by Harry F Rey
Andrew said nothing, but his face drained of color. The dark circles around his eyes, engraved from a day of tears, flashed like headlights in the mist. His face became sunken, skull-like, as if he was really a hundred years old. He turned away and opened the front door to the sound of a car engine waiting at the bottom of the street. She followed him quickly out the house and saw him wipe a tear from his eye, then throw it to the ground.
• • •
The red carpet buzzed as photographers pushed and shouted to get the best snap of the arriving guests. Andrew stood near the entrance to the Royal Albert Hall, talking with Roger, the royal editor of the Gazette tabloid. A velvet rope separated them and their worlds.
“Celeb or royal?” Roger asked as the next limousine pulled up. Andrew thought for a moment.
“Celeb.” The car door opened, and they stared as if watching the final moments of a horse race.
“Ooh, the Duke and Duchess of Kent. Bad luck, mate. That makes what, eight to four?” Roger said. The elderly couple meandered up the red carpet to the less than enthusiastic snaps of photographers. “Isn’t her crown a bit much for a duchess?” Roger wondered, as the cousins of the Queen got bored of waiting for attention from the press. The duchess hiked up her dress and marched towards the entrance.
“It’s a tiara,” Andrew said, getting bored of his anxiety. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. From the king of all he’d surveyed, to this broken and worried man…
“So,” Roger said, “will this new girlfriend be wearing a tiara, too?”
“You’ll see soon enough, I’m sure.”
“Come on,” Roger begged, his phone at the ready. “Everyone will know soon. What’s the harm in giving your old bud a five-minute head start?”
“It’s not my news to break.” He had no energy for Roger’s ribbing, no power for the required banter between press and royal gatekeepers. He just wanted to see James, to gaze upon his face, meet him eye to eye and mouth I love you.
Roger looked at him, surprised, just as the crowd started to cheer again. Another limousine pulled up to the mouth of the red carpet. The photographers jostled for position to get that world famous first shot, just in case it might be the car with the future queen.
“Okay, Andy, double or nothing. Celeb or royal?”
Andrew primed himself, as if ready for a race. His heart started to pound so loud he worried Roger would hear. He knew this car. He knew it well. Inching down the red carpet, he turned to Roger and gave him a wink. It took all his might to keep himself steady … to keep himself sane.
A royal protection officer in a dark suit moved to open the car door, which might as well have been red meat to the press pack. The velvet rope strained to the point of breaking as the pushing and shoving reached a crescendo. Andrew could at least be thankful he remained on the right side of the rope, for now.
James stepped out of the limousine. His blond hair slicked back, looking effortlessly handsome in his tuxedo and charming the crowd with his smile. Andrew made it halfway down the red carpet, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Not easy on a red carpet. The challenge was made harder by the attention of the world’s media on the other occupant of the car. James waved at the royal fans on one side of the red carpet and gave a sly nod to the press pack on the other.
He turned back to the car and put an arm inside. The noise became deafening. People shouted in Andrew’s ear, and he heard Roger’s voice yelling his name. After an agonizing pause, a foot in a white high-heel shoe could be seen, then another. Then the fringe of a silvery dress, and, without a moment’s delay, Katyn emerged, a beautiful butterfly from the cocoon-like car, one gloved hand clasping James’.
Andrew might as well have been transported to another dimension. The flashes of light and shouting left him momentarily without senses. Maybe he closed his eyes, but when his sight came back, he couldn’t have spoken if he tried. Katyn looked every piece the princess. Her Scandinavian hair was interwoven with the diamond tiara, as if she’d been crowned already. The sparkling silver dress wrapped around her arms before plunging down her chest, showing off the ample cleavage Andrew had never noticed before.
