The View Was Exhausting by Mikaella Clements

Chapter Eleven

Leo didn’t switch on the radio until he was out of London, by which time BBC Radio 1’s afternoon show was already in full swing. During a music break Robbie himself texted Leo, just a string of exclamation marks and then mate i’m fucking honoured haha. Leo grimaced. His shoulders were tight, his spine a long bar of tension. He settled for glaring at his GPS.

“Iiiit’s five-oh-seven p.m. and you’re listening to BBC Radio 1,” Robbie said as the latest pop track faded out. “Are you having a good day, Dunya? I’m having a good day.”

“Just fine, thanks,” Dunya, Robbie’s producer, said.

“Other people aren’t, though,” Robbie said, his rich, plummy voice thrilling with delight. “If we pop back to our usual segment of ‘Celebrity Schadenfreude’—”

“That is not what we’re calling it,” Dunya said.

“Of course we are, we’re very cultured over here,” Robbie said. “We’ve got the latest ominous whispers from Kensington Palace, but let’s be honest, we still want to talk about Whitman Tagore.”

“You’ve always had a thing for her,” Dunya said.

“Who among us hasn’t, Dunya? I’ve met her, and what a girl, very calm under pressure. But maybe no longer, huh?”

A message from Marie flashed up on his phone screen. That’s your cue.

Leo settled his phone in the cradle and dialed the number she’d sent him. “I mean, this is a woman who’s normally very open,” Robbie was saying when they patched him through. “She lives in the public eye, a total charmer, and then all of a sudden—bam!—dumped by Nathan Spencer, big blowup with the on-again, off-again boyfriend—old mate of mine, by the way—”

“You just can’t drop that in enough,” Dunya said. Leo exhaled.

“And she disappears,” Robbie continued, “holes up with her mum, keeps getting photographed going into the hospital looking dreadful, I mean, what are we supposed to think?”

“Well, we’ve got a surprise caller,” Dunya said. “Speaking of your old friend.”

“You’re kidding,” Robbie said, with cheerful faux surprise. “Leo Milanowski, as I live and breathe!”

“Hi, Robbie,” Leo said, keeping his voice light. “Heard you were throwing my name about.”

“It’s been too long! You practically taught me how to pick up women—”

“Not that successfully,” Dunya added.

“And now look at you, you don’t call, you don’t write—”

“I’m still getting over my hangover from your last birthday,” Leo said.

Robbie cackled again. “What a nice surprise, though. Are we in trouble?”

“No, no,” Leo said. “You guys are fine. But, you know, there’s been a lot of strange things being thrown about, a lot of rumors and then just crazy, unbelievable— Can I swear on air?”

“Dunya would really prefer if you didn’t,” Robbie said. “For those just tuning in, it’s BBC Radio 1 with me, Robbie Hayes, and I’ve got London’s very own bad boy Leo Milanowski on the line. This must be your first interview in what, five years? Where are you now, Leo? You sound a bit fuzzy, are you out and about?”

“I’m actually heading down to the coast,” Leo said, changing lanes. He caught sight of his own strained face in the rearview mirror. God, he hated interviews.

“Interesting,” Robbie said. “Doesn’t Whitman Tagore have a house on the southeast coast? Doing a little visiting?”

“You could say that,” Leo said, keeping his voice amused. “Actually, Win’s been staying with her mum for a while, as I’m sure you already know, and I’m going to join them now. I’ve had some stuff on and needed to be back in London for a bit, but I’m looking forward to catching up with them.”

“That’s great, Leo,” Robbie said. “But listen, shall we address the rumors? What about you storming out of Saint-Tropez last month after a big fight with Whitman, and you two haven’t spoken since—”

“Look, first of all, just because Win and I aren’t in the same room doesn’t mean we’re not speaking,” Leo said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “She’s one of the most important people in my life, we’re always in touch.” He smiled, tight and unimpressed with himself. “There’s these amazing things called phones...”

“All right, all right.”

“But sure,” Leo continued, “we fight sometimes, like most people. That doesn’t change how much I—” He made a face. “How much I care about her.”

“Dunya’s gone all dreamy-eyed.”

Leo forced a laugh. “A true romantic.”

“Tell us, though, Leo,” Robbie said, “like you said, there’s a lot of crazy rumors going around and it’s confusing for people and it must be frustrating for you.”

