page.
Graeme picked up what looked like another
Buzz
page. It appeared to be a map, marking each place he had supposedly been spotted, crisscrossing a route across the United Kingdom and the Continent, even the United States. Beneath it were thumbnail photographs of “possible” Waltham snapshots, a dozen or more of them, none of them clearly him—in fact none of them him at all. Most were nothing more than caricature, staged poses. “Waltham in a Mexican sombrero.” “Waltham in a beret atop the Eiffel Tower.” Bloody hell, there was even one of “him” standing with Elvis!
Graeme crumpled the fax into a ball and flung it into the hearth.
“Graeme?”
He’d forgotten his mother was still on the phone. “Yes?”
“Dear, why don’t you just end this silly game and come out of hiding? It only adds to the feeding frenzy, you know, this reclusiveness on your part. It’s a challenge I’m afraid they cannot deny themselves.”
“I’m not hiding, Mother. And this isn’t any
challenge.
I’m attempting to live a quiet and peaceful life. This is harassment, invasion of privacy, even stalking. A man should be free to live wherever and however he chooses without having to fear that the lens of some photographer’s Nikon is going to be shoved up his—”
“Unfortunately, Graeme,” his mother cut in, “you’re not just any man. You’re handsome beyond belief, wealthy with the absolute certainty of becoming even more wealthy, and unmarried. Remember those horrible, indelicate photos they took of Princess Diana working out at the gym? And then, afterward, all the papers could print for a week was the debate of whether or not she had evidence of cellulite on her thighs. They didn’t care if she had visited three hundred AIDs patients that day, or had single-handedly ended world hunger. The poor thing had to be afraid to go to the loo lest some photographer’s lens might be trained upon her bum. And much as they’d like to, they can’t hound her boys without incurring the anger of the free world. After what happened to their mother, the press have to tread very lightly. Alternate choices have been quite slim for the paparazzi—until you came along, that is. For whatever reason, Fate has made you heir to two very considerable legacies, which, in turn, makes you considerably more than just an average man. It makes you interesting. It makes you extraordinary. And this reluctance to show yourself only makes you that much more fascinating in their eyes.”
“Bloody lucky me,” Graeme muttered. He stared out the window onto the grayness of the North Sea. He would give anything to be able to board a ship down on that same shore and disappear.
“What you need, dear, is to come out into the light of their flashbulbs instead of hiding from them. Galas, events, the queen’s Christmas ball even. You need to be everywhere, be seen with everyone, and eventually the paparazzi will get bored with you.”
Graeme chewed over his mother’s words, weighing them against his own introversive feelings.
“And don’t even tell me you’re considering plastic surgery. I rather like your face the way it is. It shows your most fortunate resemblance to me.” She paused. “Seriously, though, Graeme, there is one other thing you can do to end all of this.”
“What is that, Mother? Move to the North Pole and frolic with the elves?”
She chuckled. “No. You could just get married and be done with it.”
Graeme frowned at the phone, even though he’d expected the suggestion. It was, after all, the surest way to put an end to this madness, as well as fulfill his hereditary duty now that the continuity of two noble lines, one English and one Scottish and both very ancient, depended entirely upon him. Rather, on his ability to procreate. He thought of the many portraits of his ancestors that hung in the various family properties. For centuries his ancestors had managed to hold fast to their wealth and reproduce
Graeme picked up what looked like another
Buzz
page. It appeared to be a map, marking each place he had supposedly been spotted, crisscrossing a route across the United Kingdom and the Continent, even the United States. Beneath it were thumbnail photographs of “possible” Waltham snapshots, a dozen or more of them, none of them clearly him—in fact none of them him at all. Most were nothing more than caricature, staged poses. “Waltham in a Mexican sombrero.” “Waltham in a beret atop the Eiffel Tower.” Bloody hell, there was even one of “him” standing with Elvis!
Graeme crumpled the fax into a ball and flung it into the hearth.
“Graeme?”
He’d forgotten his mother was still on the phone. “Yes?”
“Dear, why don’t you just end this silly game and come out of hiding? It only adds to the feeding frenzy, you know, this reclusiveness on your part. It’s a challenge I’m afraid they cannot deny themselves.”
“I’m not hiding, Mother. And this isn’t any
challenge.
I’m attempting to live a quiet and peaceful life. This is harassment, invasion of privacy, even stalking. A man should be free to live wherever and however he chooses without having to fear that the lens of some photographer’s Nikon is going to be shoved up his—”
“Unfortunately, Graeme,” his mother cut in, “you’re not just any man. You’re handsome beyond belief, wealthy with the absolute certainty of becoming even more wealthy, and unmarried. Remember those horrible, indelicate photos they took of Princess Diana working out at the gym? And then, afterward, all the papers could print for a week was the debate of whether or not she had evidence of cellulite on her thighs. They didn’t care if she had visited three hundred AIDs patients that day, or had single-handedly ended world hunger. The poor thing had to be afraid to go to the loo lest some photographer’s lens might be trained upon her bum. And much as they’d like to, they can’t hound her boys without incurring the anger of the free world. After what happened to their mother, the press have to tread very lightly. Alternate choices have been quite slim for the paparazzi—until you came along, that is. For whatever reason, Fate has made you heir to two very considerable legacies, which, in turn, makes you considerably more than just an average man. It makes you interesting. It makes you extraordinary. And this reluctance to show yourself only makes you that much more fascinating in their eyes.”
“Bloody lucky me,” Graeme muttered. He stared out the window onto the grayness of the North Sea. He would give anything to be able to board a ship down on that same shore and disappear.
“What you need, dear, is to come out into the light of their flashbulbs instead of hiding from them. Galas, events, the queen’s Christmas ball even. You need to be everywhere, be seen with everyone, and eventually the paparazzi will get bored with you.”
Graeme chewed over his mother’s words, weighing them against his own introversive feelings.
“And don’t even tell me you’re considering plastic surgery. I rather like your face the way it is. It shows your most fortunate resemblance to me.” She paused. “Seriously, though, Graeme, there is one other thing you can do to end all of this.”
“What is that, Mother? Move to the North Pole and frolic with the elves?”
She chuckled. “No. You could just get married and be done with it.”
Graeme frowned at the phone, even though he’d expected the suggestion. It was, after all, the surest way to put an end to this madness, as well as fulfill his hereditary duty now that the continuity of two noble lines, one English and one Scottish and both very ancient, depended entirely upon him. Rather, on his ability to procreate. He thought of the many portraits of his ancestors that hung in the various family properties. For centuries his ancestors had managed to hold fast to their wealth and reproduce
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