The dress looked magnificent in its simplicity, while the white elbow gloves, diamond necklace, and clutch added the perfect amount of sophistication. But none of that mattered to Andrew. Her smile killed him. Her smile, his smile, the smile they shared as if they belonged together…
All of a sudden James looked the man he should be, like the prince he’d been born to be, a handsome and dashing royal wrapped in a tuxedo with a beautiful blonde princess on his arm. Everything about the scene looked perfect, as though this was how it always should’ve been, and as if Andrew was the one who’d deprived the world of this for so long. He couldn’t tell if James’ smile looked real or not, through the haze of tears threatening to burst forth from his eyes. He couldn’t even trust his own judgment anymore.
The royal couple stepped away from the car as it drove off, engine drowned out by the ecstatic screams of the crowd that had seemingly multiplied in a second. Andrew got shoved by a photographer trying to get a better shot, or more than one, as pack went crazy. The main event had arrived, all white skin, blonde hair, and perfect teeth.
As they moved up the rope line, her arm wrapped around the prince’s, Andrew’s typical role of batting off questions directed to James seemed wildly out of place. Nevertheless, one or two shouted his name. He just didn't know what to say.
Maybe everything about the last fifteen years had been a lie. Perhaps the fifteen-year-old boy that had committed himself to this prince, to this life, had been as wrong then as he felt now. What an idiot he must have been. How stupid to take his own loneliness, his own issues of abandonment and lack of parental love and place it all at the feet of a man who could only ever be partially there. His legs began to tremble like there was no solid ground beneath him. His throat gasped for air like there was no oxygen. His head spun in a furious whirl like there was no longer gravity to hold him to earth.
A crescendo of voices shouted at her, yelling that she looked beautiful and demanding to know who she wore. Andrew moved further down the line towards the couple. Even I can see how perfect they look together.
“Andy, Andy, who is she?” someone from behind the rope yelled at him, the poor guy trying not to be crushed by the press pack. He snapped into work mode, listening for the rest of the question. Who is she wearing? he expected, which he didn’t know.
“Come on, mate, who’re we taking a photo of?” came another question from the pack. In a moment, Andrew realized the situation. They had no idea who she was.
Andrew set aside his desire to melt away into the sewer. He took a deep breath, and tried as best he could to suspend reality and abandon emotion. “Accompanying Prince James is her Royal Highness, Princess Katyn of Sweden.” Suddenly, he commanded their full attention. The royal couple, just feet away from Andrew, turned to greet the well-wishers on the other side of the red carpet. Andrew glanced straight at James, eyes boring into the side of his head, waiting for the split second when their eyes might meet.
It didn’t happen. As James turned his head away, his eyes remained locked to the ground. Now he could only stare into the back of his lover’s head as they began to shake hands with the crowd.
Andrew’s breath left him. But it came right back as his phone buzzed in his breast pocket. Lizzie had sent a dozen messages.
The dress. Topshop. £80. People's princess.
Andrew spread his hands out like a conductor, and the time had come to make his chorus sing. He summoned the energy to apply the one skill he had, or thought he’d had; to deflect the attention of the world away from his secrets.
“She is the youngest daughter of King Sven the tenth of Sweden. They were recently introduced,” Andrew swallowed hard, “by a mutual friend. The princess picked her dress just today, actually. It’s from Topshop. I believe it’s quite the bargain at only eighty pounds.”<
br />
“Andy! Andy! When’s the wedding?” It was Roger, asking with a smirk on his face.
“Give it time, they’re just dating … for now.” The words floated from his mouth like they’d been spoken by a stranger. His body was no longer his, his voice and brain operating solely on muscle memory from years of lying to the press, dropping loaded phrases and coded words that kept them hungry yet satisfied at the same time. But one can only tease a hungry beast for so long. The name of that beast was consequence, and he could see it rushing towards him, fangs bared, craving a kill.
The photographers continued their assault, even as the couple headed to the door. Another limousine pulled up, and the collective attention shifted to who might be behind the next tinted window.
Andrew watched James and Katyn step inside the concert hall. James’ hand placed delicately on the small of her back, guiding her inside. His eyes never turned back.
