by Vivian Wood
I roll my eyes. “For the longest time, Pippa and I have been facing questions about our friendship. The fact that we’ve managed to keep close but separate is honestly a miracle.”
He gives me a look and shakes his head. “I guess it is whatever makes you happy.”
My lips curve upward. “Exactly. Pippa isn’t your average girl. She is exceptional in every way. And that includes the fact that I’m not interested in her in that way.”
He arches a brow. “So you don’t think Pippa is hot?”
I shoot him a little smile. “All my friends are hot.”
He shakes his head again. “You’re crazy.” He stands up, quaffing the rest of his drink. “I think I need some fries to go with this beer. You want anything?”
“Hah. The RAF has some of the worst food on the planet. So I’ll stick to their watery beer for now.”
He nods a little as he heads to the canteen counter. I watch him go, sighing. He’s told me a hundred times before that he doesn’t understand my relationship with Pippa.
She’s right there. You’re both attractive. You like each other enough. Just go for it.
Each and every time he brings it up, I rebuff him. It’s a tale as old as time, to be perfectly frank. And not to mention that it’s boring as fuck, feeling like I have to explain to Erik and everyone else.
Why won’t people just mind their own business?
Taking a sip of my beer, I mull it over again in my head.
Pippa is wonderful. She’s sweet. She’s smart. She’s playful. She knows my history.
Hell, she’s been there for a lot of it.
Plus there is the fact that she’s absolutely fucking smoking hot.
But there is an edge to her. There is a point at which she grows uncomfortable with closeness, pushes everyone away, including me. I have the vague sense that there is just more to her that I can’t quite touch. She is a lake whose depths are yet-unknown to anyone. And as you delve deeper, the water gets cold as ice.
I don’t know for sure, but I get the feeling that at the bottom is a solid, frozen wall.
So yes, I may have a thing for her.
But there is definitely no way that I’m about to take it further. Even if I could, I’m not sure I would want to.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. I have Pippa’s friendship. Asking for more than that seems… greedy, somehow. It’s better to have the closest friendship than to have no Pippa at all.
I stare down at my empty glass, trying to reassure myself.
5
Pippa
Sylvie Martin. That was the name that I was born with.
Sitting on my couch in my tiny apartment, I open my laptop and type the name in. Swallowing quickly, I hit return.
A million results are returned in my search box. I guess Sylvie Martin is a pretty common name. But I keep scrolling down, looking for old mentions of myself. Clicking next on every page of links that don't have anything to do with me, I finally find a link to an old newspaper article on the sixth page.
The old newspaper article is in French, though it's only the work of a minute to translate it with Google. It reads, Ansel Martin sentenced to six hundred life sentences this week. The terrorist that bombed French Parliament is survived by his daughters Sylvie and Stella. The two girls have gone to live with a close family friend, although authorities will not release that guardian’s name. It is believed that they will be placed in witness protection and start new lives under new name…
I swallow, closing the page. I want more than anything to know exactly what happened to my little sister Stella. She disappeared from my life around the same time that I went to a Swiss boarding school and changed my name to Pippa Welch.
That’s my biggest regret: I have no real idea what happened to Stella. By the time that I reached out to the family friend who got me accepted to St. Matthew’s boarding school, she and my little sister had disappeared without a trace.
In retrospect, I should've asked a lot more questions. But at the time, it seemed like I just had to get away from my old life. I let Stella go as part of the deal.
Biting my lip, I figure a little digital snooping won’t hurt anyone. I type Stella Martin and Paris into the search bar and get a million fresh results. Scrolling through a few pages, I see a list of Facebook profiles.
I’ve looked for Stella online before… but I’ve never tried looking on Facebook. I click the link and cruise through four pages of results before I find someone I recognize. Her face is fuller and rounder, her eyes more grown up than I remember. Her red hair is unmistakable though, a nest of fiery copper curls.
My heart seizes up as I click on her profile. Her page is set to private so there is almost no information to be found… except for her location.
She lives in Nantes, a little more than three hours from Paris.
A million questions enter my mind.
How long has she lived there?
What is she like now?
Is there any room in her life for her surely long-forgotten sister?
I bite my lip, my finger hovering over the button that will add her as a friend. Is that something she would want? If I were her, would I want a big sister reappearing in my life, fifteen years after the fact?
In the end, I bookmark her Facebook profile, unable to bring myself to click on the add as a friend button. I stare off into the distance, thinking about the past.
If I could do it all over again, given what I know today, I would do everything differently. Then again, what if doing anything differently resulted in not knowing Lars quite as well as I do now?
