by Harry F Rey
The board meeting turned quickly into a party, as drinks were poured, cakes cut, and snacks brought out. Alexandra chit-chatted for over an hour, feeling relaxed and at ease in an environment where she could talk global politics without causing an international incident. As she planned to leave, the MP who’d been stalking her all morning approached.
“Happy birthday, ma’am,” she said with a disarming smile. Alexandra, while less than five-foot-nine, towered over her. She should have looked up her name, but now seemed a little late to ask … and a little awkward to go and check the agenda to see.
“Thank you, and thank you for the party. It’s wonderful.”
The MP smiled back weakly … clearly she came with something on her mind. “You’re welcome. I just wanted to say you’re doing a fantastic job. Honestly, you’ve done more than most politicians to keep Syria on the agenda.”
“Well, it’s just a horrible situation. Anything I can do…”
“You could do more.”
“Excuse me?” For a moment Alexandra swore she’d misheard her.
“You don’t speak out publicly … about anything. We never hear from you, ma’am. You’re doing all this fantastic stuff behind the scenes, but the public doesn’t know who you are. All we ever hear about you is as someone’s sister, or daughter, or wife. You could be — should be — one of the most important women in the world, but you’re stuck in the shadows. You let him hog all the spotlight.”
“I’m sorry, who are you, again?”
“Zia Wajid, ma’am. Labour MP for Birmingham Northfield.” She offered out a hand, which Alexandra clasped lightly.
“Of course you are. Well, nice to see you again.” Alexandra began to leave, but Zia cut in front of her.
“Ma’am, please understand I don’t mean any disrespect, but your brother is completely unfit to be king. And I’m not the only one in Parliament who thinks so.”
“You know,” Alexandra said, trying to laugh it all off, “not so long ago, that would’ve been considered treason.”
“We aren’t living in the middle ages anymore. We have a multicultural Britain, so why shouldn’t we have a multicultural, mixed-race royal family?”
Alexandra did her best to turn away and not confront the issue, just as she had desperately tried to avoid it for all these years. Faisal had done everything he possibly could to “fit in” with the upper echelons of the British establishment. Head of the Cricket Association, converted to Anglicanism, renounced his Saudi citizenship and any claim to the throne, not to mention the years at Eton and Oxford. He’s more the Englishman than most other royals have been the last three hundred years. Yet still, the prospect of him or their children getting anywhere near the throne horrified more of the country than she cared to think about.
Of course, back when they’d married, no one had seriously expected James to remain without issue. Queen Victoria had consented to their marriage under that condition, and that Alexandra would do everything in her power to ensure James produced an heir whilst Victoria still lived. Granddaughter had rather forced grandmother into such an agreement, however. Alexandra promised that should she be thrown overboard because of whom she wanted to marry, she would quite happily take the ship down with her. Victoria knew the trouble Alexandra could cause, so a deal had been struck and the peace had been kept, till now.
“Ma’am, please. You represent everything good about the royals. Think about the impact that you’d have as queen; for women, for minorities. Be a bridge of peace to the Muslim world.”
“Well, Miss Wajid, it was very nice to see you again. Goodbye.”
Alexandra pushed herself out of the board room with casual smiles and curt nods. She was a familiar face, one which they were accustomed to disappearing at a moment’s notice. Back in the smooth gray walls of the empty corridor she took a breath, stealing a moment of solitude.
The question of why Zia Wajid had chosen today of all days to bring up such a subject bothered her like a loose thread. The plans had been stitched together so carefully in her mind. One wrong move from a hothead could cause everything to unravel. Yet the thought that others, particularly in parliament, had come to the same conclusion Alexandra had so many years ago intrigued her too. Perhaps things would be able to move quicker, if there was already a well of public support to rely on.
Alexandra closed her eyes for a moment and shook away the thought. It wasn’t one for today, and it would be dangerous to think too many moves ahead when there was still so much more work to be done. The trap had only just been set. She chewed away the grin that threatened to burst across her face, finding her composure again. Day one, she reminded herself. Move one.
• • •
Andrew practically ran down the street, clutching his phone. The quiet mid-morning streets of London at least gave some refuge to a man seeking to hide from everyone. The phone rang.
“Lizzie, thank fuck. What took you so long?” He breathed out like he’d just surfaced from a deep-water dive, but now found himself bobbing around an empty sea. Lizzie, the one friend who knew everything, the only friend he could truly rely on, had always been his life boat in stormy waters. He needed her to rescue him now more than ever.
“Jesus, what are you playing at?” she screamed.
“I don’t know! I didn’t mean it to come out like that, I just wanted to get them off his back for a bit. Did you see the bloody papers? Now he won’t answer his fucking phone.” He passed by a news agent proudly displaying those horrendous headlines, with pictures of the Prince looking lost and alone splashed across the front pages. Andrew shuddered at the thought of tomorrow’s headlines when no girlfriend appeared. He wanted to stop and be sick, but the street had become a conveyor belt of his worst nightmares that he couldn’t get off.
“Are you surprised? Andrew, you just told the whole world they can expect to see his fucking serious fucking girlfriend tonight, you fucking idiot.”
