It was the fact that Charles Akin was born in Nigeria that gave Deborah pause. She realised that she was tossing him into a basket in which he very well might not belong, but there were several considerations that the tabloid wasn’t touching upon, and this seemed out of character in a paper known for its proclivity to dig up dirt and smear it across the face of anyone who might have earlier garnered the public’s sympathy. England’s tabloids had always lived by a single creed: build ’em up and tear ’em down. In other words, if a tabloid loved an individual highlighted by a front-page story, there was a virtual guarantee that the same individual would be vilified by that same tabloid within seventy-two hours.
With Peach safely at home and ready to doze, Deborah collected her equipment and set it by the door. She dashed up the stairs, where she found her husband just finishing the buttoning of a blazingly white shirt. He had on trousers, and the matching jacket lay on the bed along with a tie. She said, “Giving testimony?” and to his wry response of “Now how the dickens did you guess?” she responded with, “There’s no other earthly activity worthy of a shirt like that. You could do with a haircut, Simon,” she added, and when his gaze met hers in the mirror above the chest of drawers, “Honestly, I’ve never known anyone as afraid of barbers as you. Never mind. I’m off as well. Peach has been walked and fed, so don’t let her beguile you with her dachshund eyes.”
“She holds no charm for me,” he said.
“Right. I mean it, Simon. She mustn’t get fat. It’s not good for her.”
“Nor for any of us.” He turned from the mirror and took up his tie. “I swear I shall pass her by with nothing falling loose from my hand,” he said. “Are you off to Whitechapel, then?”
“I am.”
“Not enough photos yet?”
“This is something else. I mean, more or less it’s something else.”
“Suitably vague, my love,” he pointed out. “You sound more like me than you.”
“I’ll take photos, as well. But there’s . . . Never mind. It’s not important.” She kissed him. She eased her fingers into his hair. It was soft as it curled against her palm. She gave it a tug and said, “Leave off going to the barber for now. It’s nice.”
“As you’ve been looking at it since you were seven years old, I’m gratified it maintains its appeal.” He kissed her back.
She headed out, pausing only to scoop up her equipment. A quick drive down Cheyne Row to Cheyne Walk and she was on the Embankment. Like nearly everyone else, she drove along the river in the direction of Westminster. She wondered how she would ask what she wished to ask. More, she wondered to whom she could address her question in a situation that could truly be called none of her privileged-white-lady business.
It turned out to be Narissa Cameron, who was mulling over a large map of London spread over the table in the reception area of Orchid House. This once had been the vestibule of the chapel, and it was the only part of the building that was separated from the chapel by a wall.
Narissa turned as she entered. She looked beleaguered by worries. She said, “Oh. You,” in a way that was less than welcoming. But Deborah was not to be put off, since less than welcome had so far been all but the youngest girls’ stock in trade.
“You look a bit wrung out,” Deborah said. “D’you want a coffee?”
“I’ve had four. One more and you’ll have to scrape me off the ceiling. Christ, this is such a bitch.”
“Difficulties?”
“That just about says it.”
“Anything you care to . . . I mean, not to intrude or . . .”
“Stop treading on eggshells, Deborah. I’m not going to punch you if you say the wrong thing.”
“Well, that’s a relief. What are you trying to come up with, then?” Deborah nodded at the map.
“I’m trying to settle where the narrative moments are going to be filmed. Although it would be bloody nice to have a narrator in the first place. Who would’ve thought that part of the project would be the most difficult?”
“If I may ask . . .”
“Stop it! I swear . . .” She sighed. “Forget it. Please. You can talk to me person-to-person. You don’t need my permission just because you’re white.”
“Sorry. It’s just . . . Never mind. What sort of narrator are you looking for?”
“A woman. Black. With a commanding appearance and a compelling voice. A celebrity would be best—actor, pop singer, athlete—although I’d settle for a politician if I could manage that. Thing is, I should’ve listened to my dad. He told me to get on that first. These people have packed schedules, he said. But of course I went my own bloody way. Which is what I always do. Or at least always did and am trying not to do any longer.”