Clive’s column ran next to four photos shot from a long-range lens. It looked like someone had gone rogue and flown an illegal drone that we hadn’t noticed; its distance from us meant the photos weren’t in superb focus, but you could see my bare breasts. My skin felt hot from shame. Nick and I had not actually rounded the bases up there, but he had bet the inner daredevil of my youth that I couldn’t take off my shirt and get it properly back on again before we hit the other support pole. The resultant snap was me taunting my husband in a funny, flirtatious moment we had thought was our own.

“Those bastards,” Nick seethed.

The faces of the people who had now seen my nipples—poorly censored in print, or in their entirety online—flashed before my eyes. Agatha. Richard. The Queen. Freddie, depending on where he was and whether he had Wi-Fi. Everyone who was currently renovating our flat. Gaz. Gaz. He would die of embarrassment before I did. My breath quickened, and I rolled down the window to inhale some of New York’s complex July air. It didn’t help.

“I am going to sue The Sun into obsolescence,” Nick added, almost to the rhythm of his pulsing forehead vein. “And I’m going to fly back to London and murder Clive. I should have murdered him last year when I had the chance.”

“I am an idiot,” I said, turning to him. “We were there for work.”

“We’d given them their shots,” Nick said. “We wanted one goddamn moment of privacy together.” All of a sudden, the anger seemed to drain out of him, replaced with regret. “And I goaded you. If this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

My phone lit up. Bea. I declined the call. It immediately lit up again, and we did the dance two more times. My stomach was churning. I wasn’t ready to hear my failures cataloged by Lady Bollocks.

A text popped up: ANSWER THE PHONE, REBECCA.

“It’s all over the internet,” Nick said, scrolling through his phone. “But only The Sun used the photos. They must have paid a fortune. Or Clive has this jackal on retainer.” He dropped the phone and rubbed his face. “Those disgusting pricks.”

My phone blazed again. I closed my eyes and swiped to answer. I couldn’t hide from Bea forever. “I assume you’re going to have me executed?”

“Not this time, but I believe this is, in your parlance, strike two,” said a voice that definitely didn’t belong to Bea.

“Dammit,” I blurted. “Sorry. Hi, Your Majesty. I am so sorry.”

“I presume this means you’ve seen the latest drivel produced by Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Eleanor said.

“Yes,” I said. “You can take it from me. Unfortunately.”

“And so you know how unacceptable it is.”

“I do, but—”

“And you can envision my reaction to it.”