by Harry F Rey
The headmaster left and Andrew lay still, bolt awake, but his mind strangely at peace. The immediate shock of Prince Richard’s death faded away and left no more than the hurt felt at the untimely passing of the father of a friend. It was the headmaster’s words, his soft-lipped speech, that left behind a clarity, a stillness that Andrew found comfort in.
From Andrew’s earliest memories of his own parents, so aloof and uninterested in his life, he’d wondered what his purpose would be. The days of his still young life often felt like being a castaway, adrift on a lonely ship sailing an unknown sea. But on this stormy night, land had been spotted. A port called out to him, and on its shore a future waited
Andrew had gotten into bed with nothing more than the teenage smiles of a broken virginity in his head, but now he stepped out a man. He pulled a pair of tracksuit bottoms over his boxers and grabbed a black T-shirt from the floor. He stepped out into the corridor silently, with a sense of permission, not only from the headmaster, but from life. This is who he had been born to be; consort to a king.
• • •
Present day
From the café stool, looking out the window, Andrew counted off the number of newspapers he saw tucked under arms or clasped in hands. There were more people with than without, from builders to business suits. All the papers he saw had a headline about James. Well, almost all. For some reason The Gazette was the only tabloid to not carry the story on its front page. Andrew didn’t have time to wonder why. The phone rang — Lizzie. Andrew didn’t even say hello.
“Katyn, from last night,” Lizzie said. “Use her. She’s perfect. Sweet, innocent, pretty. She’s young and a princess, so no one should ask too many questions.”
“Yes, perfect,” Andrew said, jumping off his stool, heading straight for the door of Pret A Manger and back out into the street. “Perfect, perfect. Send me her address and I’ll go there now.”
“Okay — but, Andrew, just try not to fuck anything else up, okay? You’re playing with fire here.”
“I know that,” Andrew said, hailing a taxi and opening the door before it had even stopped. “I’ll keep you updated. Kensington!” he yelled to the driver. Hanging up the phone, he collapsed against the headrest as the cab sped away.
“Fuck.”
• • •
Lizzie stared at the phone that now sat still, quiet and black on the countertop of the modern office bathroom at the edge of the wide, deep sink in the middle of the row of sinks. She stared down into the plughole, feeling that to look up at her own reflection in the mirror would make her vomit. She thought about taking the rest of the day off work, going home, getting into bed, and pretending she didn't exist. But, it wouldn't help for too long … Anita would drag her to tonight's party even hooked up to an iron lung.
The bathroom door swung open with a clatter. “Hiya.” Only Sharon. Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief as Sharon toddled in on insanely high platforms, caked in makeup and with extensions running halfway down her back. She really took the testing part of the beauty editor job more seriously than anyone Lizzie had ever known. “You alright?”
“Yeah, course,” Lizzie responded as Sharon banged into a cubicle.
“Well, how was it?” Sharon shouted, starting to pee.
“What?”
“Last night! The big birthday bash.”
“Yeah, all right,” Lizzie responded, pulling a mascara out of her purse and reapplying for no other reason than to look busy. “I didn’t find a prince to kiss this time though.”
“A prince? Your standards are too high, darlin’. I’d settle for anyone who doesn’t describe themselves as a fucken’ lad.”
The toilet flushed and Sharon joined her at the next sink. Lizzie pretended to concentrate even more on the mascara.
“So, you’ll know all about this royal girlfriend then? Who is she?”
“Uh, no. Really don’t know much, sorry.”
“Ooh, well, that’s a turn up for the books, innit?” Sharon fixed her bra under her shirt. She had curves, but always wore everything two sizes too small. The flower-patterned blouse looked like it could burst at any moment. What a terrible thing to do to Versace. And the pencil skirt must feel like a corset. “Prince James finally has a girl, eh? Was she there last night?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. Honestly, I spent most of the night hanging out with Andrew,” Lizzie said, clipping the top back on her mascara and throwing it into her bag, along with her phone. Sharon caught her eye in the mirror.
