‘Whatever you’ve done, you’re going to tell me what it is, now. I don’t care what you’ve got on me. You could only have anything on me if you’d broken into my hou
se and stolen my property. Is that what you did? So I should inform the police then? I don’t give a shit. Bring it on. You can say what you like about me. I’m not a fucking politician or a royal – it’s not going to do me any permanent damage. Right. I know what you’ve got then, and it reflects pretty badly on you. What’s she ever done to hurt you? Damage limitation first, and then you’d better prepare yourself for a whole world of pain. Don’t think I’ll ever let this go. I won’t. But it’s not me you’ll have to worry about.’
‘What’s he done?’ I asked nervously.
‘He won’t say for sure, but I think he’s stolen a videotape of mine. An old one, from about twelve years ago. And he’s given it to somebody – one of the newspapers.’
‘What’s the videotape?’
‘The fucker,’ he fumed. ‘Look, I have to try and call around a few people first. I’ll tell you when I’ve done that.’
A long and frantic conversation with his lawyer took us all the way up the house and beyond. I went upstairs to my room and dealt with the butt plug. Then I took a shower, dressed and came back down.
So this was a crisis. I felt a sense of dread, but also a weird kind of hope – as if this might finally bring our relationship into sharp focus and show me whether it was viable.
He was sitting in the biggest drawing room, hunched forward, hands steepled with fingertips over his mouth, when I found him. He didn’t look up when I came in.
‘So.’ I spoke into strangely deadened air. ‘What’s going to happen?’
He watched me walk towards him. He didn’t hold out a hand or anything, so I sat in the armchair. Acres of space seemed to lie between us, though it was only a couple of feet in reality.
‘I don’t know yet,’ he said. ‘My lawyer’s making some calls, trying to see if he can spike it. If not, he’ll have to shoot for an injunction. It might be too late. We’ll just have to wait and see.’
‘What’s the video?’
He looked away from me, towards a large Fragonard painting on the wall, packed with merry creatures disporting themselves in green pastures. Just as we had been doing, not so long ago.
‘Shit,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s another call I have to make. I have to warn her.’ He slapped his palm against his forehead. ‘Fuck.’
‘The videotape’s definitely gone?’
‘Definitely. Why didn’t I burn it? God, why?’
‘Jasper. I’m really worried. What’s on it?’
‘It’s not what’s on it so much. It’s standard BDSM play, though it could be misinterpreted, of course. It’s who’s on it.’
‘So who’s on it?’
‘Ava Rose.’
‘Ava Rose! Who married the –’
‘The King of Saxenland. Yes. Her.’
‘Oh, bloody hell.’
Queen Ava had filled the void in the worldwide public appetite for beautiful royal women left by Diana’s death. She had been the most photographed, most written-about, most idolised and most scrutinised woman in the world ever since her engagement to the European monarch was announced nine years before.
The presses, from Alaska to Australia, were going to explode with the heat of this story.
‘Yeah,’ said Jasper contemplatively. ‘Bloody, as you say, hell. Look, if you want to get out of here before the circus starts –’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I want to stay with you.’
He finally looked at me.
‘I should send you home,’ he said.