Playing the Palace

by Paul Rudnick

  “Stop it. Stop worrying,” Edgar told me.

  “You mean stop breathing?”

  “If necessary.”

  Clark and Ian took up their posts in the hallway; the other guys were grabbing coffee from a nearby Starbucks. All I could think was that, like raising a child, having sex with a crown prince took a village.

  “Hello?” I said, pushing open the front door.

  “HIIII!” said Louise, Adam and DuShawn, lounging on the couch.

  “Edgar, these are my friends and roommates Louise and Adam, and that’s Adam’s boyfriend, DuShawn, and they’re all about to head into their own bedrooms and be very, very quiet.”

  “Good evening,” said Edgar. “It’s so good to meet all of you, and please don’t mind us.”

  “We figured you might end up here, and we think it’s wonderful,” said Adam. “You have our blessing.”

  “Mazel tov,” added DuShawn.

  “And out of respect for Carter,” said Louise, “I’m not going to bring up England’s economic meltdown, bigoted treatment of immigrants, or ancient yet ongoing class wars.”

  “And I love you for that,” said Edgar. “And we’ve brought you a centerpiece.”

  “And we’ve prepared an offering as well, to welcome you,” said Adam. “And Louise even helped.”

  Louise hefted a gift basket and removed: “A jar of Prince spaghetti sauce.”

  “Two cans of Royal Crown Cola,” said Adam.

  “A paperback romance novel called Royal Pursuit,” said DuShawn. “I’ve highlighted all the juicy parts, as a how-to guide.”

  “And if that doesn’t work,” said Adam, “here’s a sex toy I bought on Amazon called the Royal Reamer.”

  “And most importantly,” said Louise, holding up two flimsy golden cardboard crowns with printed-on jewels.

  “We got them from Burger King,” Adam explained.

  “We told them it was your birthdays,” said DuShawn.

  “Edgar,” I asked, “if you killed them you couldn’t be arrested, right, because of diplomatic immunity?”

  “But I wouldn’t do that,” said Edgar, “because I think these are the finest tributes I’ve ever received. I like them even more than the oil painting of a llama I was given by the envoy from Peru.”

  “And now we’re going away,” said Adam.

  “And we’re not going to crouch outside Carter’s door,” promised Louise, “and record whatever noises we hear on our phones.”

  “Or shout ‘Nice one!’” said DuShawn, “or ‘Do it!’”

  As the three of them retreated I heard Adam whisper, “Beyond cute,” and Louise reply, “Nice white boys in heat.”

  “We are going to mentally delete all of that,” I told Edgar, herding him into my bedroom. As I did this and shut the door behind us I had two explosive thoughts: first, that I was most likely the only person on Earth to bring a future king of England into a room containing a framed photo of Ruth Ginsburg and a set of mugs from Broadway hits, and secondly, that I was about to have sex with someone I actually cared about, which could result in both extreme joy and many shipping containers’ worth of panic attacks.

  Adam and DuShawn could be heard crooning “Tonight” from West Side Story; DuShawn had danced in the most recent, heatedly sexual revival. I cracked open the door and told them, “If you don’t stop that and go to your room I’ll make you watch the sequel to Mamma Mia!”

  There was a gasp and the sound of scurrying and a slamming door.

  “All right,” said Edgar, sitting on the Danish linen duvet I’d purchased at cost following a showroom event, accessorized with throw pillows from Bed Bath & Beyond; as my mom always says, “It’s about taste, not money.” Edgar turned away.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I asked. “Would you like a snack? We can just talk if you want.”

  “No, it’s just, when I look at you, you make me so happy, and I . . . I would like that to continue. But it can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because everything I’ve been accusing you of, and haranguing you about, like apprehension and shame and nervousness about your family—I’m so much worse. Which is why I’m hopeless about sex or intimacy or even the simplest pleasures.”

  I sat beside him. “What are you talking about?”