“Yeah, it drives me nuts,” Leo said, swinging off the motorway. “You’re right, I don’t do interviews a lot, but it’s just gotten out of control, and Win’s busy, you know, she doesn’t have time to deal with this.” He hesitated, aware that if the whole conversation was dangerous ground, then he was tiptoeing over a land mine right now. “But yeah, there’s been some tough stuff happening at home. It’s an illness in the family, actually.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks. Anyway, obviously Win wants to keep stuff private right now, and so do I. But because rumors have gotten so crazy, I thought I’d call and just like, on the record: she’s not in rehab, she doesn’t have an eating disorder, she’s fine and so am I. We fight sometimes like any couple, but I’m heading down there now to be with her and her family and help support her. Same way she supports me.”

He clenched his hands around the steering wheel.

“What a prince,” Robbie said. “You’re a cool dude, Leo.”

“Oh, thanks,” Leo said. “I try really hard.”

Once the next song faded in, Robbie’s voice settled into a more normal register.

“Thanks so much, Leo,” he said. “My producer’s losing it.”

“Hey, thank you,” Leo said, because Robbie was a nice guy and it wasn’t his fault interviews set Leo’s teeth buzzing like he’d bitten into foil. He glanced in his rearview. A big black SUV had just started tailing him.

“Look, man, it’s been forever, let’s grab a pint sometime. Bring your girl, if you like.”

“What, so you can flirt with her again?” Leo said, although he barely remembered Robbie and Win meeting. He supposed it had been in London sometime, or maybe LA. Win would have been charming and Robbie would have tried it on a bit.

“God, I wish,” Robbie said. “Er, tell Whitman good luck and well-wishes to her…family.”

It would be intensely obvious to everyone, Leo thought, that Whitman’s family was just her mum. But there wasn’t much he could do about that, and even Marie had agreed that something vague about Win’s mum was better than rehab rumors.

“I will,” he said. “Thank you, mate.” The word was unfamiliar in his mouth. A hot spasm of anger flickered through him. He hated lying, and he hated plots, and he hated Win for doing this to him.

A text from Marie was already waiting when he hung up: Good start. Leo threw his phone into the back seat.

It wasn’t hard to find Win’s mother’s house, even hidden as it was on a stretch of hillside that crested the sandstone cliffs. In the last part of the drive, Leo had been able to see the sea, foamy and gray at this time of year, as a line on the horizon where the fields ended. Ordinarily, he might have missed the turn to her secluded driveway, but there was no chance of that today. A crowd of paparazzi had assembled outside the house.

The photographers noticed his car in ones and twos, reluctantly shuffling out of the way so he could inch past them toward the gate, trying to peer in past the tinted windows. They were clinging to the roadside and stood huddled together like penguins at the front gate. Beyond them Leo could see some of Win’s security team, arms crossed.

The guard stationed outside the gate eyed the car with suspicion. Leo rolled the window down an inch, just enough that his eyes would be visible, but he was down on his luck because this wasn’t a guard that he knew.

“No visitors today,” he said.

“I’m not a visitor,” Leo said. He could see the photographers straining forward to hear. “I need to speak to Whitman.”

Win had bought this place for her mother several years ago, somewhere peaceful near the sea where she can grow old and judge me in peace, Win had said, in the last dregs of that evening at the Met Gala, when they’d found a quiet place to sit and Leo had been trying not to kiss her. He could just see the tilted corner of the thatched roof and the edge of a front porch. Someone was tapping at the back window of his car. He turned to see another camera lens, pressed hopefully against the glass.

“Tell her it’s Leo.” When the guard only narrowed his eyes, he added, “Please.”

The guard stared Leo down for another long moment before he sighed and pulled out his comms device, whispering so Leo couldn’t hear. Halfway through his sentence the speaker started burbling back, cutting him off, and he took a step back from the car.

“In you go,” he said.

Leo released a breath. He’d only just started to inch the car through the narrow gates when the front door to the house swung open, and Win came out.

She’d washed her hair at some point today and it was nearly crackling with static electricity in the cool air. She was wearing an oversized sweater, neat jeans, and worker boots, and she came striding across the ground between them, her face lit up with hope. Leo got out of the car, and Win tumbled into his arms.

