Chapter 20

20

Two days later, Amira texts with an unexpected press invite. A fundraiser at the Rosen for Nate's latest high-profile project, identifying brain signals linked to chronic pain in young children. I am torn about whether or not to go. If Nate hadn't invited me himself, then surely it's better to stay away. We haven't spoken since our last meeting.

But then again, isn't it a good opportunity for the book, to observe the subject in their own domain? Besides I should probably keep an eye on him, given that he probably knows more than he's letting on. I can always lurk in the shadows and disappear early.

I hesitate, then pick up my phone to text Amira.

I find myself taking extra care over my appearance, opting for a dark velvet dress, darker lipstick the color of blood. It seems I don't want to melt away after all. Not dressed like this, a vampire's wife.

The Rosen's library is all solemn mahogany grandeur. Oil paintings of Victorian scientists glower down from the claret walls as the clamor of voices rise upward. The room is soaked in a rich amber light with marbled pillars and deep leather sofas, and the faintest scent of old books and cigar smoke.

I sweep the room looking for Amira, but with a jolt of surprise I immediately spot Nate and Priya instead, deep in conversation in one corner. He is talking into her ear and her hands rests on his elbow. A look passes between them. My phone vibrates and I see a message from Amira.

Sorry, Anna. Can't make tonight. Something's come up.

You're joking. Like what? Here on my own. Save me!!!

I'm SO sorry. It's serious. Tony's upset. Says we need to talk. More later. How can you be lonely when Dr. Pain is there to look after you?? You'll thank me—have a fab time. Xxxx

I shiver, annoyed at how easily she yields to Tony's whims over mine, how much she's changed in these few short weeks.

"Anna, you're here." Nate's voice, suddenly at my shoulder, startles me. He looks caught out somehow and I struggle to tell if my presence is welcome or not. Judging by his expression, I assume the latter.

"I should have let you know. Amira invited me."

"No, it's great you're here," he says, awkwardly. He stares at me as if he wants to say something more but stops himself, diverted by someone calling his name.

"I'm sorry, bad timing..."

"Of course, I should let you mingle. Go for it." I turn to walk away and he reaches out, his hand touching my shoulder.

"Wait," he says, quietly, urgently. "Can we talk...later? If you give me ten minutes. That's all I'll need."

"There's no rush, I—"

"Just ten minutes," he interrupts, then disappears as someone calls his name. I watch as he circulates, animated, engaged, a mirror of his guests who light up as they pass by. Why does it still surprise me, his fame, the ease at which he slips back into all this? The high-powered academic courting his followers.

I busy myself chatting with another reporter I recognize standing near the wall, and we swap pleasantries until I feel my phone vibrate again.

I'm two floors up on the terrace. It's no entry at the top of the stairs but ignore that and take a right through the double doors.

I smile in spite of myself, breath catching in my throat. I don't rush, take pleasure in letting him wait for a bit while I finish my champagne, observe the scene. Then, heading for the stairs, I duck under the red rope barrier at the top and turn right as he directs. I open the doors into an empty banqueting space that has yet to be cleared up, with the melancholy feel of a celebration abandoned too early.

I weave my way around tables littered with empty wineglasses, bottles and dirty plates, napkins are strewn on the floor, a dinner jacket hangs on the back of a chair. At the far end, Nate is outside, leaning over a small balcony, watching his guests milling around below. In the distance a tawny strip of the Thames glints through a line of silver birch trees.

He turns around when I reach him and we face each other for a moment. "I wanted to get away for a moment," he says. "Talk to you without being distracted by a lot of boring guests."

"Boring?" I smile. "Your valued fundraisers?"

He shrugs, moves closer. "Deadly boring," he murmurs. His hand grazes my shoulder, his other arm curves around my back. Back in his study with the book to focus on, I was full of resolve. A voice in my head screams at me to make my excuses and leave. But my body won't obey. I lean back against the wall, out of view, and Nate moves closer.

He pulls me to him and we kiss. For a moment or two I am lost in the emotion of it all. But then I freeze, scorched by the memory of Eva's journal. All those insights and reflections flash up before my eyes. What a terrible fraud I am.

Does he know what she's written about me? My head spins. Nate's arms loosen around me, as if he intuits something off, and then a sharp peal of laughter rises up from one of the guests on the terrace below.

I turn and he follows my gaze. Priya is standing down below, her face tilted up toward us, an indecipherable expression I can't make out from here. We duck farther into the shadow.

"Shit," Nate says.

"She can't have seen us, can she?" There's a ripple of alarm in my tone. "I shouldn't have come up. This was a bad idea."

I think of my job, all I could lose so close to the finish line. I wait for Nate to reassure me, but he doesn't. He's distracted. How quickly his body language shifts. He rakes his fingers through his hair, adjusting his shirt. Guilty, furtive.

"You're right. I...I should really get back down there," he says, turning abruptly toward the door. Retreating, as always. I stand for a moment, aching with the inevitability of it all. How did I allow this to play out? Following him up here, compromising myself, everything I've worked for, everything he thinks he knows about me.

"Ah, so you're here," Priya greets me as I step out onto the terrace about five minutes after Nate's exit. Fairy lights twinkle on the balustrade and guests shiver, valiantly pretending it's summer in the stony April chill. "I've just been looking for you."

"I'm all yours," I say, dryly.

She looks at me, strangely jubilant. "I was just saying to Nate earlier how brilliantly you've done—we both want to thank you really—for being such a star with this punishing deadline. I know it was a rough start. None of it has been easy, but it's all come together. The timing is going to be perfect for America." She arches her eyebrows.

"America?" I echo.

"I know, exciting, right? Your sample pages you shared were so great, an American publisher wants to pick it up. He's been hoping to do research in New York for ages, applying for fellowships and funding, and this gave him a way in. We can release the book over there just before he moves to New York."

"A way in." I barely register my parroting. My mind starts spinning.

"Columbia University. Nate's starting there next month. Didn't he mention it?" I catch an unmistakable glow of satisfaction in her eyes, her lips twitch with triumph.

"It's an amazing opportunity for him. You probably read that New York Times piece last month about the new neuroscience center, the largest of its kind in the world?"

"Yes, I think I did," I manage. I nod and smile, each muscle in my face aches with the effort.

"They're keen to work with him on a new laboratory there, similar to the one here but much bigger, newer. His new baby. And, it'll all be thanks to you."

My body reacts before my brain, a thud of despair in the pit of my stomach, heavy like stones. It really is a game to him. Why can't he ever be honest?

As I watch Priya float toward Nate, I'm struck with a new idea. There's one person out there who may hold some answers, the only woman who appears to be stubbornly resistant to his charms, who doesn't seem to like him at all. She could at least shine a light on the real Dr. Nate Reid, what he really wants, who he really is.