The little ding of the bell from the news agent’s door snatched his attention from Lizzie. A middle-aged man in a flat cap stepped out, his round, ruddy face buried in the tabloid, soaking up all the juicy speculation. A long honk from a taxi’s horn flicked Andrew’s head to the street. The black cab nearly crashed into a woman crossing the middle of the road, distracted by her own newspaper. Even the taxi driver had it folded in half across his steering wheel, the full color picture of Andrew squirting sun cream onto James’ back visible through the driver’s seat window.
Andrew’s heart pounded like the construction noises drifting along the morning air. The sensation of the phone against his ear snapped his attention back from the unfolding horror of reality around him.
“Andrew?”
“I know, fuck, I know. I just have to find him someone.”
“You think?” Lizzie said, taking a deep breath. “And who told the papers?”
Andrew avoided the gaze of passersby, fearful of any glance of accusatory recognition. “It’s her, isn’t it? Course it is, has to be her. We knew this would happen. She’s started moving against us.”
Lizzie said nothing for a moment. “You think?”
“It must be. She’s got all her little ducks in a row now. All her friends in high places. Now she’s going in for the kill.”
Paranoid there were people following him, Andrew stumbled into a Pret A Manger, still clutching the phone to his ear in the hope he would remain entirely inconspicuous. Thankfully the café was nearly empty, and devoid of newspapers, in-between the morning and lunchtime rush. He pretended to browse the sandwiches while Lizzie talked.
“Listen, don’t worry about all that now. We just need to find him a pretend girlfriend, just for tonight. Maybe I can help, I’ll have a think. Got to go.”
The phone went dead. Andrew breathed out, trying to find some kind of center in this storm of insanity.
“Double espresso, please,” he asked the server at the counter.
“Right away,” the young man replied in a thick Australian acce
nt. Sometimes, London amazed Andrew. Like a living relic of the Empire all crowded into one city.
He got his coffee and sat on a stool at the window looking out into the street at the people walking past, minding their own business, wrapped up in their own lives. Would they even care? His phone lay on the table top, pointedly not ringing. Half a dozen journalists had texted him just after the interview, but he hadn’t responded. Suddenly the phone vibrated. Andrew grabbed it and his heart jumped into his mouth.
News alert: Speculation grows about the royal girlfriend, who will it be?
“Fuck.”
• • •
Alexandra stepped out of the office building; the bright May day breeze blew across her face. Her long auburn hair, knotted up in a bun, and her sharp black Dior trouser suit gave her the instant air of a multinational CEO. In fact, had it not been for the title, that’s what Alexandra would be. Patron, chair, and director of nearly fifty carefully selected organizations. She had cultivated a diverse list that included international NGOs and local theater companies, domestic violence charities and international oil corporations. The CV of Princess Alexandra read as a weighty tome that easily trumped most of those she sat beside.
Without a word, she handed her briefcase back to Doris, her long-time personal aide. The driver of her waiting car greeted her.
“Are you winning, ma’am?” he asked with a smile as he opened the back door of the Mercedes S class.
“Very much so, Regi,” she said with a smile, stepping into the car.
Doris entered from the other side and they buckled up as she organized papers to brief Alexandra on the next engagement. Yet, a more pressing matter required her attention. As they sped off through central London, her manicured nails tapped against the screen of her phone, waiting. It started to vibrate.
“How did it go?” Alexandra asked immediately.
“He took the bait,” Lizzie said. Alexandra allowed herself the briefest upward flicker of her lips. Move two. “Now he wants to find a fake girlfriend for tonight. I made sure Magda introduced Katyn to him at the party, so I think she’s still the best option.”
“Perfect. Yes, use her. I’m being fitted for a dress at … at…” Alexandra snapped her fingers at Doris.
“At three, ma’am.”
“At three. I’ll take her with me, if she’s game.”
“I’m sure she’ll wet herself with excitement. I’ll send Andrew to her now.” Alexandra heard that tone of sycophantic delight creep back into Lizzie’s voice. Once again, she tried to ignore the fingers of her better judgment now tightening around her throat.
”Good. See you tonight. Bye.”
Alexandra relaxed her shoulders into the leather seat, staring out the window at nothing in particular … the people on the streets, the traffic lights, a man engrossed in a newspaper while sitting alone in the window of a café. She bit her bottom lip and let her mind be still.
• • •
Fifteen years ago
The headmistress of any proper school for girls should never be one to be trifled with, and Mrs. Lanningham considered herself no exception. Like the captain of a ship — or, sometimes she ventured, a queen — everything depended on her, yet so little was truly in her control. But how one reacted — how a school reacted — to those uncontrollable events … that was in her power.
Sally Lanningham stared out the window of her office, high atop the school’s turret, into the darkness of Lake Geneva below, surrounded by the dark peaks of the Swiss mountain tops. The call had come not long before. She’d stayed up, sat in her office, and quietly cried for seven minutes exactly. No more. She’d cried for twelve minutes when her mother had passed, ten for her sister, and popped open a bottle of sherry when the news had come through about Mr. Lanningham having a heart attack under his secretary, so seven minutes seemed quite enough for a prince.
