placed in my hands, then a florist makes a few expert adjustments. I smile, and look wistfully into the middle distance on command. My flowers are taken, and I’m led to an arch.

Finally, a break is called, and I make a run for freedom. With my train over my arm, I struggle down a cobbled path to a spot shielded from view.

I sink onto the stone bench, grateful for its support. I don’t have much time before they expect me back. I pull my knees up to my chest, and cover my head with my arms, probably ruining my hair. I’ve been on stage before. I’ve auditioned before. I’ve been judged before. But this? Never have I felt more like a meat puppet, being posed and poked and prodded until I conform to someone else’s idea of what a life should look like…

An arm slips around my shoulder. The hand gently caressing my back. Neither Jaq nor Lionel would touch me like this. I freeze.

‘Not wearing one of the dresses I sent you?’

Charles’ voice cuts like a razor.

‘I didn’t pick you for someone who gets stage fright…’

Without moving my head, I search the area – I can’t see anyone else nearby.

I did this to myself. I wanted to hide from the pomp and ceremony and I just threw myself into his claws.

‘Or is it guilt?’

What the fuck? Whatthefuck?

He pulls me closer to him – I drop my feet to the ground and I use the movement to hide reaching for my phone. I don’t have it. I haven't had it since I was at the makeup station. Nobody wants photos of a fiancée checking her phone. I want to run, but I can’t run in these shoes. Especially not across grass.

‘I’ve got something here to ask your opinion on…’

I sit still, shoulders rigid. He can’t hurt me here. There are too many people. I just have to make a sound…

He has his phone in his free hand – he brings it closer so I can see it. It’s a photo of Lionel and I at the waterfront, his arm around my shoulder, head tilted towards mine. Charles swipes his thumb across the screen, and there’s a photo of Lionel and I at a café – we’re laughing. He swipes again – same café, Lionel’s pointing his fork at me – my mouth is slightly open because I’m talking, but it looks like he’s going to feed me a bite of his cake. He swipes again and it’s Lionel and I at a street crossing, it looks like his hand is around my waist… but I don’t remember him doing that. He must have been reaching for the light button.

‘What do you want me to say?’ I say, my voice a cold monotone. ‘I’m friends with Jaq’s brother.’

He laughs. I continue;

‘And you’re a creep that had me followed. How many thousands of photos did you have to sort through to find these? It's a stretch to call these 'incriminating'.’

‘It doesn’t matter – what matters is what my friend at Hottest Celebrity Gossip will write.’

He’s blackmailing me? With that? Goddamn scummy piece of –

He whispers, ‘And what you’ll do to stop me sending them.’

My entire being is made of ice.

‘You’re disgusting. The vilest creature to crawl across the earth. You seriously call yourself Jaq’s friend?’

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

He laughs again.

‘Send your photos. I couldn’t care less. But if you do…’

I let the threat hang. He’s unphased.

‘You’ll what? Tell them it isn’t true? That’s exactly what an adulteress would say.’

I have no comeback for that. It doesn't matter that it wouldn't count as adultery until after I'm married.

‘Besides, a few crummy photos isn’t all I have. I could have a little chat with Frances about a few interesting things I’ve discovered about your history. Make life even more difficult for you.’

He has my documents. He has them. Why does he have them?

He laughs louder.

I look back up the path, hoping someone will come looking for me, and see us.

‘Don’t go yet – the game’s just getting fun.’

‘People’s lives aren’t games.’

He looks like he’s about to say something, but I cut him off;

‘I’m not a game.’

Somehow, that gives him pause.

‘Maybe not. But you will give me your number.’

What?

‘Why?’

‘You don’t get to ask the questions. Give me your number.’

I give it to him. He smiles at me and snaps a photo for the contact picture.

‘You look so grumpy.’

He releases his grip on my shoulder.

I stand awkwardly and walk back to the photoshoot, hobbled by my shoes.

I’m drowning. I’m drowning, and there’s nothing above me but ice.

Lionel sees me returning from his distant spot by a hedge and immediately looks concerned.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Pitch followed me into the garden…’

He rushes over to me.

‘He has my stolen paperwork.’

One of the workers comes over and exclaims over the state of my hair. He commands me to return to the stylist. I follow him and sit back in the stylist’s chair. Lionel stands nearby now, my own personal Talos, guarding me against attack.

The stylist tut-tuts over me, and gently combs a few stray strands of hair, spraying more choking mystery chemicals over my already chemical-drenched mane.