He smiled at her, took her face in his hands, looking at her closely like it had been years, not weeks, since he’d last seen her. She broke forward and pressed her face against his neck, hugging him tight, and Leo let his hand slide up her back, stroked her hair, turning his face down toward her. There was a storm of camera flashes behind them, scattering the oncoming dusk.

Win’s hair fell forward, half hiding them both. In Leo’s ear, her voice was low and pleasant.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” she said.

Leo took his backpack and walked into the house with Win tucked in under his arm, turning her face toward his chest as though she couldn’t bear to be parted from him. The moment the door closed, she jerked away like he was painful to touch. There had been a moment, with her running toward him, with the hard weight of their bodies colliding, where Leo had thought she was genuinely glad to see him.

“It’s amazing you haven’t won an Oscar yet,” he said.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“You’re welcome, Whitman.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said. “You’re expecting me to be grateful? For the latest way you’ve decided to fuck up my life?”

“Actually, you were managing that just fine,” Leo snapped. “Unless all the rehab and eating disorder rumors were part of your grand plan?”

“I was handling them—”

“That’s not what Marie said,” Leo said. “She said you couldn’t change the conversation without leaving your mum—”

“So now you’re calling my staff behind my back?”

“I— Marie called me,” Leo said, hesitating perhaps a beat too long, but Win’s furious expression faltered slightly, so he supposed he’d gotten away with that. “Look, I’m here to help. I can fix this.”

“By going on the radio and talking about how much you care about me?”

Leo stretched, long and luxurious, lounging back against the wall. “Oh, Whitman, you were listening? Don’t make me blush—”

“You can’t fix this, Leo. I’d kick you out except you’ve made it impossible for me to do that. You’ve trapped me.”

“I’ve trapped myself,” Leo snarled. “I was out, I was free of this whole ridiculous fucking sideshow. But I’m here now.”

He could feel his stomach sinking as he said it, the full reality of what he’d done setting in. He’d thought Win would be a little grateful, at least. He’d been so angry, he’d half managed to forget how angry she was herself, and Win in a bad mood was one of the most infuriating things Leo had ever come up against. Now they were stuck here together, with photographers camped outside to watch them fall apart. And Leo was beginning to think that there was no crack in the wall, no escape from the lie he and Win had built up around themselves like a fortress. Lila hadn’t saved him, and neither had LA or Berlin or London: here he was, caught again, with a coconspirator who didn’t even like him anymore.

“If you think,” Win hissed, “that this is going to make up for what you did—”

“I’m not trying to make up for anything. I’m not sorry for having a real life.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You need me! And believe me, I’d rather be literally anywhere else, but you’ve made a mess of handling this and you need to fix it and guess what, Whitman, I’m all you’ve got! That’s what happens when you don’t let anyone in, you end up having to trust me.”

“I will never trust you,” Win said, with venom. “I’m never going to make that mistake again.”

“Fuck’s sake.” Leo turned away, pacing in the dim corridor. He tried to look Win in the face and couldn’t. Eventually he asked, “Is your mum okay?”

“Marie told you.”

“Well, I’d already figured it out by then,” he said. He dared a glance at her. Her face was tight and closed down, her eyes very dark. “Is it the—the breast cancer again?”

“Yes,” Win said.

“Is she going to be okay?”

“Yes,” Win said, razor sharp.

“Good,” Leo said, and ran his hand over his head. “Good. Well. I came to help.”

“We don’t need your help,” Win said, and pushed off the wall she was leaning against. She headed down the corridor, disappearing into the evening’s growing shadows. “But you haven’t given me any choice. Guest rooms are on the second floor. Stay out of my way.”

The next morning Leo made breakfast. The kitchen was huge, and rustic in a calculated way like it had sprung straight from the catalog. It was still early, and the house was silent as Leo crept around collecting ingredients. It was one of those IKEA kitchens where everything was labeled, tins with SUGAR and TEA and BREAD written on them. When Leo opened the sugar tin, he found coffee instead, three half-empty packs of it held shut with rubber bands. The bread bin was full to the brim with Ritz crackers. Leo ate one leaning over the sink.

He hadn’t slept much. He’d heard Win talking on the phone at some point in the night but couldn’t make out her words. After that he couldn’t fall back to sleep.

Now it was a fresh morning, the sky raw and pink like grazed knuckles and the world outside coming blearily to life. Leo could hear the hum and splutter of cars by the front gate. Most of the photographers out there had probably slept in them.

