“I think so,” I say, shrugging. “The media have been hard on me lately, so I don’t want to make anything worse.”

“That’s how it works, isn’t it? They gobble you up, then shit you out when they’re done with you,” Emilia says, and I would laugh if it weren’t true.

She sits down next to me. “You can turn this around. You just have to pretend to be suitably chastened, as galling as that might be. Everyone will want you to have learned something from your transgressions, as if life is ever that simple.”

I pull a face and she laughs.

“Have you run through the questions with this person in advance?”

“Most journalists don’t do that,” I say, which isn’t entirely true since I’ve already told Camila exactly whom she can’t mention.

“You’ll be fine. Would you like me to stay in the room in case you don’t like the direction she’s taking? I feel slightly uncomfortable that you don’t have a publicist here or anyone to support you.”

I’m about to decline her offer, but I stop myself when I realize that having the physical reminder of Emilia’s presence might just stop me from revealing too much about myself. I nod, trying to look grateful.

“Thank you, Emilia.”

* * *

? ? ?

The shoot is straightforward enough. I am wearing a white shirt and ripped jeans with Emilia’s diamond and sapphire Bulgari necklace that she insisted I borrow. I choose the living room as the location because it’s dark enough that the photographer will have to use a flash without me asking, and it will be more flattering for me. Before we start, I make Camila promise not to airbrush any of the shots, knowing that she will include the surprising request in her story and that it will instantly endear me to thousands of normal Americans who will now take it upon themselves to defend my appearance. I pose in front of Able and Emilia’s extensive book collection with a small, sad smile on my face that says it all: I may be fragile but I am brave, and more importantly, I am learning.

The interview is trickier to navigate. Even though I have told Camila she needs to focus on my hiatus and return only, and to avoid the subject of Able, her questions are still probing, and they affect me more than I thought they would. I try not to let her see that she’s getting to me, becoming more creative with my diversionary tactics as the hours pass.

“Everyone makes out like I was literally plucked off the streets and rescued from this depressing existence, but I had a good life in England, too, you know? I’ve always had a family who love and support me,” I say at one point, smiling amiably. “I’m aware that I’ve been incredibly lucky in that respect.”

Camila nods, but I can tell from how she shifts in her seat that she is frustrated by the uninspiring answers I’ve been giving her since we started.

“And what about the drinking? There have been rumors that you’ve had a problem with alcohol for a number of years.”

I take a deep breath and stretch out my hands in front of me, palms up. The picture of openness, honesty, asking for forgiveness.

“Yes, I was absolutely overindulging at one point. I’m trying to understand how it happened, and I think that it was because I never had to learn who I was when I was alone. Being back home with my family this past year has really grounded me. I’ve been sober for over a year now,” I say, nodding graciously when Camila congratulates me, as I knew she’d have to do. I think of the bottle of pills in my bag, and hope I closed it before leaving it by the foot of the kitchen table. “I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me, and I promise you that I’m hyperaware of my own privilege. I know that I’m not saving any lives. I’m just trying to be the best version of myself.”

I wonder if Camila is trying not to roll her eyes.

“And what about Emilia? Can you tell me about what this relationship means to you?” she asks then, watching me closely as she changes tack, and I understand that I have already backed myself into a corner by choosing Emilia’s house for the shoot. If I deflect in any way, I will be flagging up to Emilia that something is wrong.

“Emilia,” I call, and Emilia smiles from her position behind Camila. I pat the sofa next to me and she takes a seat.

“Camila was asking about you,” I say, before turning back to the reporter. “Emilia is my rock. I’m proud to call her my friend.”

Emilia smiles at me and takes my hand.

“We would do anything for this girl. Woman. She’s a member of our family.”

The photographer takes a photo of us, and just like that, our affection for each other is immortalized. Snap.

Camila nods and scribbles something down. I narrow my eyes and then smile when she looks up.

“And Dylan? What role does he play in the life of this new and improved Grace Turner?”

Hyde.

“Dylan will be in my life forever. Our souls have known each other for a really long time now.”

“Are you talking about past lives?” Camila asks, her pen hovering over her pad.

“Absolutely,” I say, widening my eyes slightly. “We have the strongest karmic connection.”

Emilia sneaks a look at me. I know it’s a good deflection even if I sound like a fantasist. Camila frowns and puts her pen down.

“And right now? Are you still together? And I’m talking physically as opposed to spiritually,” she stresses, smiling blandly at me.

“Dylan is my best friend,” I say carefully. “And he supports every step I’m taking to rediscover who I am, and what brings me peace.”

I check my watch and realize the interview should have been over twenty minutes ago. I feel vaguely irritated that nobody told me, and I stand up to stretch.

“Have you got what you need?” I ask brightly.

Camila shrugs and stands up too. She’s probably terrified that I’m going to tell her more about my past lives. I silently thank Margot for that one.

“For now, Grace. Like I said, I’m planning on turning this around quickly, but I’ll be in touch if I need you to clarify anything.”

I kiss Camila and the photographer on each cheek and lead them to the front door. At the last minute Camila turns back and hits record again on her device. She holds it out between us, and I stare down at it. Emilia is standing protectively next to me.

“One thing I forgot to ask. Have you got anything to say about Able’s influence on your life? What it’s like being known as his ‘muse’?”

I freeze and it takes everything in my power not to open the door and push her through it. I think of all the things I could say that would be a lie, and I hate Camila for being so casual with the secret that has forced its way so violently into my sense of self.

I paste a rigid smile on my face.

“What can I say about Able? He made me who I am today.”

Camila’s eyes burn into mine for a second before she nods once. As Camila and the photographer finally turn to leave, Emilia asks Camila to send her a copy of the candid shot of the two of us on the sofa. She wants to frame it and put it on her wall.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I sit on Emilia’s bed with a glass of iced tea and watch her pack for her trip. I have made her late and she is stressed, although she’s trying not to let me see it. I have also been in a strange mood since Camila left, as if there were two versions of my life dangling in front of me for a moment, and somehow I chose wrong all over again. I look at Emilia and wonder if, in the long run, I’m going to end up hurting her more than I am Able.

“Are you okay, darling?” Emilia asks at one point.

“I’m fine,” I say, nodding, but I must not be convincing enough because Emilia pauses, clutching a change of clothes for after the flight in her hand, including a modest black silk bra. The intimacy of it all, that I now know what Able will be touching, unclasping, later that night, makes me flinch.

Emilia notices my discomfort and sits down next to me on the bed.

“I’m sorry. I should have asked if you were okay earlier. Today was a big deal, wasn’t it? It was the first time you’ve spoken publicly about your . . . sobriety. I know we’ve never spoken about it before.”

I nod slowly.

“You’re doing so beautifully, Grace. I want you to know that I see you.”

I want to ask Emilia why people are always lying to me like this, what purpose it serves when they make special concessions for me. Not having a drink in my hand or an opioid in my blood isn’t doing beautifully, it’s just doing what other people do every day without ever having to think about it.

Emilia puts her arm around my shoulders, and we sit together like that for a while, my body eventually softening into hers. And then, with a clarity that makes my chest feel tight, I realize why I don’t want Emilia to go to Salt Lake City. I don’t want her to go because Able doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t deserve to feel safe or loved, to be told that everything will be okay whatever happens. I want Emilia to stay here with me instead, and I want her to choose me over Able, time and time again, until he feels as alone as I do.