There’s a hint of irony in my voice as I say, “Oh, right. I thought you were trying to look like an artist.”
She mutters something under her breath that sounds like Jerk. It was a jerky thing to say but I sense that Adrienne is the sort of person who needs a little pushback or she’ll start thinking she can walk all over me.
“Look, I know this is strange,” I say, a few minutes later. “Everyone has difficulty adjusting to having a personal security officer. You’re worried about threats and being subjected to a lot of upheaval, and you’ve got this stranger tailing after you telling you what you can and can’t do. The important thing to remember is that I’m here for you, only you, and that I’m thinking about your safety and comfort all the time. If you have any questions or worries, you can talk to me. All right?”
This gentle reassurance on my part is usually met with gratitude, a shaky smile, at least a curt nod. Adrienne just crosses her arms. “Whatever.”
Well. Baby steps. She has let me drive her to class. The gratitude can come later.
I find a parking space near Euston Square tube station and we get out of the car.
“I finish classes at four,” she tells me, taking the portfolio from my hand and striding ahead. I go with her, keeping a pace behind. She notices and rounds on me, something desperate in her face now. “You’re not coming into college with me. You got me past those journalists and you’ve got me to school. Now leave me alone.”
I glance over her shoulder at the university building. This place means a lot more to her than just somewhere to learn about art, I realize.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. Making her unhappy is the last thing I want, because unhappy principals are a pain in the ass. “It doesn’t work that way. You stay in my line of sight whenever we leave the house.”
She glares up at me, her cheeks an angry pink. “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.” Then she turns and heads for the glass doors, her chunky-heeled shoes clomping up the stone steps.
Chapter Two
The back of my neck prickles as I sit at my easel. For the last two years the Slade has been my haven away from fights and tears and tabloid gossip, and now it’s ruined.
I pick up my paintbrush and paint a thick, black slash on the paper. I should have moved out long ago. If I didn’t live at home, then the Connie Masters scandal wouldn’t have touched me. Now it’s too late—everyone in Britain knows my face and hates it. I’ll never find a share house. And how would you even pay for it? a snide voice says. My brush was too wet and I watch as the watercolor paint drips down the paper.
Some of my classmates have connected the bodyguard’s presence with me and are looking between us curiously. Celeste, on my left, keeps trying to catch my eye, but I ignore her. Mind your own goddamn business. But she can’t, it seems, and finally she leans over and says, “Adrienne, who’s that guy watching you?”
Looking at the mess I’ve made of my painting I want to hurl my paintbrush rinsing water at him. Swallowing my frustration, I say, “Ugh. My father hired a goon to follow me around. Ignore him. I do.”
“Like, a bodyguard?”
Her incredulity is embarrassing. Celeste and I have known each other since we started at the Slade together two years ago, but we’ve only been friendly for the last few months. It wasn’t that she was ever unfriendly, but I had the impression she thought I was spoiled. The bodyguard’s presence is not going to help with that. “Yeah. Have you finished the assignment for Mr. Holland’s class?”
Though her eyes are still flicking curiously from the bodyguard to me, she doesn’t ask any more questions about him.
At lunch I sit with a handful of other students. We’re not cliquey at the Slade, but we’re not super close, either. Everyone must have seen the video of me making the rounds of the internet but thankfully no one mentions it. I sit with Celeste and Janie, a severe, sullen girl who never laughs,
but instead says “That’s funny,” if something amuses her, or “That’s shit,” if you draw something that doesn’t impress her. A boy called Michael is with us, too, and he shows us photographs he took down at the Waterloo Graffiti Tunnel on the weekend. Michael has the physique of a ballet dancer and a ring through his nose, and the most infectious laugh you ever heard.
The bodyguard sits at a table nearby, drinking coffee and eating a bagel. His suit and neat, dark hair are incongruous amid all the sloppy denim, tattoos and faded T-shirts. I shred my straw wrapper to bits, glaring at him while he examines everyone around me. Like there’s going to be an axe-wielding psychopath among my classmates.
After lunch I spend two hours in the library researching visual art in Vienna at the turn of the last century. My silent companion sits at the next table, barely moving.
We have to submit a self-portrait at the end of term. I have a vague idea to create a Beardsley-esque poster, all stylized pink hair and elongated black lines. I imagine myself as Salomé, holding John the Baptist’s severed head aloft with a bloodied knife in my other hand. John the Baptist has my bodyguard’s face. I snicker, open my sketchbook and start to rough it out.
I hold the sketch up when it’s done. “Hey, goon. What do you think?” He’s gazing across the library at the entrance, watching people push in and out of the double doors, and doesn’t turn his head. After a minute I put the sketchbook down with a smack. What’s the point of him if he’s going to ignore me?
Deciding that I’ve done enough work that day, I shove my things into my bag and folio and head for the exit. The bodyguard’s long strides keep an unhurried pace with me. I stalk out of the building and turn down the street, away from where his SUV is parked. I’ll make my own way home.
A moment later I realize he’s following me. Of course he is. As I pass a narrow side street I duck down it and hide in an alcove. He was about ten paces behind me so when he turns the corner all he’ll see is an empty street. Will he search for me? Will he wait at the corner or go round the block to the other corner? Trying to second—and third-guess him is impossible, so I give it ten minutes and then peek out. No one on the corner to my left or right. Maybe he panicked and doubled back, or went down a few blocks. I hurry to the main street thinking that I might be able to slip into a cab.
And then he steps out from behind a parked car and starts following me again. Oh, crapsticks. “You’ll get a ticket,” I snarl over my shoulder.
“So I’ll get a ticket.”
I stop, clenching my hands around my folio. This isn’t supposed to be what happens. He was supposed to go get his car so I could give him the slip and walk the long way home in peace. “Are you going to follow me all the way?”
“Yes.”