  “As you might imagine, being raised in the palace didn’t provide any sort of . . . romantic education, for either my brother or myself. James and my grandmother did their best, but I’ve remained inept and fearful. Which is why I’ve only enjoyed, if that’s the correct word, three relationships.”

  “Edgar?”

  I almost took his hand, but he wasn’t after polite comfort.

  “I’m trusting you. We’ve only been together for such a brief time, but somehow—I believe that you’re an entirely decent person.”

  Was I? I hoped I was.

  “My first was a mad crush on a boy at school. We were wild for each other, or really wild for having sex in all sorts of unlikely places. Storage rooms. A corner of the library. We were finally apprehended in the gymnasium at midnight, and my grandmother was notified, although God bless her, all she did was tell the headmaster, ‘They’re two English schoolboys—isn’t that what they do?’”

  “She said that?”

  “It was one of her finer moments. But the boy and I were separated, and he transferred to a different school, and when I encountered him years later, he was married and losing his hair. My second spasm involved another soldier while I was in the military, in Afghanistan. It was all very rugged and clandestine, until Scotland Yard documented that he’d been approached by several tabloids and was in negotiation to sell his exclusive story of torrid royal lust. With photos.”

  I was starting to understand that Edgar wasn’t inhibited and maybe inexperienced—he had good reasons for keeping his distance, from even the possibility of love.

  “I felt much like you: that I was disappointing everyone, severely. Because ever since I can remember, there’s been only one unthinkable sin, and that was disgracing my family, and my country, in any way. I was being held to a different standard, which I agreed with. I had one job: to represent the royal household and to make England proud, and I was a calamity. So even the briefest affair, even a questionable friendship, began to seem—irresponsible. Not befitting the Crown. Far too risky.”

  “So are you supposed to just be alone? And shut down?”

  “No. I’m supposed to be aware, at all times, of the dangers involved. So in certain ways, yes, I’m a prisoner, a necessary prisoner, of expectations.”

  Edgar’s eyes were shining with tears, which he didn’t acknowledge in any way.

  “But you said there were three relationships?”

  “The last was two years ago, with a docent from the British Museum. His specialty was the architect Augustus Pugin and the Gothic Revival, so we bonded over our mutual crush on the House of Lords and Westminster. He was erudite and levelheaded and quite handsome. A swimmer.”

  I was instantly jealous, envisioning every actor who’d ever appeared shirtless in a BBC miniseries as a chauffeur or a stable boy or a country parson revealing a trim torso, often while skinny-dipping in a Shropshire pond.

  “So what happened?”

  “He was lovely, almost fictional, which should’ve been a red flag. Long talks. Shared interests. Modest. Until after a drunken argument, over nothing, he shouted his intention of writing a book, exposing everything I’d told him about my childhood and my grandmother and my sessions with a therapist. The worst part was his justification—he said the world needed to know how damaged I was. He said I should be made an example of why the monarchy should be abolished.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “He was quite serious, and this had been his motive all along. He’d hired a literary agent and provided video, which I n
ever knew existed. When I tried to reason with him, things became physical, but if I’d brought charges, it only would’ve made everything worse. The Palace legal team stepped in, a great deal of money exchanged hands and—here I am. The poor little prince sobbing over his absurdly privileged and extravagant life.”

  He stood.

  “I should go. You don’t deserve this, you’re far too kind, and I’ve begun to believe that I curse people. That I plunk myself down not merely with baggage but with a sign around my neck reading ‘Beware—No Fun At All.’”

  I was standing too. We were equal. He was destined to become the king of England, and I was a nice Jewish boy from New Jersey; we both knew what we were supposed to be doing, but we were fighting it. When it came to emotional stability, neither of us had a prayer. Maybe in some way, everyone feels inadequate and broken and ashamed of being so needy. Even Callum had once confessed to me that he was letting the world down when he didn’t maintain his blonde highlights and facial scruff at what he’d classified as “peak stud.”

