Chapter 28 Honor
Honor
‘Huh?’ I lean my elbows on the kitchen island and press the pads of my thumbs against my eyelids until I see stars.
‘Remember that photo? The one that went viral. Meghan and Harry standing under an umbrella, beaming at each other in the rain. It was like a fucking Disney movie.’
Vaguely. ‘What about it?’
‘You and this doctor look like them. You’ve got the look of love, all right.’
‘Shut up and send it over.’
‘It’s already up on the Post’s homepage.’
I sigh and click through. Holy shit. The photo the Post has run with on their homepage makes my heart leap into my mouth.
There Noah and I are under the umbrella, beautifully backlit against the gentle light from the Good Vibes hallway, with the raindrops in the foreground illuminated into a million sparkles courtesy of the camera flash.
Our faces are turned to each other; my arm is linked with his.
Mara’s right. It is indeed the look of love. Noah and me, our hearts laid bare for the world’s news outlets. Fuck fuck fuck.
Noah’s texted me so many times overnight. When the flashes went off, we both froze, before I hissed at him to get back inside and shut the door, quick. I then proceeded as quickly as I could to the car, my heels slipping on the wet pavement, so a pale-faced and apologetic Di could whisk her away.
I’ve only messaged Noah back once.
Leave it with me. Please don’t worry. I’ll make it go away. I’m so sorry x
There’s only one way to make it go away, of course. Flat, outraged denial.
‘The worst thing,’ Mara says, ‘is that it just looks like you’re coming out of a house. It doesn’t look like a hospice. Cheeky fucking gits.’
She’s right. Good Vibes doesn’t look like a hospice. Noah doesn’t look like a doctor. We’re just a happy couple, emerging from an evening at a “private residence”, which is indeed the tack the Post has taken.
OO-ER HONOR! the headline screams. While Jackson James continues to get cosy on the road with Vet co-star Leila Sherazi, his wife Honor Chapman was spotted exiting a private residence in Notting Hill late last night with a dishy stranger. Has she been doing some cosying up of her own?
I scroll down. ‘Oh, God. Oh, God.’
They have more photos. Fuck. They’re of Elaine’s house, that night I first met Noah.
There’s a shot of me walking from my car to the house, and another of me entering the main front door on the upper ground floor.
Below, they’ve also got photos of Noah going in the basement door.
Presumably the pap that evening was just clicking randomly, but someone at the Post has put two and two together.
The caption reads: It doesn’t look like this is the first time Honor’s hung out with her mystery man. Here they are last month, entering another private residence via two different doorways.
I have to hand it to them. Their ability to find incriminating evidence, even where there isn’t any, is uncanny.
God. Poor Noah. Poor Elaine. It’s mortifying.
‘The only approach here is righteous indignation,’ Mara tells me.
‘We lay the fuck into them. It’ll mean exposing the fact that your mum is ill, okay?
But we make a statement to say that the photos were taken when you were leaving a private hospice, that your mother is receiving end-of-life care there, and that the gentleman you were with is her doctor and was comforting you during a difficult time for your family.
It’ll totally turn public sympathy our way, and they’ll have no choice to retract. ’
I hate it, but Mara’s right. It’s a case of throwing my family’s privacy under the bus, or throwing Noah—and my marriage—under. Besides, it’ll feel great to slap the Post with some moral righteousness and force them to backtrack.
‘What about the other photos? They were taken at my friend Elaine’s house. Noah—the doctor—is her son.’
‘Even better. Is Elaine a public figure?’
‘Yeah, she’s an entrepreneur and a non-exec—she’s a high-profile businesswoman. We were all out in France staying at Elaine’s place last month. Jackson was there, and Noah.’
‘Fabulous. Ask Jackson if he’ll post a photo of him and Noah. Back to these pictures. Were there other people there that night?’
‘Plenty. Evelyn Macleod was there, and Astrid Carmichael.’