“Wait, is that your friend Andrew who came to the Stella McCartney party a few weeks ago? The one who was on the telly this morning?”
Lizzie stopped for a moment, clutched her bag to her chest and felt a sudden sense of dread. “Yeah.”
“Oh my God. That’s who Michael had sex with.”
“What?”
“You know Michael in PR, right? Well, he was telling me he went home with one of your friends that night, after the party. I couldn’t figure out who it was until I saw the news.”
“Really?” Lizzie’s grip on her bag slipped. She could barely keep herself standing up. All her carefully laid plans could be so easily undone by Andrew’s cock. She cursed herself for trying to help the fool, trying to save him from himself.
“Yeah! Michael had a threesome with him and some other dude.”
Lizzie grabbed the countertop for support. This was not the slow burn she had been expecting. Everything would be easy at first, Alexandra had reassured her. No one would get hurt, least of all Andrew. Things would bubble along; questions would be drawn out over months, years even. Yes, the Queen was getting older, but everyone expected her to last at least for the best part of a decade. Rumors of James’ sexuality were not part of the plan, at least not hers. “Who … who was the other guy?” She scrunched up her face like she had something in her eye, trying to show only a passing interest to the question thumping though her mind.
“I dunno. Michael said he had some kinda gimp mask on the whole time. Never saw his face.” Sharon finished fixing herself and readjusted her bra. “Sounds hot, right? Fucken’ gays have all the fun. See ya.”
With that, Sharon left. Lizzie pulled her phone out again and thought about calling Andrew. But what good would it do now? She put it away, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the bathroom and back into the busy world of Allure magazine.
The open plan office drowned in light from the ceiling-high windows and provided a blinding view of the sun reflecting off the Thames. Around fifty people, overwhelmingly women — and overwhelmingly tall and thin — typed, photocopied, and talked, making the institution of fashion that is Allure magazine happen. It never failed to make Lizzie feel inadequate. She passed by a rack of clothes and a table full of makeup samples next to the coffee station on her way back to her desk … a four-person shared space that featured large Apple screens surrounded by various bits of clutter.
The closer it got to deadline day, the more of a mess the desk became. Lizzie sat down, alone at least for now, and checked the time. Barely after eleven … this day just wouldn’t move. She thought about another coffee, but had already knocked back three. Maybe something bad for lunch, something with grease and bacon on it. That should soak up the champagne hangover. At least the thought of it might, although it wouldn’t do much for the Andrew-sized problem in her head.
“Lizzie, can you take a look at this?” asked her assistant Alyssa, an impossibly petite brunette with a knack for pulling off knee-high boots and miniskirts. She handed her a large piece of card with the layouts of half a dozen pages on it. Lizzie took the card and squashed it on top of all the mess. She grabbed a marker pen from a mug and drew circles around things she didn’t like.
“It’s looking good, but just move this here. These should’ve been taken out, and this isn’t the same color as that.” She handed the card back to Alyssa who looked slightly crestfallen at having some simple mistakes pointed out to her. “Okay?” she asked, a bit harshly. Alyssa nodded and
took the card away.
It’s not all knee-highs and fashion shoots. Time to learn your lesson. Lizzie took a deep breath and tried to push all the Andrew nonsense from her mind. This is not how she had imagined it beginning, the end of the monarchy. Nevertheless, it had begun. She tried to focus on the work of a fashion editor
“Oh, Lizzie,” a voice called from near the glass-plated editor’s office at the other side of the room. “I need to speak with you when you have a moment.” Anita, the long-time editor-in-chief of Allure, stood outside her office discussing cover pages with the art director. Lizzie didn’t bother to wake the computer up. That bacon double cheeseburger would come a lot sooner than she thought.
