Page 78 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
I search for the voice somewhere ahead of me, and there’s the familiar whirring of a motor drive and the telltale clicks of a camera. A fucking photographer.
“Rachel, this way,” I say, trying to change direction, but it’s too late. The bastard’s already snapped half a dozen shots. Worse still, there’s another next to him.
I grab Rachel by the elbow and guide her back towards Harrods. Forgetting all manners, I drag her past those waiting their turn at the revolving doors, and we tumble into a compartment together.
“What the fuck, Teddy?” she says as we’re spat out inside.
“Paparazzi.” My heart rate’s up and my breath’s quickening. The bastards don’t worry me, but if I can protect her from them a bit longer, I will. Especially right now, when the hurt from all those comments is so raw.
I scan the area and, spotting the signs for the food courts, haul Rachel onto the crowded escalator, which takes us down to the basement level. From there, we duck and dive between people like we’re in a Bond movie. I spot an exit sign marked Hans Crescent. I pull Rachel close against a wall, out of the flow of people, before dialling Gavin’s number.
“He’ll be here in ten,” I say. “If we just stay quietly over here, I think we’ll be okay.”
“It’s okay, Teddy,” she says. “They got our picture. Besides what more could they say than’s already been said? ”
“I just hoped I could keep you out of the papers a bit longer.” It’s the truth, but not the whole truth. Rachel’s tough, but she doesn’t understand what’s coming. Social media comments are playground taunts compared to what the tabloids will do—they’ll dig up her entire history and twist it intosomething ugly.
“How much longer were you thinking?” she asks quietly. “Because this feels pretty inevitable.”
Before I can answer, Gavin appears at the exit, scanning the crowd until he spots us. Relief rushes through me.
“There’s our ride.”
We slip out through Hans Crescent into the waiting car. As we pull away, I catch sight of two photographers still lurking near the main entrance, cameras ready.
Rachel settles back against the leather seat, her shopping bags piled between us like a barrier. “So what happens now?”
“Now they’ll probably run some photos of us looking domestic and couple-y,” I say, trying to keep it light. “Could be worse.”
“And after that?”
I meet her eyes in the reflection of the window. This is the moment I should probably prepare her for what’s coming—the background checks, the digging, the inevitable character assassination. But she looks fragile enough already.
“After that, we see if you still want to wake up with me on Christmas morning.”
She reaches across the bags and takes my hand. “Ask me again after you’ve done the list,” she says, echoing her words from the toy department. But this time, there’s something different in her voice. Not quite certainty, but maybe the beginning of it.
As London streams past the windows, I find myself hoping the tasks on that list are enough to prove that whatever they throw at us, we’re worth fighting for.
Chapter 28
Exhaustedafterspendingalmostan hour of my Saturday afternoon wrestling with an unruly Christmas tree, I flop onto the sofa and lie back to savour my victory. Mission accomplished without calling my brother for tech support. It was worth every penny of the five hundred quid I spent to get a tree this realistic.
I grab my phone and snap a quick photo of my handiwork, then send it to Haley with the message:
Me:Look what I actually did! Before you ask, yes, it’s fake, but still…
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
Haley:RACHEL. What the actual hell? Is this for real? Are you dying?
Then another:
Haley:Hold on, callingyou RIGHT NOW.
My phone rings before I can even type a response.
“Haley, you’re supposed to be on your honeymoon—”
