Guardian Girl (The Chronicles of Staffordshire) (5 page)

“Yes, but, would you care to hazard a guess? Any idea at all?”

“Oh… One of my assistants recently said something about 150 magazine covers, but… I do not know the exact number.”

“Well we
do
know, Lenore. Our research indicates you have appeared on 157 covers in the past four years, with four or more appearances on more than a dozen publications. That’s quite an accomplishment for someone so young.”

“I must take your word for it, Terry. You seem to know much more about the subject than I do.”

The interviewer settled his reading glasses onto the tip of his nose and fixed his eyes to the yellow tablet. A litigator cross-examining a witness, Trainor presented his next statement with his head down.

“Right… He’s digging in, mates! Ready on 1… Up… Tighter… Aaaaand… Go 1!”

“We have some other interesting statistics about your career that our viewers might find interesting. In the past four years you have appeared on more than 160 different runways, introduced more than 340 unique garments from more than a dozen top designers, have met with more than 30 heads of state — including the President of the United States — and have visited more than 40 countries.”

Proud of the numbers, becoming nervous at the interviewer’s level of detail, Lenore faked a pleasant smile.

“That sounds about right, Terry, though, again, I do not keep track.”

Trainor lifted his head, took off his reading glasses, and stared directly at the teen, an aggressive move intended to take Lenore off her well-polished game. “That’s quite a lot of traveling and non-stop work for a woman of your delicate years, Lenore. It seems almost improbable that you would have time to complete all of your studies with a schedule like that. I’m sure you’ve heard that some of your critics have raised questions about whether you were, in fact, able to complete your studies and hold down such an active career.”

Trainor dropped the tablet into his lap and leaned forward. “What our viewers want to know, Lenore, is how you were you able to get into Paulson College with so much work on your hands? It seems utterly improbable to the casual fan. We’ve read reports that there might have been some… ‘special considerations…’ offered by Paulson due to your fame. Can you comment on that?”

A mixture of rage, indignity, and confusion flooded Lenore’s keen, youthful mind. Her elegantly guarded demeanor slipped, daggers flying as Lenore glared at the journalist. Lenore got caught scouring her memory for talking points. The interrogator pounced.

“Lenore? Your thoughts? Our viewers are curious. Do you think your fame as a supermodel helped you gain a seat at one of America’s most selective universities?”

Over Trainor’s shoulder, out of the camera angle and standing next to a bookcase, Armand positioned himself to be visible to his daughter. With blinding camera lights in her eyes, all Lenore could see were her father’s lips and his gleaming, white teeth. They mouthed the words…

“Tiene este ... Pruebas... Resultados... Camus...”

A “Buckle up, son!” smile curled Lenore’s revenge-thirsting lips. Her words dripped with the seasoning of a famous figure scorned. “I cannot speak for Paulson, Terry. I do not know how they made their decision or why. I only know that they accepted me and I am most grateful for the opportunity to attend. I assure you, however, that I followed
every
admission requirement to the letter. If you were to ask Paulson for my documents, you will find that I completed every form with my own hand. And, as I have dual citizenship, I was required to take the same tests as any other American applicant. I passed every required test, including scoring 1560 out of 1600 on the SATs. I also personally researched and submitted a 12 page document on Camus’ work, ‘The Myth of Sisyphus,’ to fulfill their essay requirement.”

Trainor opened his mouth to follow-up. Lenore continued undeterred.

“You may also recall, Terry, that I graduated first in my class at L’Academie D’Internationale with a 4.2 GPA on a 4.0 equivalent scale. I am certain your researchers informed you that I am fluent in Spanish, English, and French, as well as several dialects of each. My mother - whom you noted is a professional translator and linguist - personally tutored me throughout my childhood.”

In his ear, Terry heard the Producer raise a timely warning.
“Come on, mate… She’s boxing you. Change the bloody subject!”

Before Trainor could blink, Lenore added a deliberately humiliating, “Don’t screw with me!” jab. “You know… I just now thought of this, Terry… You must be fluent in multiple languages as well! After all, a famous journalist such as yourself must often interview world leaders. I am certain it would help to speak with them in their native tongues. I would be happy to demonstrate my skills right now, on live television, so the entire world can verify my qualifications, if that would help answer your question. Would you like to speak together in another language for a few moments? In French, perhaps?”

The Producer wrestled to regain control of the interview.
“Move on, Terry! We have the photos racked, mate!”

Beads of angered sweat formed around the interviewer’s upper lip, his Anglo face turning bright red. Lenore successfully turned the audience’s attention to Trainor’s inadequacies, and away from her alleged easy skate.

“No, that won’t be necessary, Lenore…”

“Are you certain, Terry?” Lenore winked. “It would be no trouble at all. Ne pensez-vous pas que votre auditoire l'apprécierais?”

“No, Lenore… I’d rather…”

Lenore charged ahead. She overplayed her counter-attack of the backpedaling talking head. Over Trainor’s shoulder, Armand slashed his throat with his hand, shout-mouthing the words…

“BASTA! LENORE! ALTO! ALTO!”

“Well, perhaps you would like me to quote some Shakespeare? Or I could speak with you about macroeconomic theory if you wish. My father made it a point to tutor me in economics. Oh, I am such a fan of The Economist! Do you read The Economist, Terry? Or the Financial Times?”

“BAIL OUT, Terry! Cut her off!”
urged
the Producer.

With the “gotcha” racked and ready to roll, Trainor gently shook off the Producer’s suggestion. In her humiliating counterattack, Lenore played directly into Trainor’s hands, revealing herself to be a catty, elitist snob. The more untouchable Lenore felt, the more vulnerable she became.

“No, Lenore… I think…”

“I know! As a journalist, I am certain you are familiar with the work the World Health Organization is sponsoring in malaria research in sub-Saharan Africa. Perhaps if we talked about that…”

The interviewer raised his hand and halted the teen’s barrage.

