Guardian Girl (The Chronicles of Staffordshire) (6 page)

The interviewer squirmed. “Lenore… This isn’t about…”

Too little, too late. The teenage girl was on a man-handling roll. “My guides and chaperones have done their best to protect me from people who wish to do me harm. And I believe they have done an exceptional job. But it is impossible for them to protect me from every one of those people I do not know and each of those 146,000 photos. So if there are photos somewhere that portray me in some negative light, all I can say is…”

“Lenore… You cannot deny that one of these photos shows you holding hands with an older man…”

“I do not remember that moment, Terry…” Off camera, a tell hinted at Lenore’s duplicity. Though her leg lost its spastic jitter, Lenore once again picked at her left index finger. Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth.

“You’re telling us you don’t remember holding hands with that man?”

Armand caught Lenore’s gaze and poured strength into his beleaguered daughter.
“Te quiero, Lenore…”

“Terry… I am telling you… I do not remember that moment…”

“But surely, Lenore, you don’t expect us to believe…”

“Mr. Trainor, I live every day knowing that the honor of the De La Fuente family name is on my shoulders. How I behave does not affect only me. It also affects my mother and father, whom I love deeply. I attempt to conduct myself properly every day of my life. When my fans think of that challenge, I would like them to remember that number… 146,000…”

In the remote truck just outside, the Producer watched the interviewer seethe, red-faced and thirsting for blood. Lenore staggered Trainor with mention of his career-rocking photo. Trainor wanted payback.

“Terry… Don’t do it, mate! She knows it’s coming! Go soft!”

The interviewer refused to retreat. Terry Trainor – “Award Winning Journalist” - was not about to let a
wicked
little girl – no matter how well prepped or sympathetic - get the best of him.

“Then how do you explain your disappearance from the runway, Lenore? You vanished for more than two weeks. You were the most photographed woman in the world and then you vanished without a trace. You disappeared at
precisely
the time those photos circulated. Can you explain
that
coincidence to your fans?”

As the interviewer spoke, Armand mouthed additional instructions. They were unnecessary. With a subtle side-to-side shake of her head, Lenore waved off her father. When the red light atop Camera #2 lit, Lenore glared unflinchingly at the interviewer, Golden Globe nomination secured for Best Performance by an Actress in a Real-Life Cat Fight. She spoke measured, commanding words.

“Mr. Trainor… I am
shocked
that you would attempt to link my time away from the runway with your cruel rumors and heartless innuendo…”

Trainor parried wildly. “Lenore, it is not a ‘rumor’ that you disappeared. That is a fact…”

Lenore counter-attacked with a heart-piercing thrust. “…And since it does not appear that you will respect my privacy in this matter, you have left me no choice but to confess the details of a humiliating illness. It appears that reliving a frightening experience I would rather forget is the only way you will move onward from this malicious and deliberately hurtful line of questioning.

“I do not know if you have daughters of your own, Mr. Trainor, but I am certain you can appreciate why I, as a teenage girl, have never spoken publicly about this. It was a deeply personal, embarrassing time in my life.”

“This isn’t necessary, Lenore…”

“Oh, but Mr. Trainor, I regret you have made it so by raising such
filthy
innuendo…”

The host opened the can of worms with the accusation. The reinvigorated diva crushed every, last, squirming earth-eater with her sexy stilettos. For proper, humiliated effect, Lenore bowed her head and labored onward, speaking in hushed, mortified tones.

“The truth, Mr. Trainor… The truth is that I disappeared from the public eye for three weeks, not just two. I… I succumbed to exhaustion due to my work schedule and my studies. When I first began modeling, I believed I was invincible, able to do everything. I modeled every week. I competed in equestrian trials every weekend. I studied until late into the evening. I worked non-stop. But I could not have been more… Wrong. I was
not
invincible. I was… naive. No… I was stupid. I was…

“…A child.”

Lenore looked up, her eyes red and damp. She sniffed, striking an award-winning balance between composure and brokenness. “One night I collapsed in my Paris hotel room. By the time my chaperone found me, I was in a poor state. He immediately took me to hospital for treatment. The doctor who saw me diagnosed two weeks of bed rest and urged my father to make me give up modeling. He believed my health was at risk if I did not cut back.

“But quitting was never an option for me, Mr. Trainor. I… I love what I do. I love modeling. I love equestrian competition. I love my studies. I simply needed to learn how to balance my loves and take better care of myself. So to recuperate away from the pressures of the paparazzi, my father took me directly from Paris to a private facility in Switzerland. That was where I found balance again. I learned how to take better care of my health and draw better boundaries about my activities. For the first time in my life I learned… I learned how to say, ‘No’.”

Lenore pointed firmly at the interrogator, a trembling note of righteous indignation driving home her frustration. “
That,
Mr. Trainor…
That
is where I ‘disappeared’ to! A health ranch!”

Lenore softened and concluded her scripted monologue. “After that horrible experience, Mr. Trainor, I reduced my work schedule, I learned new relaxation techniques to help me better manage my stress levels, and I changed my diet.”

Lenore pointed at the host with a supplicant, open-palmed gesture, making his very presence in her house a repudiation of his accusations. “And as you can personally confirm for your viewers, Terry, I am once again a whole, healthy girl. Since I came back from my illness, I have not missed a shoot, a show, a class, or a competition. I believe these past two years have proved that I am fully recovered and I am prepared to begin a new phase of life at Paulson.”

What was good for the sucker-puncher was good for the sucker-punchee. Lenore leaned toward the host. “I trust, Terry, that revealing such a humiliating, deeply personal experience on your show… On live TV… Should sufficiently address
any
lingering concerns you or your viewers may have about my wellbeing.”

