Playing the Palace

by Paul Rudnick

  Edgar had been silent and watchful, weighing his response. While we hadn’t done anything wrong, I’d betrayed him. He’d told me about his awful and particular problems with his past relationships, so often centering on privacy. I’d listened, but with the ear of a tourist or an Instagram follower, hungry for details of a celebrity’s life and misfortunes. I was like most people, because I’d supposed that an invaded life and exposure to the relentless bitchery of a cruel and thoughtless public were simply the price to be paid in exchange for multiple castles, private air travel and gluttonous helpings of adoration. I’d considered this a fair trade: stardom for scrutiny.

  But sitting here, as Edgar dealt with my mistake, and with his family and his country, I couldn’t let him shoulder this or make excuses for me or be as generous and sympathetic as I knew he’d be. It wasn’t fair.

  “Okay,” I said, “this is all my fault. I’ve been having such a great time, without thinking about fallout or consequences. So I’ll bow out. I don’t want to keep messing everything up, especially not for Edgar. I’m sure that you’re all amazing at your jobs, so please fix this, and if there’s anything I can do, please, please tell me, but the best and most helpful move I can make is to disappear, forever. And put my phone under the wheels of a truck. And I’m so sorry.”

  As I moved toward the door, Edgar said, “Carter,” but I waved him off: “No, please, you’ve been—I can’t even say how wonderful you’ve been, and you were so sweet to my family, and this is how I repaid you. So please don’t be nice. Goodbye.”

  I left as fast as I could, and when I was at least five blocks away and out of breath, I leaned against the wall of an apartment building facing a small park. I hadn’t let myself deconstruct the situation or have a breakdown or call anyone, not yet. But of course I’d known this would happen. I’d met an incredible guy and I’d fucked it up. I almost thought “royally,” but stopped myself, because maybe someday, a few centuries from now, I’d be able to make jokes about my totally unlikely whirlwind royal tryst and how I’d sledgehammered it into oblivion, but not right now.

  All I could think was I want to die or vanish or rewind my life since birth and change everything so I’d never know this degree of heartache. But my mom always told me to learn from my mistakes, “especially shredded jeans,” so I told myself, there it is, absolute confirmation, the verdict is in without the slightest chance of appeal: I was never meant to fall in love. I was alone, again, like I should be. I was Carter You Fucking Idiot Ogden, and now a little girl, standing with her nanny, was staring at me as I crouched down, trying not to cry.

  The girl asked the nanny, “What’s wrong with that man?”

  “Oh, honey,” I muttered, as I stood up and started walking, “don’t get me started.”

  CHAPTER 15

  And he didn’t try to stop you?” asked Adam, once I’d returned to the apartment. “I mean, shouldn’t he have chased after you on the street and taken you in his arms and renounced the throne in the name of love?”

  “But that wouldn’t be productive,” countered Louise, “because then he’d just be another useless unemployed pretty boy hanging around our kitchen and eating our food. He’d be Callum.”

  “He’s not Callum,” I said, tilting a family-size bag of chips to send the final dust tumbling down my throat. I wasn’t just eating my feelings; I was pushing for a crap-induced coma to punctuate my did-I-do-the-right-thing nosedive. I’d silenced my phone to dodge the nonstop texts, voice mails and emails from reporters, bloggers and everyone I’d ever known, all thirsty for—what? The inside smut on dating Edgar? To punish me for detonating such a golden opportunity? To shame me for befouling the royal family? There’d been a horde of paparazzi waiting for me outside our building, yelling fairly obscene questions, as if I was a low-level felon on my courthouse perp walk, handcuffed with my coat draped over my head. I’d absorbed an especially painful fact of Edgar’s life: his emotions, from the dizziest happiness to the most profound grief, had to be polished and performed for public consumption. Like it or not, the world would always be watching, so even someone merely celebrity-adjacent had to construct an attitude, either toughing things out or playing for wide-eyed, caught-in-the-crossfire pity.

