THE SMELL OF COFFEE SPREAD through the kitchen, rich and comforting like a childhood memory. Meggie inhaled deeply as steam rose from the thermal mug, forming small spirals that vanished into the dimness of the London morning. The clock above the refrigerator read seven forty-two. The cold battered the windows, covering them with a veil of condensation.
She picked up the wool coat hanging behind the door and walked toward the front entrance. The sound of the wind brushing against the trees along Cheyne Walk sounded like an ancient whisper. She bent down, picked up the latest edition of The Sunny from the doormat, tucked the newspaper under her arm, and went out for an aimless walk, trying to warm both her body and her mind.
— At last, a decent cup of coffee around here... — she murmured to herself after the first bitter sip.
The sky was gray and heavy, and mist rose from the Thames like a living sheet. A few yards away, Ropers Garden looked like a sleeping refuge. Meggie chose a wooden bench near the corner of Old Church Street, right beside a statue that stood solemn and motionless, watching the river. Behind her, the Gothic silhouette of Chelsea Old Church seemed to guard ancient secrets.
— I'm alone, and I hope you don't mind keeping me company, sir... — she said aloud, leaning forward to read the name at the base of the statue. — ...Thomas More. Your name sounds familiar. Care for a cigarette? — she asked with gentle irony, resting the steaming mug against the back of the bench.
She lit the cigarette, the click of the lighter breaking the silence. After the first drag, she unfolded the newspaper. The headline in large letters made her heart race.
"Baruch Hawkings Mysteriously Murdered."
The article bore a familiar byline: Saul Nolland.
With the cigarette hanging between her lips, Meggie read and reread her boss's article. The words leaped from the page like small explosions, every paragraph meticulously constructed.
— Brilliant... How the hell did you manage to uncover all of this last night and publish it in today's edition? — she murmured, taking a deep drag.
A couple approached, pushing a baby stroller, followed by two children. The girl, holding her parents' hands, looked about six years old. Her brother, a few years older, followed just behind them, carrying a rag doll with an injured arm. The girl smiled innocently at Meggie, but the boy stopped in front of her and stared with a serious, almost inquisitive expression.
— Are you all right? What's your name? — Meggie asked, lowering the cigarette.
The boy merely pointed at the statue.
— Come along, Thomas — his mother ordered, realizing that her son had fallen behind.
— Goodbye, Thomas — Meggie said, giving him a small wave.
Before running after his family, the boy raised his index finger toward the sky. Meggie followed the gesture and looked up. A beam of light passed through the narrow gap between the clouds, illuminating Sir Thomas More's contemplative face as though the saint had been touched by something divine.
The journalist smiled, took one last drag, and flicked the cigarette butt against the statue's pedestal. She tucked The Sunny beneath her arm once more and continued toward Ropers Garden, savoring the final sips of coffee, which had now gone lukewarm.
She opened the newspaper to the second article — her own, the one Diana, her editor, had urgently commissioned. Her friendship with a Brazilian woman had propelled her journalistic career in London. She was still only an assistant, but she had already landed two front-page stories. By the newsroom's standards, that was a miracle.
She remembered how it had all begun. In New York, she frequented the right places, wore the right clothes, and spoke to the right people. Her contact list included everyone from Arab princes and Russian magnates to Oscar- and Emmy-winning actors. It had been inevitable that she would cross paths with someone like Jessyca Volpi, but their meeting had not been accidental. The path to the supermodel had begun weeks earlier, when the Brazilian was still only one face lost among thousands. Meggie folded the newspaper, took another drag from her cigarette, and allowed her memory to return to the day it had all begun.
— I NEED A FAVOR, MEGGIE — Jacob had said during a reception at his family's mansion in Manhattan. The light from the chandeliers reflected in the champagne and in the guests' jewelry.
— If it's within my power... — she replied, displaying the practiced smile she used to survive in that world.
— I want you to become friends with a Brazilian model. She has just arrived in the city.
— What's her name?
— Jessyca Volpi.
— I've never heard of her.
— But you will. In every corner of the world — Jacob assured her with the conviction of men who pulled the strings behind the scenes.
— And what would I get out of it? — Meggie teased, crossing her legs.
— First, you would meet someone interesting. — He paused and watched her mischievously.
Meggie arched an eyebrow.
— Second, you would have the chance to experience a genuine friendship. Something that, let's be honest, is extremely rare in the circles you move in.
— So far, I'm doing perfectly well, thank you.
— And third... — he began, only to stop when her father approached. The man's gaze was cold and calculating. — You would be doing yourself a favor, my dear. — Jacob continued as soon as her father walked away. — When this Brazilian becomes an international celebrity, she'll want to reward those who gave her a helping hand, and people who come from humble beginnings tend to be generous when it comes to repaying kindness. Remember that.
Meggie's father exchanged a few quick words with two businessmen and then left.
— He always appears at the right moment — Jacob remarked.
— What interest does he have in all this? — she asked suspiciously.
— Your father is an entrepreneur, Meggie. He sees opportunities even in human emotions.
— He's a...
— Don't finish that sentence — Jacob cut in with a smile. — I don't want to be accused of conspiring against him.
— You know you wouldn't be alive to tell anyone if you did.
— I'm crazy, but I'm not suicidal.
— When will I be introduced to this Brazilian?
— Tomorrow, at my house.
— If my father is involved, I can't refuse.
— Ever since your sister left, all the responsibility has fallen on you.
— One day she'll come back. She always comes back. — She picked up a champagne flute and added in an almost melancholy whisper: — Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to drink some more champagne.
MEGGIE STUBBED OUT THE CIGARETTE and gazed at the sculpture in the center of Ropers Garden. Jacob's words echoed through her mind like a fulfilled curse. He had been right: Jessyca Volpi truly had become an interesting person — and far more than that. Meggie had learned Portuguese, traveled to Brazil, and discovered a world that was both vibrant and dangerous.
The model had become a global star, but she had also become a true friend. They laughed, cried, and shared secrets — and pleasures. Jessyca was different from the others, "as fake as the designer labels in Chinatown," as she herself used to say. But Meggie knew that the Brazilian woman's sincerity came at a price.
A shiver ran down her spine.
The wind had grown stronger, sending dry leaves swirling through the garden.
She knew Jessyca owed far more than favors or opportunities. She owed powerful men, the very same men who had shaped her meteoric rise — and who, sooner or later, would come to collect.
Meggie took a deep breath, trying to push away the dark premonition creeping into her thoughts. She looked once more at the Thames, where the reflection of the overcast sky resembled a mirror of lead.
— When that debt is collected... — she murmured, — I hope there is still something left in us that can be saved.
And then, alone, with The Sunny beneath her arm and the bitter taste of coffee at the back of her throat, Meggie rose and continued on her way, like someone carrying the weight of a secret that could no longer be forgotten.