The corner office Anita occupied could generously be described as overstuffed. Racks of concept clothes and boxes of bags piled on top of each other made even an office with windows for its walls feel dark and claustrophobic. The chairs across from her desk were both draped in fabrics. One had a stack of photographs of models sitting on it, the vast majority waiting to be binned.
“Just move the pictures, Lizzie. We really need a bigger space,” Anita said, bending down to root through a pile of old copies of Allure under her desk. They’d needed a bigger space in all the five years Lizzie had been there. Anita finished rummaging and sat down on her side of the desk, lifting her dark-rimmed glasses up and pushing back the soft blonde bob-cut that defined her look.
“So, how was it?”
It took Lizzie a moment to figure out the question. “Oh, the party … fine … it was all right. You know, a lot of rich kids, random Euro-trash royals.” Anita smiled, but Lizzie could feel the ice behind it.
“Lizzie, why did I hire you?”
“Um, because I’m an excellent fashion editor? Because I’m good at my job? You did outbid Vogue for me.”
Anita smiled again, colder than before.
“No, not quite … listen, there are a thousand girls out there who can give me five hundred words on the autumn line and, frankly, do it a bit quicker than you.” Lizzie smiled weakly, now wondering what other deadline she’d missed. “But you, Elizabeth Windsor, you’re the cousin of the heir to the throne. You’re the one with an inside look at life in the palace. You’re the one who gets invited to Christmas at the palace and summer in Balmoral. And yet, I haven’t had a single story from you about any of it.” Anita leaned forward, her elbows on the desk.
“Well, first of all,” Lizzie fought back, “I’m their third cousin. And there hasn’t exactly been a lot to report on. Princess Alexandra flat out refuses any press requests that aren’t about human rights or whatever, and she’s hardly setting trends with her look.”
“Forget her. We’ve been waiting thirty years for a royal princess, and if this Prince James girlfriend thing goes anywhere, I expect you to be front and center, understood? This magazine is going to be leading the bandwagon, for once.”
“You’re asking me to strain family ties.”
“I’m asking you to do your job.” Lizzie stared at the Dior blouse Anita wore, shimmering white and gold, and the classic set of pearls that adorned her neck. Everything about her felt effortless. “If you can’t, then I’ll find us someone who can.”
Lizzie stood up and smoothed her clothes down. She couldn’t say that she’d never expected this conversation. In some ways, she’d been preparing for it her entire career.
“Understood. Anything else?” Lizzie asked, as Anita put her glasses back on her face and thumbed through a magazine.
“I want the girlfriend on next month’s cover.”
“It’s sorted.”
Anita didn’t respond, so Lizzie stepped out, closing the glass door quietly, leaving her appetite behind. The bacon cheeseburger solution to her problems faded away. It was unfair that society conditioned women to question their own judgments. The weight of culture told young girls from the moment they were born to listen to their fathers; to keep their husbands happy, and give the world to their sons. For a woman to be the engine of her own power rubbed men, as well as plenty of women, the very wrong way.
The anxiety that came from trusting herself threatened to overwhelm her. She took a breath, her hand still gripped to the metal handle of the glass door, steadying herself against the sea of self-doubt. Andrew would thank her one day, she was sure of that. Getting him away from that spoiled brat full of unearned privilege was how she could justify burning the entire royal house to the ground, Alexandra included. That was the goal; the point of all this. And it was time to get to work.
• • •
The taxi pulled up to the terraced Georgian house on a quiet, leafy street in Chelsea. The houses here looked onto a private garden across the road, and the street had a peaceful air beyond recognition of even being in London, as if one required a gilded invitation just to come to this part of town.
Andrew jumped out of the taxi and slammed the door behind him, shattering the peace. It drove off noisily. Clutching his phone, Andrew tried to feel like the end of the world wasn’t hunting him down. He glanced at the numbers on the houses, found the right one, and leaped up the half dozen steps to the great black door. He ran a hand through his hair, tugged his earlobe, and rang the bell.
