The View Was Exhausting by Mikaella Clements

Chapter Twelve

Marie called in from New York to summarize the coverage. Since Win had returned to the UK, there had been competing theories about her nervous breakdown: she couldn’t handle the pressure of her career; she was too controlling and pushed men away (first Nathan, then Leo); and now, with the added fodder from Leo’s radio interview, she was struggling with family issues that were threatening to push her over the edge.

Marie looked up brightly from her notes. “So there’s plenty to work with here.”

Leo turned to Win to share a look of disbelief, but Win was nodding, waving Marie on.

“Let’s see this as an opportunity for you. We’ve always had to walk a difficult line between calm in the face of criticism and coming off as boring. This is a chance to showcase some real vulnerability. You’re just like everyone else, and bad things happen to you, and you’re surviving.”

They would do away with the romantic photo ops and the luxury shopping trips. Instead, Win should appear distracted and anxious in public. They would dial back her makeup and hair and dress her in sweaters and leggings; Marie called it a “tired but hot” wardrobe. She would smile weakly in photos with fans, and Marie would arrange for her to be ambushed outside the hospital—not Pritha’s real one, obviously, but a decoy clinic in a different town where Win could appear unfairly cornered and slip away into a waiting Leo’s car. They wanted people to feel sorry for her rather than revel in her misfortune. They wanted young women to recognize their own fraught lives in her. They wanted her to be the strong but vulnerable hero, who did fall down but got back up again.

Leo’s presence would signify an active support network behind the scenes, adding a touch of tenderness to avoid Win becoming rock-bottom pathetic. She hadn’t been abandoned; she had just chosen to retreat. And the fact that she and Leo were still together made it clear that beneath this new veneer, stripped of glamour and laughter, the same Whitman Tagore remained. She was still beautiful, still fascinating, and Leo was still bound to her.

“Let’s imagine your life turning to dusk,” Marie said, sounding dreamier than Leo had ever heard her. “It’s been a long summer’s afternoon, and now everything is poised still and waiting. Like a new dreamscape for the two of you to wander through, hand in hand.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Leo said, lip curling. He felt like the one sane character in an absurdist play.

Marie narrowed her eyes. “Not at all. I have a mood board if you need something to visualize.”

“You’re not happy about this,” Leo said, because Win’s mouth was tight with anxiety. “I know this isn’t you—”

“Don’t try to tell me what I am,” Win said. She looked back at Marie on the video call. “You think this will work? People don’t…” She paused, considering. “They don’t really like it when I’m upset.”

“Not upset,” Marie said. “Vulnerable. Worried. Sad. They’ll relate to all of that.”

“Christ,” Leo said. “What happened to not playing the victim card?”

Win gave him a cool look. “I’m not playing, Leo. My mother is ill.”

“You’re being a hypocrite,” he said. “You won’t talk to me or anyone else about anything difficult, not your dad or creepy directors or when Nathan fucking Spencer makes a racist joke on TV, but suddenly we’re telling the whole world how your life is falling apart and that’s totally fine. You’re not actually upset—”

“I’m not upset that my mother is ill? Thanks for another amazing insight—”

“I’m trying to help you,” Leo snarled. “Marie just said that if I leave, people might turn on you again.”

“Is she meant to be grateful for that?” Marie said, sudden and unexpected. “That she needs you here to make her palatable? If people would take her seriously on her own, or give her just a tiny bit of credit, or not make her work a thousand times harder than every other actress I work with…”

Win smiled, neat and bitter. “Yes, thank you, Leo. It makes me feel so good that I have to be dependent on some guy because alone I’m a bitch—”

Some guystung. Leo said, “It’s not my fault they don’t!”

“Nothing’s ever your fault, is it,” Win said. “You’re not like every other guy, right? How could anyone blame Leo Milanowski for anything? And you’re calling me a hypocrite?”

Leo’s face went hot, embarrassed. He felt some yawning desperation open up beneath him. It wasn’t his fault that the same people eager to shove Whitman Tagore aside would make excuse after excuse for Leo. What did she want him to do about it? How was he supposed to take responsibility for something so complicated and ingrained?