  I got why stars repeat an identical pose in all photographs, with their legs adroitly angled, their chins down and their palms placed to shield any less-than-ideal body parts. They’re controlling the narrative, at the cost of a grim sameness; they’re turning themselves into blandly almost-smiling, faultless brand ambassadors.

  Louise handed me her phone; it was my mom. “Sweetheart, I know you’ve got your phone off but I just needed to know that you’re okay. I saw the photo of you and Edgar and I thought you both looked adorable, a little pasty, but like such a cute couple. And it was so nice to meet him, and I’m just going to say this, he’s a big step up from Callum, who I never trusted, ever since I figured out he was wearing blue contacts.”

  There was a knock at our front door, and Adam checked the peephole: “It’s him. Edgar. Do you want to see him?”

  “Don’t do it,” advised Louise. “It might be a trap. He probably has his goons with him to shove a bag over your head and drag you to England to be put on trial for looking better than him in the picture.”

  “That’s not true,” said Edgar, from behind the door. “I don’t have goons and we both looked good.”

  “Let him in,” said my mom, still on the phone, just to me. “At least hear him out.”

  I nodded and Adam opened the door and there was Edgar. I couldn’t read his expression, because he’d adopted the gracious, noncommittal, official mask of his public appearances. But he clearly had something to say, a speech he’d been refining on his way over, and maybe he’d run it past James.

  “I must apologise,” he began, “for how abysmally and inhumanely you were treated by my staff. None of this was your doing; you hadn’t been prepared for—a royal uproar. And the stranger thing is, neither was I. After all these years and so many mishaps, you’d think I’d have developed a protocol, or a thicker skin. But I did what I always do under pressure: I retreated. I locked my emotions in a strongbox, in the smallest room of the highest tower, where I could look down on the world without participating. But that needs to end. And so I have a proposal. First, I’ll ask you to become more aware—of certain parameters, of the detours I’ve invented for sidestepping constant exposure. But far more importantly, I have an unequivocal demand.”

  “A demand?”

  “I’ve met your family, which began to explain so much about you. So I insist you meet mine.”

  Adam and Louise exchanged a not-uninterested glance, and my mom, thrilled to be eavesdropping via the phone, said, so only I could hear, “I’m liking this. I’m intrigued. Tell him to keep going.”

  “How?” I asked Edgar. “How would I meet your family?”

  “Well, you’ve skirmished with Gerald, and not at his best. So I’m inviting you to travel, as my guest, to London, for a week or however long you’d like, to stay in the palace and tangle with the most bizarre and unhinged creatures on Earth—the royal family. Who, if they weren’t absurdly wealthy and impossible to fire, would be found working in a carnival or in jail.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You want me to stay at Buckingham Palace and meet . . .”

  “The Queen of England,” my mother hissed in my ear.

  “Your grandmother,” I translated.

  “Yes,” said Edgar.

  “If you don’t do this,” my mom continued, “if you don’t give Edgar a chance, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Hand him this phone.”

  I passed Edgar the phone and he listened patiently, saying, “Yes . . . Yes . . . Of course . . . You as well . . . Yes, it’s spotless . . . No, I would never do that . . . All expenses paid . . . Of course. I’ll tell him.”

  Edgar hung up and told me, “Your mother says y
ou should pack twice as much clean underwear as you think you’ll need and that Miriam believes English aspirin is better than American so you must bring back five bottles, and Miriam also says that if I do anything to bring shame on the Ogdens, she will, and I believe her exact words were, ‘come over there.’”

  “Watch out,” I said.

  “What I’d prefer is this,” Edgar went on. “We were having such a lovely time, and I don’t want that interrupted. If you disagree and have deduced that I’m a bonehead, a jellyfish and a rotten deal overall and that you’re lucky to have fled my pampered royal clutches, I can’t argue the point. Although I might add that your mother did request guest soaps from a palace loo, that you remember to wear the russet suede jacket which she likes so much, and which she gave you, and that you follow your heart. What I’m saying is, let’s find out where this goes. Let’s try to circumvent the world and the media and all of those prying eyes and chattering voices.”