  Edgar’s eyes. He was looking at me from across an ocean, across centuries of his family’s history, and his own romantic fumbles. I had to do something, not just to help him and show him how worthy he was of being loved, but to get both of us naked.

  “Edgar . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I heard everything you just said, and I get it. And we’re both incredibly fucked up. And there’s only one thing we can do about it.”

  We lunged for each other and I couldn’t stop kissing this gorgeous man and ripping his clothes off and trying not to glance over his shoulder at Ruth Ginsburg and tell her, “He’s a prince, so he really doesn’t need a chest like that, but he’s fucking got one!”

  CHAPTER 13

  The sex was:

  Wonderful and heartbreaking, because at first we were both trying way too hard to be good at it, and then we laughed and had a much better time not acting like reality show judges were holding up grades as if one of us could be eliminated before the next round.

  Wonderful because Edgar was voracious and take-charge, and I decided that he was making up for lost time and proving that he wasn’t coasting on his title so I wouldn’t think, “Pretty good, for a crown prince.” Also, some of the most courteous and deferential people can get roaringly liberated in bed. Edgar was one of those people.

  Wonderful because an English person talking dirty can be very hot, as if a Jane Austen character snarled, “You really like that, don’t you? Why don’t you beg me.”

  Wonderful because for long stretches I forgot who he was and who I was, although I’ll admit I did tell myself, I’m having sex with the cover of People magazine! If I tried not to think about this I’d fall apart, so I reasoned that maybe Edgar was thinking, “I’m having sex with a commoner!”

  Wonderful because there was a moment when we looked into each other’s eyes and got scared because we were starting to understand each other, physically and otherwise. Sex can be fun or boring or a million other things, but it can also be an introduction to something true about the other person. Something we were both being trusted with.

  Wonderful because for the first time in my life I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be with exactly the right person.

  Terrifying because of that last observation.

  Exhilarating because after going to my sister’s wedding, exchanging deeply personal information and having sex for the first time, we fell asleep in each other’s arms, which is something that usually sounds good but is actually cramping and uncomfortable and makes getting up to use the bathroom difficult, but in this case, maybe because we couldn’t get enough of each other’s bodies, it worked.

  CHAPTER 14

  Edgar’s phone started blowing up while we were having breakfast the next morning at IHOP. His face went very pale as he listened and said, “I didn’t know . . . I have no idea . . . Calm down . . . I’ll be right there.”

  “What? What’s happening?”

  “I’m not quite sure but we need to visit the British Consulate. Immediately.”

  The Midtown British Consulate was as stalwart and stuffy as I’d expected, but I didn’t ask Edgar if he stayed there or just used it for meetings, because he’d swung into his Responsible World Leader mode, which I’d only caught glimpses of. He’d become extremely solemn and preoccupied, and I didn’t want to get in his way.

  We were ushered into a conference room with mahogany paneling and framed photos of British landmarks, and I tried not to think, Ralph Lauren ad without the sailboats and three-thousand-dollar cashmere sweaters. James was waiting, along with two other people: a man in his fifties wearing a board of trustees–style blue suit and a younger blonde woman in a plum-colored shirtwaist dress, her Liberty of London scarf knotted with military precision.

  “Your Highness,” said the man.

  “This is Marc Bracegirdle, my grandmother’s equerry,” said Edgar, “and Alison Talbot, the Palace media liaison.”

  “I’m Carter,” I said, but before I could add my last name, Alison cut me off: “We know who you are.”

  “A situation is developing,” said Marc, “which is causing Her Majesty great concern. It seems that a photo has been released and gone viral with global momentum. A compromising photo of the two of you.”

  Shots had already popped up online of Edgar and me kissing along the Hudson with bridesmaid selfies from Abby’s wedding, but Edgar hadn’t appeared to be bothered. “Let me see it,” he told Alison, who offered her tablet with an image of Edgar and me in bed, shirtless and smiling, wearing our Burger King crowns.

