by Harry F Rey
“I mean, of course. I would love to. I’ve always dreamed of marrying a prince. But, does he want me?”
Alexandra gazed at her through the mirror. Vilna carried on working on her hair. Doris flicked through her phone. The stylist poked through sets of earrings. For a moment, it felt like the two princesses were completely alone. “He wants you, Katyn. He truly does. He said to me just this afternoon, on the balcony of the palace, just how much he likes you. The problem is, my dear, people can be a tad afraid of what they want, what they truly want. Especially people like James. They hide it deep inside, under layers and layers of stuff. So sometimes it can be a bit tricky to tell. But don’t worry, that’s what I’m here for.”
Alexandra sat down on Vilna’s stool across from Katyn, her elbows on her knees. “He is handsome,” Katyn said, playing with the salon cape’s ties.
“Yes, my dear, he is. Listen, you’re nineteen. I married Faisal when I was twenty. I knew what I was getting into. I wanted to have a husband first, and then build a career. Because that’s what this is … a job … a career. And the best thing is you get to define the job. The hardest thing is that people will try define it for you.”
“So all these things you do … the charities and the United Nations, that’s the job you want?”
“It’s part of it.”
“But what job should I have?”
Alexandra reached her hand out, and Katyn lifted hers from under the cape. Tightly, Alexandra clasped her fingers. “My darling, you’re going to be the people’s princess.”
• • •
James collapsed onto the bed, the toll of the night that turned into the day had caught up with him. He pulled his shoes off and spread out over the bed, freshly made by Charles with so much care. Closing his eyes for a moment, James tried to quiet his mind, but it only amplified the voice of his sister in his head, threatening him over and over again.
Andrew had always protected him against threats, which made this morning’s spectacle such a shock. At even the slightest suggestion that a journalist or someone else knew something they shouldn't, they would be paid off or bartered away. Years ago, their home at Clarence House hosted many young servants and aides. They’d thought that the presence of so much activity would make Andrew’s lodging much more inconspicuous. The opposite ended up being true, and the young servants had themselves proved a distraction. But not a single rumor had flown. Andrew played the whole thing off in the media as downsizing to make savings for the public purse. Now only Charles remained, Prince Richard’s former butler and the only other man who’d stood by James’ side since the day his father died.
James turned to the side of the bed where Andrew should’ve been.
• • •
One year ago
“Well, look at that,” Andrew said from across the bed, as his phone beeped midnight. “Happy birthday.” James closed his eyes with a satisfied smile as Andrew leaned in, kissed him and stroked his hair. “Twenty-nine.”
They lay on top of the covers, just in boxers, with the window open. Enjoying the warm air of an early summer’s night after a long fuck. James couldn’t remember a time they’d enjoyed each other’s bodies so much without the need for stimulants or guest stars.. With the royal schedule getting ever busier, it often felt like the only time they got to really enjoy being with each other was in that dinky little flat of Andrew’s.
Thanks to its anonymity and the shelter it offered from real life, they would invariably take every advantage of the opportunity of an evening there by getting high and letting their dicks decide what they should get up to. James wondered for a moment, as he often did in the stillness of Andrew’s breath, what it would be like to just have him and no more. If only that would satisfy Andrew … Sometimes it felt like if he couldn’t give him the promise of a life-time together, he could at least give Andrew the fun of something open. In the back of his mind, he knew Andrew leaving him was an inevitability as much as his kingship was. All he wanted was to postpone that for just a little bit more. Another month, another year, and keep the man he loved…
“I’m just glad you've been here with me for all these, well, fourteen years today.” If they had lived their lives together in the real world, where would they be after fourteen years together? The pain of the fantasy of an ordinary life, the pain that was only James’ and that could not be grasped by any other, threatened to overtake his mind once again.
Andrew breathed in and pulled his hand back from James.
“James,” he said, sitting up but staring at his feet. “I don’t want this to end.”
“Come on now.” James brought a hand to his lovers’ shoulder and tried to pull him into a hug, but Andrew didn't move. “Why does this have to end?” The words pricked his already wounded state. The fear that Andrew would one day get sick of all this, turn and leave, crept up his spine like a tarantula.
Andrew turned towards him, but not out of kindness.
“How long can this go on? Seriously! I mean, maybe no one cared what you did in your early twenties. You had a dead dad and everyone … the press, the public, everyone gave you enormous leeway.” The words hit James like a cannonball to the stomach that left him flat on his back, struggling for breath. “Oh God, James, no, I didn’t mean it like that. Look I’m sorry. Really sorry! I just meant that…”
“I know what you meant.” James recovered from the body-blow and sat on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, head in his hands. Andrew put his hand out in trepidation, but James didn’t flinch.
“I just don’t know where I stand. I’m afraid about what will happen to me, to us.”
“Nothing,” James said, shrugging Andrew’s hand away. “Nothing is going to happen to you, understand?” Now James stood up. “Nothing has to change. Just stop pushing it.”