“You’re awake.”

Leo started, and turned to find Win’s mother easing herself onto the stool at the kitchen island. She folded her hands over each other on the counter.

“Good morning,” he said. He tried not to stare. She didn’t look much like Win: she was shorter and rounder than her daughter, her hair cut into a curly bob. She wore a plain blue-and-white-striped dressing gown, which she’d drawn tight around herself, and she was eyeing him with unconcealed distrust. Perhaps distaste was a better word. That looked like Win. Leo forced a smile and held out his hand. “I’m Leo.”

“I know,” Pritha said. He knew her name, of course, but it unsettled him that she didn’t offer it.

She didn’t shake his hand either. After a moment he let it drop. “Do you want some coffee?”

“Tea,” she said. “It’s in the high cupboard.”

Leo went to put the kettle on, certain she was still watching him. His neck was prickling. He watched the kettle until it began to boil.

When he brought her the mug, she nodded in acknowledgment and gestured for the salt jar, which was filled with sugar. She pulled over the iPad on the counter and started to flick through emails. Leo felt an unprompted tug of fondness, which had nothing to do with this strange, quiet woman and everything to do with the familiar crinkle of her brow. Then he rolled his eyes and turned away again, resuming his hunt for bread.

“Would you like some toast?” he asked.

She looked at him like she thought he was making fun of her.

“My daughter has made me a diet plan.” She gestured at the fridge. “It’s probably muesli again.”

“Yikes,” Leo said. He walked over to examine the timetable tacked to the fridge. It was color-coded and littered with comments like give yourself a treat! and delicious! It didn’t look like Win’s work, but like something she would hire someone else to do. Today’s breakfast menu read Green smoothie, almond yogurt, muesli—no added sugar. He turned back to Pritha, raising an eyebrow at the mug of tea. She glared back at him.

“All right,” Leo said. “Muesli it is.”

He poured two bowls for them (BOWL, each of them read on the side). He was acutely aware of the silence, but Pritha didn’t seem concerned. She had closed her emails and opened a card game. She glanced up and grimaced when he set the muesli in front of her. It was dry and floury, and they both chewed on it slowly and without speaking.

“Oh,” Win said, in the doorway. She looked startled, as if she had expected him to be halfway back to London by now. “How are you feeling, Ma?”

“Fine,” Pritha said, not looking up from her card game. “I think I’m going to have a new high score.”

“Great,” Win said. She swept past them to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of mineral water. Leo waited.

Finally she said, “You’re still here.”

“Have you checked Twitter?”

“I’m not interested, Leo.”

“You should see this,” Leo said, and took out his phone. He opened the message he’d gotten from Marie in the middle of the night.

He’d already watched the video. It was an American talk show, four beaming women sitting at a round table with a green screen Miami vista projected behind them. He ate his cereal while it played, and Win drew grudgingly closer, hugging a light arm around her mother’s shoulders.

“One more time,” one of the women was saying, “one more time, come on—”

“Oh, Janine, you softie,” said another.

“Just once more,” Janine said, and the show played back audio of Leo’s interview.

“We fight sometimes, like most people,” the recorded Leo said, his voice fuzzy over the phone line. He sounded easy, sure; the thread of discomfort with the interview in his voice had come out as seriousness, like he was discussing his future. “That doesn’t change how much I—how much I care about her.”

“See?” Janine demanded. “Oh, Kirsty, don’t tell me that doesn’t warm your heart. Look how he jumps to defend her honor. It’s his first interview in five years.”

“It is sweet, it’s very sweet,” Kirsty said. “Wow, though. I guess I’m just surprised that Whitman Tagore and Leo Milanowski have apparently lasted longer than a week, this time?”

“I think they’re growing up,” the third woman chimed in. “You know, Leo’s matured a lot in the last few years. I think he’s ready to stop being a playboy and start committing to the woman he loves. Look how happy Whitman was to see him, her whole face lights up—”

“Who are these women?” Pritha said.

“It’s a random talk show,” Win said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It’s all over the internet,” Leo said through a mouthful. “And Marie says most of the morning shows will be covering it.”

Win scowled at him. On-screen, Janine said, “And you know, I told you guys this, I have such respect for Whitman Tagore. There’s a lot of rumors about her mother and, like, a lot of celebrities would just hire someone to take care of it, but she takes a step back, she doesn’t care what people are saying about her, she only cares about her mom—”

Pritha snorted. Win, lips pressed tight together, reached forward and clicked Leo’s phone so it went dark.