“Thanks, Andy boy,” Roger said to him, the situation a bit quieter now as the pack enjoyed a momentary lull before the next car door opened. “It’s the story we’ve been waiting for. The cheap dress? Genius move, I tell you.”
“Yeah,” Andrew said, his eyes trained on the door James had just walked through. His energy was devoted trying to stop himself from crying on the red carpet. “She’s going to be a real people's princess.”
Not a second had passed before a gruff arm shoved into Andrew’s chest and didn’t let up. It knocked the breath out of him. The body of a large royal protection officer, one he didn’t know, wheelbarrowed him all the way back to the corner he’d started at.
“Who the fuck are you?” Andrew demanded.
But the man gave no response. He stood so close that Andrew felt the heat radiating from his face. But he didn't have the clean-shaven look of a well-trained member of the royal protection squad, handpicked from the best police and army officers. No, his thick neck and scruffy blond beard made him look so much more like a hired goon. A hired goon that had discretely pinned Andrew to the wall with an elbow to the chest. No one else noticed or cared. A moment later he understood why.
The door of the limousine opened, and out stepped Alexandra. Unusually for her, she looked resplendent in a gold-green gown and embroidered shawl, wearing the most incredible necklace Andrew had ever seen … a bright blue sapphire in the shape of a heart. That’s not Topshop. Alexandra beamed for the cameras and waved to the cheers of a much quieter crowd.
Andrew watched as Faisal, in an understated tuxedo, came out the car after her. His thick black hair was slicked and parted at one side, and his goatee was neatly trimmed. Andrew glared darkly at them.
Faisal placed his arm around his wife’s waist, and they kissed long enough for everyone to get a good shot. Arm in arm, the couple walked up the red carpet. But, unlike her younger brother, Alexandra paid no attention to the photographers or even the well-wishers. That’s odd … Usually she’ll kiss every poor baby offered to her.
Instead, the princess and her husband marched straight to the TV cameras set up just across from where Andrew was being held. The pack of journalists, who were only there for B-roll and recording to-camera pieces, looked bewildered. By longstanding convention, royals never spoke directly to the camera off the cuff, and certainly not without weeks of preparation and the close eye of a palace official. Andrew looked around and couldn’t see a single royal press officer nearby. She doesn’t even have a press secretary any more, does she? Andrew strained to get a better look, while the goon did his very best to block him completely from the limelight. The bone of the man’s elbow was digging into his rib cage. A fist swung dangerously closed to his balls, and he didn’t try to push anymore.
As Alexandra approached the cameras, Faisal let her hand go and stood just a few feet behind ,leaving the princess silhouetted against the camera lights. The scene looked like a prime minister on the steps of Downing Street, her husband behind her, about to announce some momentous event of national importance.
A hush fell over the red carpet, but one reporter felt brave enough to venture a question. “Ma’am, are you looking forward to tonight’s concert?”
Andrew stared at the scene, not even caring about the brute of a man still pressed against him anymore, but just fascinated by what might come next.
Alexandra took a deep breath. “Of course. And thank you to all for coming. It’s so wonderful to be here, to celebrate our thirtieth birthday, to raise money for charity, and of course to celebrate the memory of our dear father, whom I think about every day. I know if he were still alive, Prince Richard would be appalled at the news this morning.”
Alexandra paused for breath, as did everyone watching the scene. What the fuck is she playing at? Now Andrew wanted to run, to stop this, to stop her. He barely moved a muscle, and the goon doubled the pressure of his elbow into Andrew’s solar plexus. This is why I’m stuck here: to watch this and not be able to say a word or spin it all away.
“The truly terrible news about the brutal conflict in Syria which has claimed more than a million lives. It is appalling, and the international community must find a solution. And quickly, because we simply can't bear the lost birthdays of any more children.”