“Are you insane? Nothing’s going to change? James you’re nearly thirty. Your bloody grandmother is nearly ninety and your sister is married to a fucking Arab and half the country would rather have no king than a bloody brown one. And you, the heir to the throne, are officially single. Still. At twenty-nine years old.” James stood with his arms crossed, defenses up. Andrew kneeled on the bed, pleading. “We’ve had all this time, not worrying about the future. Doing our own thing. Having fun. No one cared. It can’t go on forever … you know that. So then what? What happens to me? What happens to us, James? What happens to me when it’s all over?”
James kept his eyes on the floor. His body tensed up, hands wrapped around his body. “You’ve done alright.” He knew the words would sting him. He knew they would cut him deep. James’ fantasy had always been of an ordinary life together, but who could say if Andrew would have even looked at him twice were it not for the crown, for the promise of succession.
“Excuse me?” Andrew said, getting up from the bed and standing nose to nose with James, just like when they’d fought as teenagers.
“You heard me. You’ve done all right here. Yeah. You got to live here, travel the world, get into all the parties, make all the connections.” They breathed heavily, each taking in the other’s furious scent. “The son of a glorified shopkeeper who happened to get rich and pay for his precious little boy to go to Eton so he’d never have to see him. From a boy no one wanted to a someone who has everything. And more than that, you can leave at any time, and you’ll still have it all.”
Now James had thrown the cannonball back. Andrew dropped to the bed as James walked over to the chest of drawers, pulling it open to find a T-shirt. He picked out one of Andrew’s. He didn’t put it on.
“Don’t fucking tell me you’ll have nothing!” James yelled, letting the darkness overtake him. “Everyday I wonder when you’ll fuck off … when you’ll get bored of all this and decide to go and have your real life.” James’ voice began to crack as tears pricked his eyes. “You’ll leave me in the end and … and I’ll be here alone.” It broke to a whisper.
Andrew leapt from the bed and grabbed him, pulling him into the tighte
st hug. “Shhh. That’s not true. I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.” James wished he could truly believe that, yet the feeling was still there. The sense of living on borrowed time … The awareness that whatever happiness they felt would one day collapse into a distant memory…
James sobbed, his tears dripping down Andrew’s bare chest. “I love you,” James said through the agony of his fears.
“I love you more.” They embraced even harder, Andrew kissed the top of James’ ear, then all down it and onto his neck, causing shivers of pleasure to drift down his back. “We just need a plan, okay? Before it’s too late.”
“Okay. We’ll make a plan. I promise”
• • •
Present day
James stared at the place on the bed Andrew should’ve been. In this place, a year ago, he’d held him as he cried. The place he’d been all these years…. James moved his face away from the wet patch of his pillow and laid on Andrew’s. He slid his hand underneath and found the T-shirt Andrew liked to sleep in. He pulled it out and held it to his nose. It smelled just like his lover … like the cologne he wore … like the coconut shampoo he washed with … like the mix of wood and vanilla that he smelled like at the end of the day. We never came up with a plan. James began to cry.
Chapter Seven
Sitting at her vanity in the bedroom, Alexandra delicately applied mascara to her long lashes. Her gown for the evening lay across the bed, the tiara shimmering beside it ready to add the finishing touch to the outfit. It was one thing to do the job of princess; it was quite another to play the part when everyone expected diametrically opposing things from you. Like trying to be a person nobody had ever met, but thought they knew. The weight of expectation used to crush her when she was a girl, a teenager … never knowing the right place, always being told not to outshine her brother, or to seem too smart, or too clever, or too pretty.
No one had ever said it to her face, but she’d always known it. If she behaved too much like a queen or stayed too long in the limelight, people would wonder why she shouldn't be the one to succeed. Older only by minutes, she was still a girl. The line of succession went through her brother. Royals had to be neutral, she’d always been told. They could never seem to be feminist, or reformist, or, God forbid, suggest Parliament should change the law to allow the oldest to become monarch, regardless of gender. No, the royals must uphold tradition, be neutral, and accept the world as it is with a smile and with grace.
Alexandra didn’t care about what she had been told, or who had done the telling. She hadn’t cared for a long time.
“You look beautiful,” Faisal said, standing in the doorway in his tuxedo. Even his bowtie was perfectly done. Alexandra smiled at him and opened a lipstick … rouge that deepened the reddish tones in her auburn hair.
He stood behind her, leaned down and planted a soft kiss on her neck. “Just one final touch.” He picked up the jewelry box he’d given her that morning. She leaned back in the chair as he attached the Heart of Aden to her. The blue sapphire sparkled as if it had its own light source. “My queen,” he said, and kissed the other side of her neck. “Nearly there?”
“I just need a minute.”
“Okay. I’ll make sure the kids are ready. The car’s here, but take your time.” Faisal stepped out of the bedroom. “Hassan, Jasmine. You’d better be in your jammies,” she heard him yell down the corridor before the door closed.