The Producer raged in Trainor’s ear-piece.
“Bloody hell! This interview is OVER! Get us out of this segment! Cut to the bloody India / Pakistan test match, for Christ’s sake! Just soften it up, dammit!”

Lenore sat back, dabbed away errant tears, straightened her dress, pushed a few loose strands of hair from her eyes, and resumed her elegant, cross-calved pose. The Director’s calm voice defused the Producer’s fury.
“Terry… 2 minutes… Time to wrap, mate.”

The interviewer glared at his prey. Lenore boxed him in. Everything Lenore volleyed his way deflected attention from the central issue; for several weeks a 40-something mystery man was seen intimately engaged with the then-16-year-old supermodel. Upon publication of the photos, the mystery man vanished from the face of the planet, never to be seen again. Then Lenore disappeared for more than two weeks.

Something
happened in Paris, of that Trainor was certain. If he pursued Lenore with just two minutes to go, he would appear desperate. Lenore was too popular, too polished, and too composed for Trainor to continue the chase. Despite her near breakdown, she appeared convincing on camera; a sympathetic teenage girl who simply went through a health scare.

“No, Lenore… Thank you for clearing up that situation. Now… Since we are running short on time, I have just one more question…”

A muscle flex on Lenore’s chin caught Armand’s attention. The daughter maintained her aura of serenity, but the father sensed a collapse in progress. Lenore’s spot-on retorts worked, but the experience left her drained. Powerless to intervene, Armand prayed for Lenore to remain strong for one last battle.

“Yes… Terry…”

“How much are you worth as of today? I’ve heard rumors that you are already worth several million pounds, is that true?”

Lenore relaxed. Trainor tossed her fluff. Back to the talking points. “Oh, Terry… I prefer not to talk about money. Money does not buy one happiness. I do not model for the money. I model because I love the work, I love Raquel, and because it has helped me achieve so many of my dreams. I have been blessed to travel the world and meet thousands of wonderful people. Money alone cannot make up for such experiences.”

“Yes, but… You are indeed a multi-millionaire, are you not?”

Near the bookshelf, a fatherly head nodded.

“Yes. I am. I suppose there is no harm in saying how much I am worth. When I checked this morning, my portfolio was valued at $4.5million U.S. dollars. It would be more, but I have chosen to give a significant portion to charity. As you may know, I believe very strongly in children’s aid causes and I give regularly.”

The interviewer’s eyes widened. “$4.5million U.S.? That’s quite a tidy sum for someone so young, Lenore. Does any of that include proceeds from your father’s fortune?”

In the shadows, Armand stuck out his tongue. Lenore smiled demurely. “No, Terry… Those are entirely my personal earnings.”

Sensing that the end of the interview was near, Armand folded his arms and nodded approval to his battle-tested daughter. She handled most of the interrogation like a professional, often working without a net. The toughest interview of her young career proved Lenore was ready to live life on her own in the harshest media town in the world.

Together, father and daughter dodged a career-ending crisis. “The Paris Incident” remained a neatly packaged family secret.

“Well that does it for our time together, Lenore. I want to thank you for your willingness to talk with us and connect with our viewers.”

The interviewer reached across to shake the girl’s hand.

“You are most welcome, Terry. It was my pleasure,” she lied convincingly.

Trainor looked directly into the camera. “The ’Eyes On’ team would like to express our deepest thanks to Señor Armand and Señora Alessandra De La Fuente for graciously opening their home for this interview. I only wish we had more time so we could take you on a tour of this magnificent estate and hear more about their stable of prize-winning horses. But perhaps, another time.”

“10 Seconds… do the Iran tease…”

“NEXT... The Iranian Hostage Crisis. Is there any hope for a negotiated solution? Our Middle East correspondent Reggie Belden is up next with… ‘Eyes On’ Iran. For now… From Madrid… I’m Terry Trainor.”

“Aaaaand… We’re clear. Thank God!”

Part 2

Le-Nore

Three

Proper. Elegant. Dignified.

Lenore’s half of the dorm room reflected the supermodel’s characteristic flair for order and precision. Every paper was in its appointed place. Every piece of furniture was perfectly positioned for symmetry and ease of access. Every surface was polished to a high shine. The maroon and gold sheets on Lenore’s bed were wrinkle-free. In her closet, 42 custom-made Shalamar dresses were arranged by season, type of event, and color. On a wide, custom-made, floor-to-ceiling rack, 40 pairs of shoes were arranged by style and color. Even her unmentionables drawer was organized by day and color.

Lenore appointed the wall over her bed and desk with selected paintings and framed posters of the cities she adored. Each picture was hung in an aesthetically soothing location ordered from left to right by her preference for the city. Tokyo. Rome. Paris. Madrid. New York held prominence over her meticulously ordered workspace.

Sitting at her desk and scanning the room, Lenore beamed at the quality of her handiwork. “Everything is perfect! It is so beautiful! I cannot
wait
for my roommate to arrive! I hope she loves what I have done with our room!”

A knock came at the door.

“Please come in! It is unlocked!” Lenore called.

An Asian woman in a gray business suit and pumps entered the room.

“Are you Señorita De La Fuente?”

“Yes. I am Lenore De La Fuente.”

The woman approached Lenore with her hand extended, a white index card in her grip. “I’m so glad you are here, Señorita! I wanted to let you know… Your roommate finally confirmed this morning. This is her information card. We don’t have much information about her, but I wanted you to know her name before she arrived.” The woman handed Lenore a card with absolutely nothing on it save the name. No hometown, no major, no likes and dislikes. Just the name.

Lenore flipped the card over to see if perhaps there was more information on the back. Nothing.

“Malena Sardi? That is all the information you have?”