It took the press a beat to take in what Alexandra had just said. They wouldn’t even expect such words from a prime minister or president, let alone a princess who never talked. The hush remained, but then broke all at once in a rabble of shouts and questions as reporters and photographers switched from royal fluff to political meat. Andrew noticed Roger halfway back in the crowd, enraged that he’d already called it a night.
In the time it took the press to get their act together, Alexandra had already turned away from the camera and Faisal had taken her arm back into his. As the couple turned to walk into the concert hall, they ignored the battery of questions that were now being lobbed their way like live grenades, one after another. As Andrew watched them, he could only be impressed with her operation. Was this some scheme to help or hurt James? To get his girl troubles off the front page, or make them worse? Faisal, although on the other side of the Princess, caught Andrew’s eye. It wasn’t by accident, and neither was the noticeable wink Faisal gave him before the couple walked into the building.
Andrew rested his head against the wall, trying to make sense of everything. Finally, his captor released him and, only after taking a deep breath, he realized just how hard he’d been held. Andrew knew he didn’t know the meaning of what had just transpired, at least not yet. But he knew he’d seen that wink before, a long time ago.
• • •
Twelve years ago
Andrew ran across the rugby field, ever more conscious of how far away the changing rooms and hot showers were getting. He slowed down to a jog and tried to shake off the mud caked into his studded shoes. He crouched, picked up the cone from the grass, added it to the rope of cones, then got straight back up and started running toward the next one.
How many more to go? They had played rugby all afternoon in two groups. One group played at the furthest possible end of the field, practically on the border of the woods. There would be no telling where the cones had got to, but losing even one wasn’t worth the bollocking he would get from the PE teacher.
Since it was a Friday afternoon and a double period, the last of the day, they’d played an extra half hour. Andrew’s legs felt like they could collapse under him at any moment. After picking the next cone, he gave up on the running and slowed down to a walk. The other boys would be showered, changed, and hanging out in the common room before he even finished getting around the entire field.
He’d hoped to see James before dinner, to sneak into his room for five or ten minutes. It was boys’ night out tonight; every few Fridays their year head let the older boys, those over eighteen, go into town. They’d split off into groups of four or five, to try and get into whatever pub they could find. More often than not, they ended up at the Hog’s Head, where Joe, the landlord, always served them pints of cider.
/> So Andrew would end up carrying James back to his bed at the end of the night. James had been away for a few days for family duties and Andrew had been studying for an exam, so it had been well over a week since they’d last been together. Andrew thought about it as he walked to the next cone. Before picking it up, he stared at the hole at the top of it. Somehow it reminded him of James’ ass. If a cone is making me hard, I must be desperate.
The once bright afternoon sky had grown cloudier by the time Andrew arrived at the last cone. He turned around and looked back at the field he’d just finished trudging. The last few hundred feet had been practically a crawl. Without the adrenaline and rush of an actual game, the wind froze his already sore legs and the mud stuck to his jersey made it heavy. His whole body felt dirty. Mud always worked its way into every crack and crevice during rugby.
Finally, he picked up the last cone, added it to the others on the rope, which he now dragged behind him like a gorilla with a tree branch. The changing room hut never looked so welcoming. He put the cones away in the equipment shed before heading inside. It was empty. The others had long gone. But the remnants of twenty boys showering and changing were all too evident. A few wet towels lay strewn across the changing room floor, random socks and a couple of muddy jerseys still lay unclaimed
Andrew collapsed on the bench, his head rattling the metal locker. He kicked off his muddy rugby boots without undoing the laces, then peeled off the socks, feeling a lightness come back to him as his bare feet touched the cool tiled floor. Knowing he was alone, he didn’t bother with the charade of wrapping his towel around his waist before taking off his pants. We’re all naked in the shower anyway, I don’t know why they care so much.
As he stripped off, part of him couldn’t be happier that he got to shower alone on a Friday afternoon. Horseplay happened, particularly after a hard double period in the mud, with spirits high and often a hip flask of something passed around in the showers … if the teacher had already gone.