‘Fucking brilliant. We’ll make sure they’re happy to be name-checked and we’ll make a statement that you were at a social event at Noah’s family home.
We can also buy the images of anyone else they papped that night entering the same address—if they got you, they got Evelyn.
Any news outlets who pick this up will have to do a one-eighty so fast they’ll leave skid marks. ’
I sigh. ‘Thanks Mara.’
‘Don’t mention it. Honor?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m only going to ask this once. Is there anything else I need to know about this situation?’
‘God, no.’ Years of dealing with Jackson’s crap have taught me how to hold a poker face.
‘Got it.’ Mara nods. ‘You’d better let Jackson know. I’ll prepare a statement. Give it a few hours, then later this morning we should arrange for you to be papped heading to work for a normal day.’
‘Do you think I’ll be able to make it to the hospice later? To see Mum?’
It’s not to see Mum. It’s to see Noah, who must be out of his mind, but Mara doesn’t need to know that.
‘Even better. If you turn up there, it’ll give every news outlet a chance to verify that the exterior of the building matches the shots from last night, and it’ll remind the public that you’re still focused on your mum’s wellbeing despite all this bullshit.
And obviously, it sends a loud message that you’ve got nothing to hide. Laters.’
Thank God for Mara. She’s mopped up plenty of Jackson’s messes in the past, but this is the biggest scandal she’s had to deal with on my behalf. She’s a great person to have onside.
I slide a clean mug under the coffee machine and pick up my pen. I’m so tired I won’t remember anything unless I write it down.
Call Jackson
Call Evelyn
Call Astrid
Call Erika.
Between us, Jackson and I will have taken a few years off our manager’s life by the time this Burberry deal is signed.
I have no choice but to wake Jackson up. He answers on the third ring.
‘Babe? You okay? Wait a sec.’ There’s a shuffle and a muffled voice and a pause.
God. He’s with her. He can lie there and spoon his mistress all he wants, and I’ve never even had a night with Noah.
And now I have to lie to everyone because my relationship needs to stay in the shadows.
It’s not fucking fair. My eyes sting with tears.
I brief Jackson quickly. ‘There’s a problem.
The Post got a shot of Noah helping me down the steps of the hospice last night—it was raining and I was in heels—and they’ve made it look incriminating.
It’s on their homepage and it’s being picked up everywhere.
Mara’s going to crucify them, but I wanted to let you know. ’
‘Jesus Christ. What a load of bollocks. Don’t they know or care that you were coming out of a fucking hospice?’
Amusement and irritation flash briefly. It would genuinely never occur to Jackson that I may have strayed from him.
‘Believe me, they’re going to know by the time Mara’s finished with them. But I wanted you on the same page.’
‘What a bunch of dickheads. Why the fuck didn’t Mara stop it?’
‘She tried. She’s been up all night, but there was nothing she could offer them that was any sweeter than this story. They wouldn’t drop it. Don’t worry, it’s going to bite them in the arse.’
‘Will Noah be a problem, do you think, if the press sniffs around more generally? Do we need to get Alex to draw up an NDA for the hospice?’
‘Jackson!’
If my husband was here, I’d likely throw something at him.
Something heavy. Jesus Christ. The guy has lived this toxic lifestyle for so long that he thinks bribing and threatening people is the normal way to go.
As if Noah would ever betray me. As if I’d ever let Alex, Jackson’s odious little fixer, anywhere near him.
‘Okay, okay. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Just checking.’
‘They’re family friends. Elaine has been so hospitable to us all. Of course Noah would never betray our confidence. Besides, they’re all bound by patient confidentiality.’
‘I’m so sorry, babe. About all this.’ Jackson sighs. ‘D’you want me to come home early?’
‘No, don’t worry. Thanks though. I’ll be fine.’ It’s far easier having Jackson out of the way.
‘Well, we’ll do Fashion Week next week, all right? Lots of good photo opps there. And then we can get this Burberry thing closed once and for all and we’ll go celebrate. You and me.’