Half a minute later, Andrew nearly rang again when the door opened and there stood Princess Katyn of Sweden, wearing One Direction pajamas and her blonde hair in a ponytail.
“Andrew, hi!”
“Hey, hello. How are you?” Andrew fought with himself to meet her eye to eye. He swallowed hard against the urge to turn and run, or fight back against this blonde teenager threatening his lover with an imbecilic smile. His hands remained locked to his side as she swooped in to kiss him on either cheek.
“Great! So nice to see you again,” Katyn said with the air of a Swedish pop star taking to the Eurovision stage. “Why don’t you come in?”
Andrew followed her into the immaculate town house, well-renovated and at least three floors high. He strode into the kitchen that looked like it had been folded out of a catalogue: black marble counter tops, gleaming silver appliances and walls painted deep red offset against a harlequin floor.
“Tea?” she asked.
“Of course.” She might as well have handed him a shovel to dig his own grave, not a mug with a picture of a bunny on it.
Eleven minutes later and Katyn still hadn’t stopped talking. They sat across from each other at the glass kitchen table, and her tea remained untouched. Andrew had his eye glued to the clock. Her life story ate his precious time away.
“And then my father said he’d always wanted me to study abroad, and of course I love London, so, now I’m here.”
“Great,” Andrew said, delighted she now took a gulp of tea. “That’s really great, and we love having you here. Truly. I can’t believe last night was your first time meeting everyone.”
“I know. I’m not into parties so much, but Magda insisted I come with her. Father asked her to look after me while I’m here. She’s really been like a big sister. So fun, really. I never knew how many royals there are in London.”
“Yes, well, ten a penny really. Anyway…” Andrew gazed at her face and chewed on his lip. She could easily pass for a tennis star. Strong jawbone, sharp eyes, and that beautiful hair … He started picturing James sitting beside her, laughing his wide-eyed laugh, his soft hair bouncing as he moved his head to the tune of her words. His arm around her shoulders, his hand touching her leg … A wave of bile retched into Andrew’s throat, the acidic taste of terror refusing to be washed away by a swig of tea.
“There’s this charity concert tonight. For the birthday celebrations, you know. More official than last night. The Queen will be coming, as will other members of the family. And, well, James was very impressed with you last night. He’d love to see you again. In fact, he’d love to take you tonight … to the concert.”
Katyn looked like she’d just won Wimbledon without even playing a match. “He’s impressed with me? Wow. I had no idea. I barely spoke to
him.”
“Yes, well he likes you a lot, you know.” Andrew shifted in his seat, clutching the mug so hard he could swear he heard it crack. “He thinks you’re … that you’re cute.”
“I didn’t know he even knew me.”
Andrew drained the contents of his mug, wishing he could drink something stronger. He hoped that bottle of whisky in his flat had not been finished the last time they’d been there. God, it had been ages. Not since that night with Michael… “So, you’ll come tonight?”
“Well, of course. Actually, Princess Alexandra called me a little while ago. She’s going to take me for a dress fitting for the party tonight. I guess she must have known James wanted to ask me to come.”
“Yes.” Andrew ran a finger around the edge of the mug, nervously pondering the revelation. “I guess she did. Well, good. Glad you got it sorted.” Andrew got up from the chair and started to make for the door. “Make sure it’s something stunning. Just think, the future Queen of England.”
“Do you really think?” Katyn asked, rising from her chair as if it were a throne.
“He likes you … a lot. And James, well, I know him better than anyone.” Andrew’s throat tightened, his eyes pricked with tears. “He’s not really one for those long, drawn out relationships, you know.”
She laughed, following him out of the kitchen down the hall.
“Well, must run. Lots to do, you know.”
“Of course. Thank you again, Andrew. I’m really excited. I like him a lot, too.”
“Good. Really good. Great. Okay, bye then.” He tried to avoid an awkward kiss on the cheek but it came anyway. Back out onto the street, the heavy door closed behind him, his fingers were already flicking to James’ number on his phone.