Into the silence, Marie said briskly, “Your complaints have been noted, Leo. It’s unfortunate that we’re all in this situation now, but we just need to get through the next few months, and then I can phase you out for good. It might be time to push the independent woman angle, anyway.”

“Agreed,” Win said, and swept out of the room.

“I’m not going to do this,” Leo said, voice strained. “I’m not going to be part of this.”

Marie was uninterested, packing up her notes, glitching over the connection as though she was already turning her energy to the next problem.

“I’m curious,” she said, looking up. “Do you really think this is so different from anything else you’ve done?”

*  *  *

They went outside. They took walks on the beach. Marie tipped off a few of her pocket paparazzi, and the next day there were photos splashed across the internet, Win and Leo hand in hand, heads bent close, leaning into each other as though they were the last couple in the world. Photos of Win sitting on a big gray rock, Leo kneeling before her as he adjusted her scarf. The photos hadn’t caught the way Win had said, her mouth a breath away from his, “I don’t think we need to get any closer than this.”

They visited Marie’s decoy clinic together in dark sunglasses with a host of suited bodyguards. They bought to-go lattes, ducking out of coffee shops hand in hand with their faces tilted down, expressions sad and unsure. Marie announced it would be better if Win looked raw, exposed, so the stylist team had left, and Win didn’t bother hiding the deep shadows under her eyes. Once they were back behind the tinted windows of the waiting car, Win shoved away from Leo and took out her phone, messaging someone until they got home. Leo still wasn’t cleared as a houseguest by her security, so every time they drove up to the gate, she had to lean over him and tell whoever was there, “It’s okay, he’s with me.”

It made him feel like a sulky child, unimportant and neglected, like he was part of his dad’s entourage again. He would have complained, except he was absolutely certain that Win knew and was doing it deliberately.

When Leo wasn’t being shepherded on an outing, he wandered around Pritha’s house. Except for the framed photos hung in the hall, there was no real sign that Win or Pritha had anything to do with the place. He wondered what had happened to the home Win grew up in. A few pictures showed glimpses of it, a poky terraced house with ugly red carpeting and overflowing bookcases. Win’s father appeared in some of them. He was usually pulling Win or her mother forward, arm hooked warm around their shoulders, bright-eyed and cheerful behind an old-fashioned pair of tortoiseshell glasses. He seemed incongruous to the misty, fragile past that had produced Pritha and Win.

Leo remembered Win having an aunt, but he’d never heard about any other family. It was hard to imagine Win blending into a large group of cousins, Win as a descendant from a long, sprawling line. She had always seemed marked apart to him, a stranger in every room she walked into.

As much as he could, Leo stayed out of their way. The house was big enough, the fridge stocked, the rooms full of diversions: a mini-gym in one, a massive entertainment center in another. It would have made sense for them to hire a housekeeper, but Leo never saw anyone else in the house, and most of the rooms seemed pristine from disuse. Meals were delivered once a week to be reheated, half eaten, and discarded without comment; nobody seemed to have much of an appetite. The only daily chore Leo could find was emptying and refilling the dishwasher. After two weeks he had yet to find any discernible system to the kitchen cupboards, so he just put things away wherever he felt like.

The rest of the time, he sat in bed and read gossip articles on his phone. His arrival had helped, as he and Marie had known it would. The tone had changed drastically; he suspected Marie had leaked more information about Win’s mother. Now there were headlines like ‘It’s Me and Leo Against the World’ and Leo Tells Win: ‘I’m Here for You.’ When he searched Win’s name on social media, the usual jeering comments came up, delighted at her newfound weakness, but they were outnumbered ten to one by posts defending her. leave her alone i would die for her!!!! one girl wrote, fresh-faced and glittery in her profile picture. One long, earnest article kept appearing, shared thousands of times: Whitman Tagore Isn’t Flawless. She’s Real.

They went to supermarkets and bought ingredients for imaginary meals, taking selfies with overwhelmed cashiers. A fan wrote this sweet fuckin prince under a photo compilation of Leo buying Win coffee and racked up thousands of likes. Marie was very pleased. Win left the coffee next to her in the car, untouched, going cold, and ignored him whenever she could in favor of her phone, probably texting nasty reports about him to Shift or Emil.

