Page 41 of The Last Days of Lilah Goodluck

I let my head fall back and stare at the endless sky. High overhead, a crow passes, a blot of darkness against the blue. I should be thankful it doesn’t shit on me. Things can always be worse. Though Italians believe being crapped on by a bird is a sign of good luck. Guess it’s all about perception. “I still can’t believe this is happening.”

“Then ignore it and go live your normal life. There can be great comfort in routines,” she says. “Who knows, maybe I’m wrong?”

“Wait, are you?”

“What do you think?”

“What you’re basically saying is that the only thing I have control over is how I react to the situation, huh?”

“Got it in one,” she says, pulling her glove back on. “Now go away. I’m busy.”

I slide my sunglasses back on and wander out of the community garden. I remember hearing a quote about how aging is a privilege denied to many that feels particularly relevant now. I would have made a great grumpy old lady with sparkling silver hair. People talk about how your fucks fall away with age. How freeing it can be. Good Witch Willow certainly doesn’t suffer fools gladly. It sucks that I might not get to experience the same.

I order an Uber and stand on the sidewalk waiting. Every week or so, I stop at a nearby thrift store that donates their profits to charity. I help them with their books, sorting the new stock into categories and keeping the display looking great. It’s where I’m heading now. A car drives slowly past before parking halfway down the block from me. The person in the driver’s seat doesn’t pull out a camera or anything. Not that I can see, at least.

It turns out the lure of the internet is not one I can ignore after all. What can I say? I am weak.

There’s no sign of my name on the latest offerings from the gossip sites when I check on my cell. What a relief. A rock star and their model/actor partner had been seen shopping for baby gear. And a popular comedian had cheated on his wife. The text messages were cringey. An Olympic gymnast had announced her engagement to a celebrity chef. The photos of the two women were gorgeous, their beaming smiles and adoring gazes. Talk about showing that love is real. Alistair’s half brother, the Prince of Wales, also rates a mention due to rumors his recent big royal engagement is on rocky ground.

Some people love the fame monster. They crave it and chase it and make it their own. Having been briefly on the receiving end, however, made me wonder. How many of these people would choose to keep their private lives private? If they could do their job without the public scrutiny, would they? I know their position comes with immense privilege. But the pressure of the public gaze and being subject to so many opinions is a lot.

I don’t know.

I saved my least favorite site for last. The one that had speculated on my dress size with horrified glee.Assholes.At the top of the page are new photos of Alistair with a lingerie model at a charity luncheon at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. He’s wearing another suit and, Lord, does he look dapper. The close-ups of his warm smile and very friendly gaze were... Yeah. It’s great that he’s having a good time. Though I could have done without the paparazzo catching the moment his hand lowered from the small of her back to the curve of his date’s ass. Not that any of this is my business. We’re just friends.

10

News of Alistair’s lunch date means the paparazzi have lost interest in me. My brush with fame is officially over. There’s no one hiding in the front garden when I return home that evening. No suspicious people lurking in the street. Though there’s still a lingering feeling of being watched. It’s probably just my imagination. I do my best to shake it off as I head up the stairs. It’s good to be back. I owe my neighbors an apology. Maybe I can talk Mom into baking a few batches of cookies with my help.

When I reach my door, however, the quiet hum of conversation comes from within.What the fuck?

I drop my shopping bag and fumble in my purse for the small can of Mace. With pepper spray in hand, I slowly turn the doorknob. The door is unlocked, with no sign of forced entry. Curiouser and curiouser. No sign of any criminals engaging in nefarious activity. Just two women drinking my wine, kicking back on my couch, and reading my notebook. My very private notebook.

“Lilah!” Lady Helena cries in her posh accent. Her long dark hair is messily piled atop her head. She’s in another long flowy pastel dress paired with a cream tweed jacket and several strands of pearls. But it’s the combat boots that pull her outfit together. She gets up to greet me. “How wonderful to see you again!”

“It’s nice to see you too. This is a surprise. I didn’t notice the Rolls-Royce outside.”

“Dougal dropped me off. He had some errands to run.”

“Thought I’d come over early and check on the press situation,” says Rebecca, who has a key to the apartment for emergencies. “Look who I found knocking on your door.”

“Wow” is all I can think to say. As good as it is to see her, I have no idea why Her Ladyship is here. Her son was out today on a date making it obvious that he and I aren’t together. Maybe she wants to be friends too.

“Her Ladyship and I have been talking, and we have some questions.” Rebecca holds up the notebook. “Such as why are you drafting your will and researching green burials?”

“I think being buried in a woven willow casket is lovely,” says Lady Helena. “It reminds me of a picnic basket. Like you’re eternally out to lunch.”

“Yeah.” I take a deep breath. “It was actually private...the contents of my notebook.”

Lady Helena smiles. “I swear we weren’t snooping, sweetheart. We just happened to see it. It was right over there on the table. Underneath those papers and some junk mail and a book or two.”

“You’ve been acting weird, and I’m worried,” says Rebecca. “What’s this sudden interest in death? I know you had a hard time last weekend with the ex and work and your car. But there’s more, I can feel it. What’s going on with you?”

Having Lady Helena here for this conversation isn’t ideal. Though she is sort of a part of things. At any rate, it was one thing to keep Rebecca in the dark to save us both some stress, but if she’s stressing anyway...

“I’m going to need you to keep an open mind,” I begin. “Please hold all questions and comments until the end.”

Rebecca nods.

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