“She didn’t know they fired me? Because of my … problem?”
“Because of the drugs, Chris, let’s no’ mince words, eh?”
Several people passing or sitting at tables turn to stare, and Chris smiles nervously in a “Sisters, yeah?” kind of way. “What did she say?” he hisses, drawing Beth aside.
“No’ much. Some girl with purple hair came runnin’ over with a drama and dragged ’er off.”
Chris frowns. “Purple hair? Was she about this tall? Young? Thin?”
“Sounds right.”
“That’s Lauren. What happened?”
“Oh, so that’s Lauren, is it?” Beth shrugs. “Dunno what happened. Ask ’er yersel’.”
“Where are they?”
“Went to find a more private place to talk. You know, I always thought these rich folk festivals were a bit borin’ an’ all, but this is better ’n the films, it is.”
“Glad you’re entertained,” Chris grunts, rushing into the tent.
“Oy! Get me a tea while you’re in there, will ya?” Beth shouts after him.
* * *
“Right.” Susan steers Lauren through one of the side doors of the café tent. It opens onto a small alleyway near a general storage area filled with rubbish bins and huge jugs of water. Ignoring a “No Public Access” sign, they duck behind the café, taking refuge between two large stacks of boxes covered in blue tarpaulin. “Right, what’s going on?”
“It’s Liam,” Lauren hiccups, somehow managing to fill that one name with an impressive amount of venom. “He and I—well, you know, we had a thing.”
“So you’ve said. And you ended it. Right?”
“Well, sort of. I just hate breakups, you know? But I made it really clear it was over.”
Susan nods, pursing her lips. “Okay. And how did you do that?”
“By making it kind of obvious that Chris and I were having a thing. The night the play opened, Chris and I went to a club where I knew Liam would be, because there were a bunch of my friends there. And I just sort of, uh, put on a show, you know? Like you and Philip were? Dancing?”
Susan closes her eyes for a few moments, grimacing internally. Is that really what she did? Put on a show?
“So what’d Liam do?” she asks, steeling herself.
“He—he had some photos I’d sent him a while ago, when we were still together. And he sent them to Rufus Arion! Private photos,” she hisses.
Susan had already guessed as much. “Did he publish them?” she asks, horrified.
“No! Not yet, at least. But I’m sure he will, and when he does, it’ll be the end for Dad’s campaign, won’t it? Upright family man Tory whose daughter’s sending around nude selfies? Dad’ll kill me! And Mum! I can’t—how will they even be able to look at me? God, how could I have been so stupid?” She bursts into tears and drops her face into her hands. “And I’ll b-b-be humiliated!” she adds. “Everyone I know reads that blog! They’ll all see! It was just a bit of fun between him and me, back when things were good between us. I never—never—never thought he’d …”
Susan pulls her in for a hug, praying for patience, trying to figure out what to do here.
“Okay, it’s okay,” she soothes. “We’ll find Rufus and work something out. You’re sure he hasn’t published them yet?”
Lauren shakes her head and holds up her phone. The screen shows Rufus’s blog. “I’ve been refreshing almost every minute,” she answers. “It’s not up. I came here to see if I could find him—he’s been posting selfies with authors on Instagram all day.”
“Good. Let’s go find him and get this sorted.”
Lauren turns bright red and steps back, flattening herself against the railings, shaking her head. “Oh, I can’t face him, Susan! Not after what he’s seen!”
“This is your mess, Lauren!”
“I know! I know!” Lauren gulps. Great, fat teardrops start pouring down her cheeks, and she’s breathing in that hitching, shuddering way that small children do when they’re completely undone by their own emotions. It suddenly strikes Susan just how young Lauren is, and how Susan did pretty stupid things at this age too.
“It’s all right,” Susan reassures her, rubbing her back. “Just try to calm down, okay? And I’ll see if I can find Rufus and get this sorted.” Lauren didn’t seem to be in any shape to face Rufus Arion.
“Thank you, thank you!” Lauren launches herself at Susan, wrapping her arms around her neck. “Susan, thank you so much! I knew you’d manage it!”
“It’s all right,” Susan repeats. “Just … mind what you send people from now on, okay?”
Lauren nods, then escapes around the backs of the tents while Susan ducks back inside. Her eyes rake the crowd, looking for Rufus, but the first familiar face she finds is Chris’s.
He looks relieved when he sees her, and comes over.
“Is everything all right?” he asks in a low voice as soon as he reaches her. “Look, I’m sorry about Beth—”
“No, it’s fine—your sister’s great,” Susan reassures him. “I’m sorry—I have to find Rufus.” She tries to duck past, but a crowd waiting to have books signed blocks the way.
“Is this about Lauren? What happened?” Chris asks.
“It’s fine, it’s just … something I need to fix for her.” She knows she looks frantic. Her heart is beating hard; her eyes still dart, searching the room.
Chris frowns in concern, puts his hands on both her shoulders, and looks her in the face. “Susan, please, let me help. You don’t have to do everything on your own.”
She looks up at him, and it feels like some hard nugget of resistance in her dissolves. “Okay. Help me find Rufus. Lauren says he’s here somewhere. He’s been posting pictures of himself with some of the authors.”
He nods. “All right. Authors’ Yurt, maybe? I’ll get you in.”
They set off, side by side, threading through the knots of people to a somewhat dark, oval tent set back from the square’s main thoroughfare. Chris flashes a pass at someone at the entrance, and the two of them are ushered inside. Susan blinks for a moment, eyes adjusting to the darkness, and spots Rufus sitting at a table with a trio of crime writers.
“Well hel-lo,” he says as Chris and Susan approach. “I’m guessing you two aren’t here to talk about cookbooks.”
“No, we’re not,” Susan says in a clipped voice.
“Didn’t think so.” Rufus excuses himself from the table and leads Chris and Susan outside and around the back of the tent. “I take it you’ve had a chat with Lauren,” he continues, tutting and shaking his head. “Naughty girl!” he singsongs.
Susan doesn’t even need to look at Chris to know he’s clenching his fists. “You’ve been sent some private photos, and we want them deleted,” she says, in a firm, even voice.
“They are naughty,” Rufus agrees, slowly pulling a phone out of his pocket and scrolling through something on the screen. “I mean, I’m no saint, but … oh my!” He glances up at Chris and smirks. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Baker.”