“She’s not herself,” says one source close to the family. “The Vivien we knew was bright, so present. What’s happening now, the isolation and withdrawal, it’s been hard to watch.”
Since her quiet exit from the industry, Hart has largely avoided public life, declining interviews and scrubbing what little social media presence she had. Those who know her describe someone struggling to find footing outside of the world that made her famous.
“She’s fragile,” the source adds. “I just hope the right people are looking out for her.”
Hart’s representatives did not respond to a request for comment. Her mother, reached briefly by phone, said only that she remains “deeply concerned” and is “doing everything she can.”
* * *
My eyes roll so hard I’m surprised they don’t fly out of the window.
I’m sure their “source” was also Mother. This is just like her. I toss my phone to the side.
I have more important things to deal with.
After a few minutes of deep breathing and waiting a sufficient amount of time to make it clear that I was not eavesdropping, I clutch the book tighter against my chest and head down the stairs, making as much noise as possible to make my presence known.
But he’s no longer in the office, so I make my way to his residence and knock.
What if he’s in the bathroom? What if he needed to shower or something, and he’s totally naked, and he answers the door, all drippy and stuff?—
The door swings open.
He’s not naked. Okay, so it had only been like two minutes. The naked part was unlikely. But he does have his coat off, and he’s wearing a sweater vest. The kind Mr. Rogers wore. Has he been wearing that all day under his coat? He’s dressed like an old man, but he’s like, hot. How is Mr. Rogers sexy?
“Hey. Are you okay?” His brow creases.
He’s worried about me. Concern. For me, without expectation. That is also sexy. Jesus, I need help. Or sex. Or both. I guess the genuine protectiveness thing really does it for me.
“Yes. I just have something for you. I mean, not for you, for the . . .” I wave a hand. What the hell is the word? “Inheritance!” The word shoots out. Too loud. I take a breath. “Is now a good time? You’ve been out all day, so I can come back later. Or tomorrow.”
He smiles, kindly ignoring my inability to speak. “No, it’s fine. Come on in.” He waves me inside and we head into the kitchen.
He gestures for me to sit at the island, then he opens the fridge. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.” I hop up on the stool where I sat this morning.
He shuts the fridge and pulls open the freezer. “We’ve got frozen pizza, or . . . frozen pizza.” He turns around, rubbing his chin. “Sorry. I haven’t been to the store in a while I guess.”
“I’m good with frozen pizza.”
“Great.” He turns on the oven to preheat. “So, what do you have for me?”
I reach over the island to hand him the book.
He flips it over. “Ah. One of Graham’s books. The great squash disaster turned into a success then, I take it. I’ll just get the next letter from the safe to confirm. Help yourself to whatever you want.” He waves a hand in the general direction of the fridge. “There should be some red wine in that cupboard if you want to grab a glass.”
“Did you want some?”
He hesitates in the doorway. “Oh. Sure.”
While he’s gone, I open a few cupboards. Everything is neat and orderly, but dated and unused. An old set of China, covered in a thin veneer of dust, a food processor that looks like it’s from 1986, and an ancient blender. The only things that aren’t dusty are the glasses and plates, and a half-full container of peanut butter.
Even the wine is dusty. I check the label. It’s a 1990 Bordeaux. Wasn’t that an expensive year?
I check through more cupboards, but this is the only bottle of anything I can find. I’m hunting for a wine opener when he returns.
“Oh, good, you found it.”