It wouldn’t look good for them to be caught making out, Marie said, but she wanted them to touch. They walked into storms of camera flashes with their heads ducked, Leo’s arm wrapped close and possessive around Win’s shoulder, Win wearing one of Leo’s baseball caps tugged low over her eyes. He could feel the tension in Win every time he touched her. Her spine was rigid, her grip on him entirely forced. The moment they were out of view, she jerked away.

Win’s career continued behind the scenes, an unstoppable force that ran ceaselessly beneath Leo’s feet, like the rumble of an underground train. He’d gleaned from their debriefs with Marie that The Sun Also Rises was still in the cards, although delayed. All press appearances had been canceled, although it was unclear to Leo whether they had been axed to make time for Pritha, or just to bolster the idea that Win wanted to spend more time with Pritha. Chanel couldn’t be delayed, and Win had agreed to go ahead with filming for their spring campaign as scheduled; Leo ended up being dragged along with her for the inevitable behind-the-scenes videos.

“I don’t think the concept of behind the scenes applies here,” Leo said, waiting for her in the kitchen.

“They could come and film me vomiting in the toilet,” Pritha offered. “Or is that the wrong kind of backstage gossip?”

Leo watched danger flash across Win’s face. He almost felt excited at the prospect of her screaming at them. It would be better than more icy silence. She looked up at him, as if she could tell what he was thinking. Her hair was falling out of its tie and she was scowling, and for an instant Leo forgot where they were, what they were doing; he wanted to flick her on the nose and pour her a drink.

“There’s something else,” Win said. “Riva Reed has been pulled in for the photo shoot. They liked us together in Saint-Tropez. Apparently they’re going for some kind of witch coven aesthetic.”

Pritha made a faint, disbelieving noise. Win ignored her. Leo said, “So?”

“So, she’s been around us when we were…friendlier,” Win said. “You have to be convincing. She’ll notice if something’s wrong.”

“Why don’t you just tell her? She’s your friend, isn’t she?”

Win didn’t answer. Her gaze was unreadable.

“For fuck’s sake,” Leo said. “You don’t trust Riva?”

“Someone taught me not to trust anyone,” Win said lightly, and went out to the car before Leo could respond.

They had to drive farther up the coast for the shoot. It was meant to give the impression of deserted wilderness, Leo supposed, green fields, a rocky beach, trees whipping back and forth in the high October wind, but by the time they arrived, it was a busy hum of activity. There were half-built studios and several trailers. It reminded Leo of afternoons spent on shoots with his mum, and that one disastrous month interning with Marc Jacobs when he was sixteen. People with composed faces rushed past him dragging racks of dresses behind them. Win hung off his arm as they got out of the car and joined the mess; in the sudden flurry of campaign staff and stylists and assistants, she clung on, like he was the one steady thing in a storm. Leo kept his gaze faraway and distant, looking over everyone’s head. His mouth kept tugging down. He forced it into line.

The wind slipped under his collar. Win was whisked into a trailer, no doubt to be put into something far too flimsy for the weather. He remembered joining her for filming two or three Octobers ago, on a bright icy day in New England. In between takes they’d bundled her into a big fluffy dressing gown and she came to huddle under his arm, stealing sips of his coffee because she was on another weird diet and wasn’t meant to be having any.

Win returned, a dark, tense slip of a figure on the other side of the field. They’d put her in a high-necked, nearly transparent Edwardian dress. Leo yawned, unimpressed, and she looked in his direction, a trained, loving glance that was for everyone watching. Leo raised his hand and pointed his fingers into a gun, cocked them at her, and Win put her hand playfully over her heart. There was a little murmur of appreciation, quickly stifled.

Riva arrived around lunchtime, rushing into Win’s arms. Leo drew closer, hands in his pockets. “Oh my god, honey,” Riva was saying. “Your mom? I’m so sorry. Is she going to be okay? Are you okay?”

“We’ll both be fine,” Win said, and made quick, annoyed eye contact with Leo, jerking her head. He closed the last few feet between them, put an arm around Win’s waist, and drew her in against him. “And I’m not on my own.”