“You’ve made your point.”

“It’s working,” Leo said. “That’s my point.”

“You haven’t given me any other options,” Win said, “and you’ve exposed my mother—”

“It would have happened sooner or later, regardless,” Pritha said. She pushed her bowl away. “With your…public position.”

“This way we can control it,” Leo said.

Win was quiet for a second. She had her hair pulled back, and she looked tired, Leo realized. The same frustrated expression he had seen on her a thousand times before. She took a step toward him, and he almost reached out to touch her, but she went past his shoulder for the handset on the wall and punched three numbers in a row.

“I’m coming out for a run,” she said into the speaker. “All clear out back?”

“Clear,” a voice crackled.

“I’m glad you two have already teamed up,” she said, striding out of the room. “You can just give me your schedule for the week when I get back.”

She was gone before Leo could say anything else.

“I’m going back to bed,” Pritha announced. “Today is not going to be a good day.”

Leo nodded. She struggled off the stool. When he held his arm out to help her, she took it, sighing. She let go of him once she was upright.

“Do you need help up the stairs?”

She gave him a long, discerning look. “I know that you’re trying to prove that you are useful. I won’t be able to help you. She doesn’t trust me either.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” Leo said. “I’m just trying to help.”

“All right,” she said, like she didn’t believe him. “I can manage the stairs.”

He watched her shuffle away. Now he felt irritated with both of them, and he paced around the kitchen, unsure what to do. Maybe it had been a bad idea, coming here. He hadn’t thought things through properly. The litany of articles about Win and hospitals and crisis had spooked him, and then the phone call with Marie planning his Radio 1 appearance had only made it worse. He’d wanted something to focus on beyond his own anger, beyond the realization that she’d never really cared about him. He’d wanted to see her again. He’d wanted the physical fact of her, the exact cadence of her voice.

For lack of anything better to do, he went back to his room. There was a cat curled up in the sheets where he’d pulled them back, old and surly with its eyes squinted closed. He sat down next to it and switched the TV on, flipping channels; a cursory flick through the entertainment news in case his face showed up, and then on to a bad cop movie he’d seen before.

The house felt close and confined despite its size. Without realizing it, Leo had been picturing Pritha as an invalid in bed with Win pious by her side, and Leo the hero arriving to save them both. Instead Pritha was an unknown quantity, and she and Win interacted as though they were colleagues working to defuse a bomb, never speaking more than necessary, professional and distant. Leo didn’t fit here, but neither did Win or Pritha. He didn’t understand what was happening.

After a while the cat woke up with a sleepy yowl, and picked its way down onto his lap. He scratched under its chin. It didn’t have a collar. It was nameless and grumpy, turning circles over his knees trying to get comfortable. He stroked it until it batted its paw at him to make him stop. He watched it fall asleep.

Leo didn’t wake up until somebody switched off the TV, and then he inhaled sharply, opening his eyes. The cat jumped from his lap and stalked off.

Win was in the doorway watching him, the TV remote in her hand. It must have rained while she was out because she was soaked through, and her cheeks were flushed pink from running. There was mud on her calves. He wondered how long she’d been out there.

“How many people know?” she said. “About the marriage?”

Leo scrubbed his palm over his face. “Hardly anyone. No one who talks to the press, anyway. Lila jokes about it, but I don’t think she’d actually tell someone.”

“And Lila knows the truth about you and me.”

Leo stared at her. He felt off balance from the unexpected nap, not ready for another fight. “Yes.”

“Wonderful.”

“I never said I would lie to my friends,” Leo said. “That’s not part of our deal.”

“Oh, your friend,” Win said, and looked away, her lips pursed. “Well, maybe—if you’re here. It might help.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You figured that out?”

“Don’t be a dick, Leo.” She sounded more dismissive of him than she ever had before. “And this doesn’t make up for anything. I won’t owe you anything.”

“Fine.”

“I have work to do,” Win said. “Marie’s going to call us this evening. She’s working out a plan, the best way for us to handle this. Try not to pick up any new wives in the meantime.”

Leo scowled at her. “Are you sure you don’t want to give me more-specific instructions? A script maybe?”

“You never stick to them anyway,” she said, and her voice was bitter like black tea.