  “Do we get a vote?” asked Louise.

  “I vote yes!” said Adam, vigorously raising his hand, “and DuShawn’s at rehearsal, which means I have his proxy, so that means two votes yes!”

  “Louise?” asked Edgar.

  “Well, I think you’re the enemy of equality and human rights and any halfway decent form of socialism. And that in a perfect world you’d be forced to get a job without health insurance or sick days or parental leave. And you’d sell the crown jewels and donate the proceeds to the homeless, Black Lives Matter, that fund for women candidates of color and buying me a new MacBook.”

  “And you also have to find Louise a new girlfriend,” Adam improvised, and Louise concurred wholeheartedly.

  “So that’s a yes?” asked Edgar.

  “Yeah,” said Louise, still skeptical. “But only because Carter really needs to get laid more often, and from what Adam and DuShawn and I overheard, it sounded like you guys were at least getting started.”

  “Carter?”

  The millions of voices in my head had launched an epic election-year-caliber debate, bellowing opposing positions regarding self-respect, guarantees, the feeble odds for love and the ironclad certainty of catastrophe. But I came across an emotional override function, which might’ve just been installed as an upgrade. I looked into Edgar’s eyes and saw that his smile was being held in check until I’d answered. I couldn’t be responsible for imprisoning that smile, and I had feelings for Edgar that were so strong I couldn’t go anywhere near them, not yet, and I argued that whatever happened or didn’t happen, I could always blame my mother.

  Adam gave me his phone. It was Abby, FaceTiming me from her honeymoon on Bali. Behind her were palm trees, miles of white sand and Dane in sunglasses and board shorts with zinc oxide on his nose.

  “Mom just filled me in on everything,” she said. “And I saw the pictures online, and everyone in Bali agrees that both of you guys should at least think about self-tanner, but we all agree Edgar’s shoulders are to die for.”

  Dane raised his ice-blue tropical cocktail with a pineapple wedge and a hibiscus.

  “And Edgar asked you to go to England, right,” Abby continued, “and meet his family, which is a good sign, because it means you’re not just a hookup, and right now you’re driving yourself crazy with self-doubt and social anxiety and trying to decide what to do. So please hold up the phone so Edgar and everyone else can see me.”

  I did as I was told.

  “YES!!!” Abby howled as Dane pumped his fist in the air. Then Abby added, “And I can’t believe we’re talking about any of this when everyone should still be gushing about my dress.”

  “Your dress was exquisite,” Edgar told her. “Recalling your dress was the only way Carter and I achieved orgasm.”

  Abby yelled “YES!!!” at a volume that made me hold the phone a yard from my ear. Because the crowd, on two continents, had spoken, I closed the comments section and asked Edgar, “When do we leave?”

  CHAPTER 16

  Cassandra put up a fight over giving me a week off, ranting about her busiest season and the L’Oreal Sizzling Shades of Summer product launch and the Dapplemans’ Frozen II–themed brunch for their daughter’s graduation from preschool, until I played the royalty card and handed Edgar the phone so he could tell Cassandra, “Darling Cassie, it’s Edgar, and I’m so sorry, but I need to borrow our boy for just a spell, which we’ll tell you all about at a very private dinner once we return, thank you so much, and yes, I will make certain my grandmother takes a good long look at your website, including the recently rethought section covering pre-engagement hayrides.”

  A few hours later a car picked me up, along with my tired black nylon wheeled duffel, which everyone has, and to which I’d knotted a rainbow ribbon for identification on the luggage carousel, like everyone does. I’d imagined we’d be leaving from JFK, but the car soon pulled into a small private airport and drove directly onto the tarmac, parking beside the royal jet, where James was waiting by the stairs.

  There was no malfunctioning electronic check-in with an additional charge for my second bag.

  No winding, double-backed line for passport control.

  I didn’t have to remove my shoes and belt, or deposit my keys, wallet and loose change in a bacteria-clogged plastic tub.

  I wasn’t patted down or wanded or told to put my devices in a separate bin.