Afterwards, the headmaster of Eton had telephoned her, and they’d discussed strategies for the children for a while. The captain believed, as did she, that after the funeral, life for the children should get right back to normal. Sally had lost her father too at a young age; he’d been killed at Dunkirk. Something about sacrificing one's family for one’s country, and being reminded of the greater cause they served, had always eased the pain. The royals were no different. They were all about sacrifice, country and family.
In the darkness of her office, she reached across to the radio, always tuned to the BBC World Service, and flicked it on.
“…is where Prince Richard’s helicopter came down in bad weather. It’s now been confirmed that all three on board were killed. RAF pilot John Rigby, the Prince's aide Calista Murphy, and the Prince of Wales himself, Prince Richard. He leaves behind his wife, Princess Alice, and their two children, the royal twins Prince James and Princess Alexandra, who both turned fifteen today. Prince Richard was on his way to Paris when it is believed they took a detour to visit his son at Eton in Buckinghamshire.”
Sally turned it off again. The children didn’t need to hear that … especially not Alexandra. Sally had always sensed the princess felt alienated by the family, and it wasn’t a surprise. She’s the spare to an heir, and it didn’t matter that she’d been born a few minutes before her brother. The line of succession flowed through the male and his descendants first. It’s the way it had always been and the way it always would be, especially with Queen Victoria II on the throne.
The word “gifted” did not do justice to Alexandra. If she couldn’t be queen, Sally reasoned, let her gain the same respect and admiration through her intellect and her actions. She breathed heavily again, wishing for some sweet sherry to give her strength, but that must wait till later. The worst thing would be for the girl to hear the news on the radio. Sally took a key attached to a long piece of string out from her pocket and unlocked her desk drawer. She took out a manila envelope, the back of it stamped with the seal of the Prince of Wales, the front addressed To my darling daughter. She took the envelope and headed for Alexandra’s room, ready to carry out the last wishes of her prince.
Chapter Four
Andrew kept fiddling with his phone in the cafe, kept staring out the window, kept waiting for something to happen … for James to happen. For the first time in fifteen years, he felt lost. The man he pledged himself to was so suddenly unreachable, like he’d somehow failed in his duty. Particularly on this day … It never became easier — the birthday — the dichotomy between a day of celebration and a day of mourning.
Andrew always tried to keep James occupied by going from party to family to party to family, not giving him time to think or dwell. Then, by the time it was all over, the day could be forgotten about for another year. Andrew had taken pride in his duty, on this day and all the ones before it, for the last fifteen years. It came from love … now it did, anyway. Whether two fifteen-year olds could really fall in love, Andrew didn’t know. But they could form a bond, and that bond could become friendship, and that friendship could, perhaps, become something that felt like love.
• • •
Fifteen years ago
Andrew lay tucked up in bed, but he couldn’t get his eyes closed despite it being after two in the morning. The thrill of being with James was still on his mind and his lips. They’d never really talked about moving things forward … it kind of just happened. Touches, glances, dares, talking … All of it kept their young minds running and excited. James had been pretty drunk and tired, so afterwards Andrew had left him to go to sleep. But the look on James’ face while their bodies had been intertwined would keep him going for a lifetime. He grew hard again under the covers, and thought about giving himself another go.
Someone knocked the door. Andrew froze. His heart jumped into his throat. Maybe James had decided not to sleep alone. Before he could figure it out, the door nudged open and the headmaster stood there. Andrew’s heart stopped. He must know.
“Andrew, son, are you awake?”
“Huh, what?” He pretended to mumble, ge
tting ready to say he’d been in bed the whole time. Maybe if he admitted to the whisky in the common room, then sneaking into James’ bedroom might not even come up. The headmaster stepped in and sat on the edge of Andrew’s bed. He looked worried, not angry. Sad almost. Andrew felt even worse. He must know. This is it, this is the end. I’ll be kicked out for sure. He’ll tell mum and dad and they’ll kick me out too. He could barely breathe. But something in the headmaster’s sad face, staring at his own shoes in the darkness of the room, gave Andrew pause.
“Son, something awful’s happened. James’ father … he died tonight. In a helicopter crash.” Andrew felt cold. He could barely process the words coming out of his mouth. It felt so distant. The sounds being made so alien. “He was coming to see James … a surprise visit. I just spoke to him and told him what happened. He’s devastated, I don’t know how he’ll process this. I don’t know how he’ll cope.” The headmaster gripped Andrew’s hand. It felt so unusual … Even his own father had never sat on the edge of his bed in the middle of the night. “Now listen, son. I know you and James have a special bond. I see that.”
Andrew’s mouth started to move, to instinctively deny whatever accusation might come next.
“You’re not in trouble. You two have a connection. He’s happiest with you. But, Andrew, this could destroy poor James. He’s not as strong as you are and nowhere near as clever as his sister. James is a pure soul … an innocent boy in a big bad world that all of a sudden just got scarier. He’s now next in line to the throne. You understand that, right? James is next. You, Andrew. You must be by his side. You must be his friend, his companion, his confidant. That’s your job, son. That’s your duty. I know you love him, Andrew. Now you must protect him. So go, go to him now, and don’t ever leave his side.”
