He smiles at me, a slow, wide smile that makes me feel tingly right down to my toes. “Of course, princess. We can do whatever you like.”
* * *
The Lyle Wellness and Harmony Sanctuary is four hours northwest of London in the Shropshire Hills. I can hear Adrienne clattering around in the bathroom from eight the next morning but she doesn’t come downstairs till nearly nine. She’s wearing gray and black, a scowl, and is carrying a large black satchel in a manner that suggests she wouldn’t mind beating someone to death with it. It’s going to be a challenging day.
After breakfast, we head out to the car. The number of journalists is finally dwindling, but there are still half a dozen to push through. I keep half an eye on Adrienne’s satchel, ready to prevent her from taking any swings at the photographers.
We need to get onto the M4 but I don’t head straight there, and instead take several abrupt turns and double back a few times. Adrienne notices me repeatedly glancing into the rearview mirror.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“It’s called drycleaning. I’m making sure no one’s following us.” I take another rapid left-hand turn and look to see if the silver Audi that was behind us turns too. It doesn’t.
“How very James Bond.”
When I’m sure we haven’t got a tail I pull out onto the motorway and relax a little. “The press don’t seem to know where your mother is. I’d prefer they didn’t learn it from us.”
“Oh. Yes, good point.”
She chews on a thumbnail and watches the scenery slide past. It’s another chilly gray day and after a few minutes she cranks the heating up.
“Cold?” I ask, glancing at her bare thighs and chunky-knit knee socks.
“Uh-huh. But I look cute.”
I chuckle. “Yes, you do.” Not taking my eyes from the road ahead I reach behind my seat for my coat. It’s heavy and charcoal colored and made of a thick wool and cashmere blend. “Snuggle up under that,” I suggest, and she does.
“Mmm,” she says, bringing the collar up under her nose so she’s completely swamped by the fabric. “It smells like you.”
I want her to talk about her mother, to find out why they’re on such terrible terms, but she sinks into silence once more. Maybe if I talk about myself it might inspire her to open up, too. But what to share with her? Principals know as much about me as they can glean from a resume, but that’s not going to cut it here.
We’re passing Swindon an hour later and getting onto the A419 when I finally say, “I was in an accident.”
She stirs, her head turning toward me. “What? I mean, pardon?”
“You asked me the other day why I left the army. It was an accident, five years ago. A parachute jump gone wrong. I broke my back and was in hospital for five months. Medical discharge.”
A parachute jump gone wrong because I skipped part of the safety checklist. In those days I thought I was immortal.
It’s hard to gauge Adrienne’s reaction with my eyes on the road, but I can see in my peripheral vision that she’s watching me. “You can ask me about it,” I prompt.
After a moment, she asks, “How old were you?”
“Twenty-six. I’d been in the SAS for barely a year.”
“SAS?”
“Special Air Services. Covert ops, counter-terrorism, hostage rescue.”
“And they just kicked you out?”
“Had to. I needed rehab for a full year, and as far as the army was concerned I was damaged goods.”
I glance at Adrienne, wondering what she’s thinking. Her eyes are fixed on my face and her expression is pensive. I suppose that having a chronic disease like diabetes means she knows what it’s like to suddenly find out that your body is a traitor.
“You must miss it,” she says.
I consider this. “I did, at first. I was very angry. I’d invested so much mental and physical energy getting into the special forces and then I lost everything. I felt like I’d been cheated out of the life I should have been living.” I glance at her. “But I learned that you don’t have to let adversity and bitterness define you.”