September is murdered by a storm.
For the first time since Lennox’s death, Blair is in the press and her cousin made to look like a traitor, which he is.
From being nine I lived with my mother’s sister, who taught me many things that a boy of twelve, thirteen, even seventeen, shouldn’t know. She also taught me to know my enemies better than I know my friends.
I watched as the media interviewed him via a screen, heard his lies and hints at a truth that didn’t exist and put an arm around Blair when I saw her flinch as he tried to smear her name.
Then we fucked until the only name she knew was mine.
The storm is the music to the first event Blair is attending after Lennox’s funeral. I hold an umbrella over her head as she climbs out of the car onto a red carpet leading into the Ritz hotel in London, her figure looking a little more curvy in a green dress that sparkled almost as brightly as she did.
She’s started to smile again.
Children’s charities brought sides together and there had been no argument when she’d suggested attending a gala dinner where the tables were the same as my yearly salary.
She slips a hand into my arm as we walk over the sodden carpet to the hotel entrance, briefly turning and offering the waiting cameras a smile. I don’t smile, my expression the same one that all security wore because that’s all I am.
I don’t pretend to be anything else. Unless we’re alone.
Inside, the hotel is decorated in the colours of the children’s hospital that the money is for. We’re met by one of the patrons and a member of the board who offer their condolences that Blair brushes off, and I step back, aware of my place, that I’m not her partner, but her employee.
“I’m interested in visiting the ward at some point, when it’s convenient.” Her accent is muted because we’re in England.
“We’d love to show you. Any time.” The member of the board is a married man with two children and a predilection for having affairs with women who can’t be caught. We know his internet search history and that he’s been looking for images of Blair in a bikini for the last week.
“Thank you. I’ll be in touch to arrange a date.” She moves her hand from his, aware of what we know.
The room and the tables have been set up for A-list attendees and I recognise other security lingering round the room. The chances of anything happening tonight are slim but no one wants to be anywhere else. Just in case.
“There’s a seat for you at the table.” Blair touches my arm as she breezes past. Her hair’s down and curled, make-up subtle and pretty. She looks like the girl I first saw in the maze.
“People will talk.”
“And? Let them speak. They will anyway.”
“Your parents?”
She shrugs. “You think they don’t know?”
I half-laugh. Sometimes everyone’s a fool.
* * *
The evening is full of people who don’t want to be seen. There are other royalty here, Hollywood actors, singers. And there are people I don’t recognise who smell of old money and influence.
“And you are?” An elderly lady with a cane and a dress that looks like nothing I’ve ever seen before asks me as I bring Blair a drink from the bar, needing to move.
“Ben Smith.”
She nods. “Whois that?”
“He’s my bodyguard.” Blair smiles over, her eyes dancing.
“And he’s sitting with you?” The lady sounds shocked enough to need yet another brandy.
“He’s also one of my oldest friends.”
“Ah.” She looks at me again, then at Blair. Then again at me and this time her eyes drop down to where my napkinisn’tplaced. “Ahhhh.”