  “Who took this?” demanded Alison. “And who leaked it?”

  “I took it,” I said. “This morning. But I only sent it to Edgar, and there’ve been other pictures of us together, so what’s the problem?”

  “This is an extremely intimate portrait,” said Marc.

  “The other photos,” added Alison, “were unfortunate, but you were both clothed and in public places. This verges on the pornographic.”

  “But you can’t see anything!” I insisted. “And we just look happy!”

  “And worst of all,” Marc continued, ignoring me, “His Highness appears to be mocking the dignity of the Crown itself.”

  “So sorry I’m late,” said someone instantly familiar, entering the room.

  “My brother, Gerald,” Edgar told me, but I’d already recognized Gerald, in his crisp blue shirt, blazer and gray flannels. Unlike Edgar, Gerald had typecast himself as a glossy young royal, meticulously groomed and proudly obedient. While two years younger than Edgar, Gerald seemed older; he was the child a teacher might put in charge of the classroom while she left to make a call, confident that Gerald would enumerate all infractions. I suspected that Gerald owned a large and exhaustively researched wristwatch with countless functions, including an orbital moon phase display. He stretched his arm so this watch peeked out from his French cuff, with a cuff link enameled with the royal crest. I didn’t mean to pigeonhole him, but Gerald reeked of trying-too-hard.

  “How could you let this happen?” Gerald said forcefully. “Especially after so many previous incidents.”

  “This isn’t the same,” said Edgar, but he sounded unsure.

  “This photo has been viewed over fifty-eight million times,” reported Alison, “and has appeared on the front page of the Sun, the Daily Mail, the Guardian, the Observer and on websites around the world. And as for the comments, well, you can just imagine. The two of you are being referred to as the Burger Kings, the Burger Boys and the Burger Queens.”

  Someone stifled a giggle, and I had the feeling it was James, which made me like him.

  “I take no issue with your homosexuality,” said Gerald, “but I’m extremely upset by your exposing our family, and especially Nana, to open ridicule. This photo is salacious and adolescent and demands an immediate re
sponse.”

  Of course I wanted to ask Edgar, “Do you and your brother call the Queen of England ‘Nana’? Do you ever have to say ‘Your Nanaship’ or ‘Your Nananess’?”

  “I’ve drafted an official apology,” said Alison. “And a statement referring to Mr. Ogden as merely a misguided acquaintance with an unfortunate history.”

  “As what?” I asked.

  “We’ve come to believe that your phone has been hacked,” said Marc, “and additional photos have begun circulating, including shots of you and a group of friends dressed as Lady Gaga at various stages in her career, along with a gallery of you and an actor named Callum Turner wearing almost nonexistent swimsuits and a Halloween portrait of you costumed as Princess Leia.”

  “The Jabba the Hutt metal bikini?” James inquired.

  “The white sheath,” said Alison disdainfully, “with the braided pastry hairdo.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, anything, in my defense, but quickly closed it. Most of these photos were souvenirs of my summers sharing a house on Fire Island—at the Gaga theme party I’d been wearing a subdued Star Is Born shag and white tank top, and sure, Callum and I had owned Speedos. I wasn’t embarrassed by any of this until now, because the pictures had been sent to a batch of friends, the only people who’d cared.

  But I felt slapped in the face by a fundamental contrast between my life and Edgar’s. He was under tabloid surveillance every second of every day. I could stroll to Starbucks in my sweats or wear a rainbow jockstrap and tutu at a Burning Man party without a second thought. Edgar could never attempt any of this, not without an instantaneous worldwide backlash from strangers dissecting everything he wore or said, everyone he stood next to and, God forbid, anyone he had sex with. His warning from our night before was becoming a neon billboard.

  “I . . . I’m so sorry,” I sputtered, “I had no idea. I was so happy, and I wanted to remember the moment, and share it with Edgar.”

  “And you’re a civilian,” said Gerald, “which is a luxury Edgar cannot afford.”