Riva shook her head, still clutching Win’s hand. “I’m so glad you two found each other. I’m going to get made-up, but then I want to hear everything, okay?”

“How about it?” Leo said as she left. “Going to tell her everything?”

Win’s smile didn’t change.

She was called away again to sprawl against a tree, and after a while Riva joined her, the two of them winding their arms around each other and staring glassy-eyed into the camera. Leo’s fingertips were tingling with fury. At least he could stand here scowling and everyone would just label him as protective.

When they moved on to solo shots of Riva, Win dropped into the chair next to him.

“Riva said that you’re the dream boyfriend but I should be careful,” she said, eyes glittering. “Apparently rich white guys always go bald really young.”

Leo was startled into a shout of laughter. “Marie’d ship me off to some retirement home for ex-boyfriends.”

“You’ll like it,” Win said sweetly. “You and Nathan can be poker buddies.”

He leaned in toward her, already smirking, but his phone chimed in his pocket. Her face tightened.

“It’s just Gum,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.” Win pulled her hair out of her face. She wrapped her fingers around the arms of her chair. “You can speak to who you want.”

“Well, don’t lie,” Leo said. Win was ready with a comeback, he could tell from the short inhale, the raise of her shoulders—but then there was a flash, and they both stared up into the dark eye of a camera lens.

“Don’t mind me!” the girl behind it said. “This is just for the press package, if that’s okay?”

Win said, “Sure,” and leaned over the arm of Leo’s chair, her cheek on his shoulder. Her mouth was almost touching his shirt and she murmured, “Touch me.”

“You guys are so great.” The camera moved around them, the girl ducking for a new angle so the sea made a murky backdrop. “Just ignore me.”

“Okay,” Leo said. “We’ll just act like normal, then.”

He was irritated again. The afternoon had gotten away from him, and he didn’t know what Win wanted, so he put two fingers under her chin to angle her face up, and he leaned down and kissed her, light, her mouth just open against his. She shuddered.

Leo knew how it felt when Win liked it. He knew the way tension ran through her like a thread of gold, the way if he pushed a little she’d fold and curl against him. This was not that. It was revulsion.

“Okay,” Leo repeated. He didn’t let go of her too quickly, because their camera girl was still hovering. “When can we leave?”

Win didn’t answer, just shot a smile at the camera. “I better get back to work.”

It was hours before they escaped. The clouds were just beginning to open up when Win was released, trailing affectionate goodbyes and fervent promises to see Riva again soon.

“I thought we’d head back ourselves, just the two of us.” Win’s gaze was clear and attentive, her fingers resting lightly on his forearm. “Does that sound nice? I’ll drive.”

Leo was in trouble, then. He smiled back at her, gentle and supportive for the cameras and their audience. “Sure.”

Her bodyguards took her driver and followed in a car close behind, and Win and Leo pulled down the long, windswept road, not looking at one another.

Leo spoke first. He was miserable and exhausted and he kept thinking of the jerk of disgust in Win’s body, like his mouth was just another forced compromise she had to suffer through. “You can tell Marie we won’t kiss anymore, if you hate it that much.”

“Jesus, Leo,” Win said, smacking one hand against the steering wheel, like she’d been waiting for the chance to explode. “Are you serious? It’s bad enough that you come out here and force me to parade around with you, now I have to enjoy it?”

“Who’s forcing you? I’m helping you.”

“You are torturing me,” Win said.

Leo could see only half of her face in the streetlights. He wished he could open the door and jump out, but the storm was descending now, rain slamming against their windows in the growing dark. He could feel a headache brewing.

“Win,” Leo said. “Why don’t we just talk about it?”

“Okay,” Win said. “Sure. Tell me about her, then.”

Leo stopped. He looked over at Win, white-knuckled on the steering wheel, in the middle of a conversation he hadn’t realized he was having. He said carefully, “I meant us.”

“There’s nothing to talk about with us,” she said. “I thought we were friends and you clearly didn’t, or else you wouldn’t have lied to me—”

“We were friends,” Leo said. “We can still be friends. You’re the one who won’t fucking look at me.”