I briefly contemplate the idea of wearing a wire at all times. Didn’t Nixon record every conversation he ever had? Of course, it backfired on him. It’s a stupid and extreme idea. It’d still make me feel safer. I’d feel safer still if I had a real giant mechanical guardian like Talos. Or an army of bodyguards in black suits lurking in the shadows.

My brief respite over, I’m led back to the banks of Tartarus by one of Hades’ Frances’ Hecatonchires staff. The river Phlegethon burns behind me, blocking my retreat.

----------------------------------------

By the time I settle my nerves, I’m back in my own clothes. Not really my own clothes. My own clothes are comfortable. This is my 'Jaques Glarean's fiancée' costume. I have a towel wrapped around my head, keeping drips from landing on the carpet. I refused to have my hair blow-dried. I don't think I could cope with the noise right now.

Lionel is sitting on the arm of a couch, not far from me. I can hear Jaq’s violin from somewhere else in the house. A hot cup of tea sits on the table in front of me.

‘I’m sorry, what were you saying?’

Lionel looks genuinely worried.

‘I don’t want you going back to the hotel alone.’

I examine the teacup. I'm not sure caffeine is a good idea right now. Stimulants, even as mild as this, have a much greater effect on me when I'm anxious. I don't want to exacerbate my current condition.

‘Do you know where my handbag is?’

He points to the floor beside my chair.

‘Ah.’

I open it and fish out my emergency torch. It's one of those big heavy metal ones. The sort that could crack a skull and still work just fine. I place it on the table next to my cup.

‘This may not come as a particularly big surprise, but I’m fairly well versed in intimidating would-be attackers. A torch like this isn't technically a weapon, but considering the size and weight, it might as well be a cudgel.’

Lionel looks at the chipped and scuffed finish on the torch. It looks like it's been used as a cudgel for years. Still, he seems doubtful.

‘And what if the person coming after you has a knife or a gun?’

'The primary purpose of the art of intimidation is making yourself look like you're more trouble than it's worth to attack. Not actually fighting anyone. If waving around a club and being loud isn't enough, my next step is to distract the aggressor and run the hell away.'

I press the switch on the torch twice in quick succession, activating the strobe function. It's unpleasant to look at, even in broad daylight. I let it flash for a few seconds, then turn it off.

‘So, I dazzle the aggressor with the light, making it hard for them to look at me, and I run screaming. Mind you, I've never had to actually use the light after a failed intimidation.’

He reaches over and takes the torch.

'And you just carry this with you all the time?'

'Pretty much. You never know when you will need a light. The power goes out. A bulb in the costume room dies. Sometimes you have to get old sets from a spider-infested storage shed.'

'But it's huge. And heavy. This thing has to weigh at least a kilo.'

I point at my handbag. It's voluminous. It's heavy. I'm well prepared for most circumstances.

'I still don't like it. Please make sure one of us is always with you when you enter or leave that place.'

I sigh. The hotel is full of security cameras and staff. Charles would have to be a complete idiot to do something there. I honestly can't rule that out though.

People have always been so worried about me being unable to fight off attackers. It would be sweet if it weren't so condescending. Normally the expected attackers are generic boogeymen that lurk in the streets after dark, conjured up by scaremongering in the media and overactive imaginations, not real people with names and identifiable motivations.

'Sure.'

'And call us for literally anything else you need. We're here for you.'

Lionel gets up and takes his own teacup to the kitchen. I pull my phone out of its pocket. It's nearly four. I need to tell my lawyer that Charles has my paperwork. She probably won't respond until tomorrow, but it's better that I text her now than completely forget.

I have more messages waiting for me than I expect. I check those.

Most of them are from a number I don’t have saved in my contacts.

The first is a photo of Lionel standing protectively over me.

> I’ll pick you up from the hotel at 11.30 tomorrow.

>

> Wear something fun.

>

> Don’t tell anyone.

Lionel returns, and asks;

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Ah. Is there… hm. ‘

I’m not sure what to say.

Charles says I can’t tell anyone, but how will he know if I do? Does he have spies? Is he that much of a Bond villain? I look out the window to see if I can spot someone looking in on us.

‘Video games.’

Lionel looks confused.

‘Let’s go play video games.'

He leads me to his room, still confused. I stop next to the bean bag and place my unlocked phone on it. I do it as deliberately as I can to make it clear I want him to read it. I turn away and pretend to read the titles of a pile of games near the TV. My hands are shaking again.

I hear Lionel pick up the phone. I close my eyes and wait. I don’t know how he will react.

Silence.

Silence.

Footsteps.

Fainter.

Gone.

I open my eyes. I’m alone in the room. I sit on the bean bag, game case in hand, and wait. He doesn't return.