  I didn’t trudge for miles, while one of the wheels on my luggage broke off, before someone told me I was in the wrong terminal.

  I didn’t juggle my backpack, my phone and whatever Starbucks was calling a muffin these days while I searched for my boarding pass.

  I didn’t sit in a packed waiting area beside screaming babies and strangers falling asleep on my shoulder, for hours, until the flight was delayed and then canceled.

  I didn’t have to browse through purple velour, foam-filled neck pillows at a kiosk, because I’d finished my reading material, twice.

  Welcome to private air travel.

  Edgar was already onboard, and we sat side by side in what were basically honey-colored kidskin couches with seat belts, like deluxe baseball mitts for people, with Gerald and James a few acres away. The plane left at Edgar’s signal.

  Louise is absolutely right: life isn’t fair, the rich are evil and my only defense is that I was being kidnapped.

  A smiling, relaxed flight attendant offered us menus, angora blankets and a choice of warm cashews or—no, I stopped her right after the cashews and she said, “I’ll bring you a large bowl, and don’t hesitate to request refills.”

  Edgar was observing this, entertained. “I should mention,” he told me, “that I find the use of this jet reprehensible and I’m advocating to end my family’s private travel entirely and to have this plane recommissioned for use in transporting medical services and emergency food supplies to nations in crisis.”

  “I’m with you on that,” I said, but my words were garbled by my mouthful of cashews and my experimenting with the control panel, which governed a choice of first-run movies, a raised footrest and task lighting.

  “But meanwhile, there’s something else I should bring up. There’s a private stateroom at the rear of the main cabin.”

  We both nodded, like the gutter rats we were. We should be flying MRI machines, mosquito netting and surgical gowns to war-torn lands, but instead I followed Edgar down the aisle, passing Gerald, who was playing video rugby on his iPad, and James, who murmured, “Well, aren’t we the dirty little mile-high whores. Your Highness.”

  We waved to Edgar’s security team, and Ian said, “I win the bet. It took the two of you under three minutes to head back there.”

  “We’ll be viewing your activities on the stateroom monitors,” said Lucky, and then, “No we won’t. Unless there’s nothing on Hulu.”

  “We’re glad you’re with us, Carter,” said Terry. “Unless we have to kill you.”

 
I called out to the flight attendant, “Extra cashews for everyone!”

  The stateroom was small but still would’ve rented for many thousands of dollars as a New York studio apartment. There was a compact marble bathroom and a king-size (I didn’t say anything) bed, and the walls were padded silk embroidered with a repeat of the royal crest. Edgar shut the door behind us.

  Our first night of sex had been hyperemotional, frenzied and an Internet sensation. I’d changed my numbers and passwords and, under the guidance of Edgar’s palace tech crew, downloaded the most updated anti-malware protection to discourage further hacking. I hadn’t posted anything on any platform since Edgar and I had gone viral. Not being on Twitter or Instagram or whatever else was disconcerting, like missing a phantom limb; sometimes my thumbs twitched, sending air texts into the twilight zone. But maybe a time-out from social media would be healthy for me; I became my mom, lecturing myself, “Put down that phone and get some fresh air. Or use the time to read a book or have more sex with Prince Edgar.”

  We were in the sky somewhere over the Atlantic, with porthole windows available only to really ambitious seagulls. Private air travel is decadent, but it’s one of the hushed spaces where the rich and famous can be truly alone. This also explains their sprawling estates, bunker-like home theaters and gargantuan armored limos, all of which create a buffer between the privileged and the rest of us. Maybe privacy is their most-prized and vigilantly guarded luxury.

  But before I could pursue this line of thought, Edgar had removed his blazer, folded it neatly and dropped it on the floor. I tugged my sweater off over my head, leaving my face flushed and my hair crazed. There was a bed between us for about two seconds. We lay down facing each other and I traced Edgar’s upper lip with my forefinger because I knew it would make him smile.

  Edgar ran his own forefinger along the side of my neck because he knew it would make me tremble.

  We kissed hungrily but then moved apart, because we had time.