“I’m sorry,” Win said, and gave him a sweet, dangerous look. “Tell me about your secret wife, friend.”

Leo’s mouth tasted sour. “I’m sure you’ve already compiled a dossier. Likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses—”

“Fuck you,” Win said, voice shaking, a dull flush clawing up her throat, making her blotchy and horrified. “I haven’t. I don’t know anything about her, and whose fault is that?”

“I— Fine,” Leo said. “Let’s play your weird, nasty game. Lila’s great. She’s a really good musician, and she’s always working on a random new project. She built me a bike from scratch while she was writing a song for some America’s Got Talent star, that Christmas one that was everywhere last year—”

“I fucking hated that song,” Win said.

“Good for you,” Leo said. “She’s allergic to bees, and every time we went hiking we had to carry extra-strength repellent and an EpiPen. She doesn’t take shit from anyone and she’s not two-faced, she tells the truth. She’s always got seven things on the go, but sometimes I think she still hasn’t decided what she wants to do. She understands not having a—a vocation, she understands wanting to figure things out, she doesn’t have every fucking detail of her life planned out to a fine fucking art and judge anyone who doesn’t—”

“I get it,” Win snarled. “She sounds perfect. It must be so refreshing for you to be with someone who never has to care about anything—”

“She’s kind and she’s patient,” Leo snapped, “and she’s my friend and I love her. That’s all.”

Win blanched. Leo sat silent, almost breathless, waiting. He wanted a response, some modicum of understanding, but Win’s face was tight with anger and she didn’t look at him. It was as though there was nothing he could do, no way to win. He could resist or give in, and it didn’t matter; he was always left on the outside of Win’s fury.

“If you don’t want me to tell you anything, you shouldn’t ask,” he said. “I’m not sorry for having a life outside of The Whitman Tagore Show. I should have told you about Lila, and I want to make up for that, but—”

“You can’t make up for Lila,” Win said. Her voice was very low. “Not ever.”

Leo stared at her. “What do you want me to do, then?”

“I keep telling you,” Win said. “I want you to leave.”

Leo looked out the window. Rain-dark hills, a broiling sea. He didn’t know what he was doing here anymore.

“Fine,” he said. “I will.”

When they got back he slammed out of the car without speaking. Maybe they’d get a photo of him storming into the house, but he didn’t care. It couldn’t hurt him, couldn’t touch him; it wasn’t true, unlike the real people in his life, and Leo wanted those people: Gum’s nasal pronouncements, Thea’s indulgence, Hannah coming home and stealing all his beer. His heart was pounding like he was struggling against a net. He wanted out; he wanted to believe there was something else for him. Win didn’t even want him there.

Behind him, he heard the door bang as Win came inside, then Pritha’s voice, surprised, cut off by Win’s sharp retort. Leo scowled. Maybe he’d go to the gym on his way home, run or box it out. His whole body was sparking and jittery with anger.

Upstairs, he shoved his clothes into his bag, gritting his teeth. He wanted out. He threw the bag over his shoulder and headed back downstairs.

He almost made it, too.

“Shit,” someone said, low and annoyed in the living room.

Leo paused. He stuck his head around the door. “I didn’t know you swore.”

Pritha looked up, eyes narrowed and frustrated. She looked more like Win than he’d noticed at first. “Why, because I’m over sixty, or because this isn’t my first language?”

“Oof,” Leo said.

“I can’t make this stupid machine work,” Pritha said. She was kneeling by the enormous TV, in front of a slim white box trailing cords. “I don’t know why I have it. I liked the DVD player.”

Leo shrugged. “So use the DVD player.”

“It was disconnected and packed away. I was told this would be much better.”

Leo’s grip flexed around his bag. He was leaving.

Pritha’s nose wrinkled. “Useless,” she murmured. It was unclear whether she was talking about Leo or the box.

“Let me have a look,” Leo said, and dropped his bag.

Forty-five minutes later, Leo was cursing and Pritha was sitting serenely on the sofa, a pashmina wrapped around her shoulders and her feet folded up underneath her.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Leo said. “It’s all connected, the image is working, why isn’t there any sound—”

“I told you you should have kept the yellow cord in.”