Alexandra pulled a tissue out of the box and dabbed the corner of each eye. The eyeliner looked a bit too heavy, but perhaps the light distorted it. She blinked again, her eyes steady so they wouldn’t burst open. There was no time to reapply. After a beat, she stood up with purpose and stepped over to her bedside table. Opening the bottom drawer, she pulled out a little wooden box, beautifully carved with her name in Arabic and studded with sparkling stones; a gift from Faisal on their third date. Inside laid a cream colored envelope. Following a time-honored ritual, she pulled out the yellowing piece of paper and sat on the edge of the bed. Her father’s voice still echoed in her head as she read, even after all these years.
My darling daughter,
Today is your birthday, and I could not be more proud of you. Your mother and I love you ever so dearly, with all our hearts, and I hope and pray you continue to grow, continue to find yourself, and become the best you that there ever could be.
You have impressed me so much with your dedication, with your hard work, and with your commitment to the duty and service of our family and our kingdom. You should know that when you were born, the doctors tried to bring out your brother first. But I pulled them back … I maybe even punched one. I wanted the natural order of things to progress, and, naturally, you were born first.
You must know I have always hated the idea of a male inheriting over his older sister by virtue of just being male. I fought with your grandmother for many years, before you were born and right to this very day, about it. Know that I will never stop fighting for you. I want to talk to your brother first and smooth all of the feathers that will no doubt be ruffled because of this, but I believe I can change this outdated law, even if it costs me my own happiness with the woman I love. But I pledge to you that I’ll do everything in my power so that by your next birthday, you, my daughter, will come after me in the line of succession.
Things may not always be easy, and I may not always be here to guide you, but if you look inside yourself, you’ll never go wrong. My darling Alexandra, follow your heart and it will lead you towards happiness.
All my love,
Daddy.
The oversize “D” on daddy had faded almost to nothing. The same spot that her single tear always fell upon. Fifteen tears had fallen. She sniffed, steadied herself, and folded the letter away. Its message, its promise, and the deep, lion-like voice of her father still rung in her ears.
• • •
“Ouch,” Lizzie said, bumping her head against the wall at the back of the wardrobe. She had climbed deep inside now, too deep to move far without potentially bringing the entire rack of shoes down on top of her. If Andrew walked into the bedroom, he’d see a pair of high heels and the bottom of a green dress flailing against the wardrobe door.
“Lizzie, for fuck’s sake, are you ready?” he yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “The car’s here, we’ve got to go.”
“Just a fucking minute!” Finally, she found what she’d been searching for underneath a fur coat. She couldn’t remember if it had been part of a fashion show or Hallowe’en costume. She pulled the cardboard box out from its hiding place and finally extricated herself from the wardrobe, thankfully free of any falling shoes.
She sat cross-legged with her back to the wardrobe mirror with the box on her lap. Calista Murphy — Belongings. The words had faded over the years, just as the edges of the box had frayed. The cardboard fibers showed. With quiet concentration, she opened the box flaps and rummaged through. She wasn’t interested in the necklace or the rings, but in a chunky day-planner, its edges slightly singed and crinkled from water damage. She placed it on top of the box, creaking the rusty binder rings open to a well-worn page … the same date, exactly fifteen years ago. Fly to Paris … the only thing written. Pressed between the pages sat a cream envelope, stamped with the royal seal of the Prince of Wales, with “To my son” written on it. She held it in her hands for a moment, taking in the smell, taking in the weight of it. Even after all this time…
“Lizzie. Come on!”
She cursed Andrew under her breath and stuffed the letter inside her purse.
“What’s wrong?” Andrew asked as she made it to the bottom of the stairs.
She buried her eyes deep into his. “Who the fuck is Michael?” Lizzie demanded with a sense of growing betrayal.
“Who?” Andrew had one hand on the door handle, ready to go, but his face became drawn as if he’d give anything to be somewhere else.
“Michael. You know. The guy from my office who you took home and fucked and watched as he
fucked some guy in a mask. Did I get that right?”
With a roll of his eyes, Andrew stepped away from the door. “Do we have to discuss this now?” he said in the tone of a bored child. “The car’s waiting.” Part of him looked almost proud of the conquest, like he’d won some medal by sneaking a fuck from someone in her office.
Lizzie stood on the last step of the stairs, her hand gripping the balcony, not wanting to lose her vantage point. She looked straight down at him. There was no point anymore in keeping things coy. Too much had changed this day. The anxieties that had kept her awake for weeks, for months leading up to this day, had simply become irrelevant. She’d made that bargain with Alexandra in great part because she did not trust herself to follow through on what needed to be done. Now it was too late to turn back. Andrew had to be pulled from the building before she set it aflame.
“We don’t have to do this now, no. But when, Andrew? When are you going to wake up and realize James doesn’t give a shit about you. He never has. He never will. He’s using you and always has been. Are you really going to spend the rest of your life running around after that selfish little prick, bringing endless guys home for him and cleaning up his mess?” She had to let it out. She had to tell him, because no one else would. No one else knew. She loved Andrew. She loved him, even though he would never love her. He was more than the brother that had been stolen from her. He was her in a different world … the poor soul entrapped in the majesty of royalty, enchanted by the ancient thrill of being a courtier. She had at least been given the distance to see this family for what it was: a cruel, bloodsucking relic of the past. She had to save him from himself, even if that caused him tremendous pain.