“NO! Thank you, Lenore. That was… Truly wonderful. I’m quite certain our audience can tell you are qualified for Paulson.”

Trainor touched his index finger to his cheek, as if preparing to make a point, his silent signal to the Director to be ready with the pyrotechnics. The former barrister smiled. In the booth, the Director prepared a devastating salvo.

“Right! That’s the signal… Stand by the photos… Stand by 2…”

“Yes… That was all quite fascinating, Lenore. But none of what you just shared addressed what happened to you when you were 16. I believe it was in Paris. I’m certain you remember that time. I’m certain you heard the rumors. Do you remember the incident?”

Lenore’s eyes widened in shock. She swallow noticeably. Armand’s PR team didn’t think Trainor would have the guts to go after the popular teen idol about the Paris incident. Certainly not so soon into the interview. Certainly not so aggressively.

Squinting over Trainor’s shoulder, Lenore craved a quick glimpse of her father’s reassuring face. The cameraman had shifted, blocking her sight line. The lights blinded her. What did her coach tell her?
What was the appropriate response?

“Yes, Terry, but… There… There really is not much to say about those days. I… Overworked. I was too young… Too inexperienced… And… I overworked myself. That is all.”

“Well… Yes, Lenore… That is the ‘official’ story. But… There are other things we have heard… Unofficial things. Rumors of a relationship. With an older man…”

Battling to maintain composure, Lenore’s emotional age dipped from an elegant, articulate mid-20-something, back to the 14-year-old child who begged her father to let her pursue a career in modeling. She fidgeted with her hands and unconsciously bit her lower lip. Lenore responded too quickly –– robotically –– with vacuous, rote phrases Armand’s assistants poured into her sponge-like mind.

“Rumors… Rumors, Terry… They are just that. Unfounded… Rumors. As I explained, Terry… There were rumors about my admission to Paulson… They could not be more… More unfounded.”

Lenore lifted a trembling hand to brush a few hairs from her eyes.

“What I remember… Terry… I was exhausted… From overwork. I needed time to recover.”

Trainor signaled the booth with a downward flick of his index finger.

“Right! Photos up NOW! 2… Stand by for her reaction…”

Trainor leaned forward. The body blow came swiftly, a sequence of four photos of Lenore intimately flanked by an anonymous older man – a handsome, graying man appearing to be in his young 40’s –– standing just to the side of the child model. In one photo, they held interwoven hands.

“There
were
photos, Lenore…”

Lenore’s composed facade crumbled, an audible gasp escaping her lips. She saw the photos on the monitor and froze, aghast. Succumbing to nervous, childish habits, Lenore uncrossed her calves, bouncing and jittering her right leg. In her lap, she dug at the cuticle of her left index finger with her right thumb.

“These photos show you with an older man, Lenore. He has his arm around you. And not just in one photo, Lenore. Several. Nobody has yet explained who he is or why he suddenly disappeared. Would you care...?”

An emergency note of coaching replayed in Lenore’s ears. It was her father’s voice with counsel for crisis moments, for when talking points eluded her.
“Never let the attacker remain on the attack. Even if you have nothing to throw at him, deflect his thrust. Buy time. Regroup. Breathe. Refocus.”

Lenore parried wildly, flashing quickly through all options in her arsenal of canned responses. A vague memory of a strategy teased her. In the fog of terror, she remembered just one word.
Paparazzi.

“The paparazzi! The paparazzi, Terry! They photographed me… Many times…”

There was a number! What was the number? She was supposed to say a number! Her aid gave her a number! What was the number?

Lenore’s voice wavered, her shoulders slipping forward into a guarded hunch, she lifted her fussing hands from her lap. Armand heard the tone and saw the slump. Lenore had lost sight of her security blanket. Maneuvering quickly, Armand found a second sight line over Trainor’s other shoulder. With Lenore’s eyes darting frantically, yearning for a reassuring glimpse of her father, Armand finally recaptured her attention. He mouthed…

“Respirar, mi linda. Respirar… Relajarse!”
gesturing in slow, looping motions with his hands.

As the 18-year-old received urgent coaching, Trainor pressed onward. “Yes… We all know about the paparazzi, Lenore. They are indeed everywhere. But the paparazzi had nothing to do with the man standing next to you in those photos. The paparazzi didn’t…”

“Recuerde, Lenore. Ciento cuarenta y seis…”

Lenore remembered! Confidence returned to her stiffening spine. She leaned forward and lunged verbally at her attacker, slashing the air with her right hand. Startled, Trainor recoiled.

“Mr. Trainor! I am offended by all this
disgusting
innuendo! This personal attack is appalling behavior coming from a respected journalist! Did you know that I am photographed more than 100 times every day by paparazzi and photographers from around the world?” For emphasis, Lenore slapped the back of her right hand into the palm of her left. “More than 100 times
every day,
Mr. Trainor
!
Over the past four years that would total over…”

Acting her part like an Oscar nominee, Lenore pretended to calculate a number in real time, a number that was etched into her memory. Raising one hand she tapped fingertips to fingertips as if calculating the total.

“…Well… That would be over 146,000 photos! And I do not always know when such photos are taken! They are often shot with telephoto lenses or by people who jump up in front of me without warning.”

“But Lenore…”

“And I am
often
surrounded and touched by people I do not know. As a public figure, Mr. Trainor, I am certain you can appreciate that I rarely know who stands near me. I heard that someone once took an embarrassing photo of
you
, Mr. Trainor, a photo
you
never fully explained. Would you like to share
your
humiliating photo with your viewers tonight? If I asked your Director to put
your
embarrassing
photo on the screen, would
you
be prepared to explain
it
to your viewers?”