“But that’s when we couldn’t get the Wi-Fi to connect.”

Pritha shrugged. “It is a stupid machine.”

“It is,” Leo said, and dismantled it, started putting it together again.

This time the sound worked, the image worked, and the remote didn’t, meaning they couldn’t get off the incessantly cheery welcome screen.

“I don’t understand the point of all this,” Leo said, grimly yanking cords out. “Why can’t we just keep using DVDs?”

“That’s what I said. You’ve just unplugged the television.”

Leo swore, then looked over his shoulder. “Sorry.”

Pritha made a magnanimous gesture.

Leo turned it off, then on again. The image flickered back into life.

“No sound.”

Leo made a frustrated noise and banged on the box. The sound of a woman sobbing filled the room, and Pritha said, satisfied, “Oh, it’s Yeh Rishta.”

Leo stumbled back and slumped on the opposite end of the sofa to Pritha. “What’s that?”

“TV show,” Pritha said, already absorbed. “Very silly.”

Leo tilted his head to the side. “Are they speaking Bengali?”

“Hindi,” Pritha said.

“You speak Hindi, too?”

“I spent some time in Delhi,” Pritha said. “I can follow it.”

“Right.” There were some dramatic close-ups with lots of heartfelt violins in the background. Without letting himself consider it, Leo asked, “Does Win speak Bengali?”

Pritha looked at him. Leo set his jaw, kept his eyes on the television.

“I think she understands some but can’t speak very much. We always spoke English to her, we didn’t want her to struggle at school. She used to talk to her grandparents on the phone sometimes, but after Jotish died, we lost touch with them. And my parents died before Whitman was born.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Leo said uselessly. Pritha didn’t dignify that with a response. Leo sank back into the couch.

He watched three episodes without thinking. He didn’t understand most of what was going on, but when he asked, Pritha would explain in short, uninterested sentences, and every once in a while there was a dance number, which he liked. Pritha looked tired and ill, waxy in the dim light. Leo went into the kitchen and made them cups of tea, shuffling around the cupboards until he could find a packet of biscuits.

When he handed them to Pritha, she said, “This is not on my diet plan.”

“You can blame it on me. Win’s not my biggest fan at the moment anyway.”

“Yes. She said you were a prick, and that you were leaving.”

“She’s a…,” Leo started, and drew in a breath. “Well, I am leaving. I just want to see who Kartik’s gonna marry.”

“Mm,” Pritha said. “It is hard to guess.” While he was gone, she had turned the subtitles on for him.

The fizzing energy of his anger started to change shape, shifting into a gray lead that lined his bones. It sank into him and made him gloomy and exhausted. When the biscuits didn’t hit the spot, he went back into the spotless kitchen to warm up a pizza. There was no sign of Win. Pritha managed a slice and a half of the pizza before she looked wan and worn out, pushing the plate away. Leo removed it without commenting. He brought her a bottle of soda water and she sipped slowly at it, eyes glazed.

“How were the doctors today?”

Pritha shrugged.

He wondered if she was frightened, if she was thinking about her husband, who had died of the same malignant cells, only an inch or two lower. Mostly she looked annoyed.

“Give me the last biscuit,” Pritha said. Leo handed it over. When she switched the channel to an old MasterChef rerun, he didn’t say anything, didn’t make any move to get up. There was plenty of time for leaving.

He woke up to the bleary white light of the television screen saver, a logo bouncing around. His mouth was dry and fuzzy. He wasn’t sure what time it was. On the other end of the couch Pritha was asleep, too, head hanging back against the cushion, mouth open.

Win was standing over them, her expression inscrutable. She was in the same clothes from earlier, and she looked perfect and untouchable.

“I asked Gus to give you security clearance,” she said.

Leo, thick mouthed, licked his cracked lips and tried to speak, but his first attempt came out grinding and hoarse, and he had to clear his throat and try again. “What?”

“So you can come and go how you like,” Whitman said, gaze cool and assessing. “It’s late. You should go to bed.”