That thought haunts me.
I get a text message, which pops up on my computer screen and chimes. I startle a little as I shake my head and check the message. It's from Margot.
Hey, are you still planning on meeting me at the baby store later? I know that I shouldn't be planning already, but I'm in full baby crazy mode. Help!
My lips curve up slightly. I text her back.
It's funny to see you like this, because you were never the baby crazy one of the two of us. I always figured that I would already be married with a bunch of kids by now. You would be the fun aunt and you would spoil my whole brood. And yet… Here we are.
She texts back.
I know, right? I never expected it either. But now that I'm expecting, I can't help it. I spent an hour this morning watching Tik-Tok videos of cute babies and sobbing uncontrollably. There's no helping me.
I chuckle. I'll be there. Just let me know which store you decide on. And be ready for me to buy you every cute onesie that I see.
She just replies with the 100 emoticon. I set my laptop aside and stand up, stretching. I looked down at my current outfit, a black sweatshirt and a pair of pink tie-dyed leggings. I'm definitely going to have to reconsider my outfit choice if I'm going to actually go into Politiken today.
The very thought of going into the actual office makes my stomach sink a little. I usually love my job, but lately it's been a lot less fun. Mostly because I have this new editor that is all over me, constantly asking what I'm working on and why I am not focusing more on my insider knowledge of the palace.
My phone starts ringing, shaking me out of my thoughts. I frown and walk over to answer it, seeing that my editor is calling as though I summoned her.
I take a deep breath and answer. "Freja. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Her high-pitched voice grates on my ears. "Pippa! I was just wondering when we would see you in the office. I have some story ideas that I would very much like to run by you."
I grit my teeth. "Well, why don't you just run them by me right now? I'm probably not going to be in the office today…" I don't know why the lie just slips past my lips, but there's something about Freja that just gets on my nerves.
She clears her throat. "Well, all right. I guess it couldn't hurt. I have three ideas that are really good. The first one is about you and Margot and how you went to college together…"
I shake my head a little. Who would've guessed that Freja would present such a terrible idea to me? I try to keep this sigh from my answer. "Uh-huh. I don't think that the Queen would really like me taking advantage of our mutual past like that."
"Oh, I'm sure that's not true. Queen Margot seems like an cool person. I think she would—“
I interrupt her. "Let's not get into what she would or would not do and what you personally think would or would not be okay with her. You said you had three ideas. So what are the other two?"
There's a few seconds of awkward silence on the line. I hear the sound of pages flipping as she clears her throat again. "Well, okay. I've got another idea that is about you and Lars and how your relationship first started almost fifteen years ago in boarding school."
I grimace. "Again, I think you are asking me to trade on my personal relationships in order to give a inside look into the personal lives of the royals. And I don't think that Lars would appreciate it any more than Margot would. I think that one of the reasons that they both respect me is that I may be a journalist, but I'm not always asking annoying personal questions on the record when I'm hanging out with them. We're friends first. I'm a journalist second. Does that make sense to you?"
I can just imagine her pinched face, her look of disappointment complete. "I don't think that you are really getting a full picture of what I am asking you for. It's nothing that couldn't be gleaned from reading the papers…"
I clench my jaw. "I think I've already answered your question. What is the third idea?"
She blows out a breath. "Well, this one is a little more personal and a little more out there, but I was thinking that you could take a vacation with Lars or Margot and record little short video clips of reminiscing on your friendship—“
I make an aggravated noise. "Ja, no. I'm not going to do that. It seems like all of your story ideas center around my friendship with the royal family. None of the other editors have any problem with assigning me stories that are not directly related to my friends. I don't quite understand what the issue is that you seem to have."
"I don't have an issue with you, Pippa. You seem to be the one that has an issue with this newspaper. And to be frank, I don't see how we can keep employing someone that clearly has interests other than the paper at heart. So I would think long and hard about the three stories I presented. I would plan to do one of them. Because until you do, I don't think that you can be assigned another story."
My lips thin and my eyes narrow. “Have you talked to upper management about this? Because David certainly wouldn't like you poking your nose into the royal family any more than I like being asked to do it."
Freja sounds a little happy to deliver the news. "Didn’t you hear? David left the paper. We are all undergoing a radical shift right now and reconsidering the terms of employment of the lot of our writers. So I put it to you instead… Do you think that you can be useful to us? Because if not…"
My mouth opens but no words come out. I am just utterly aghast. "Are you saying that either I do the story that you seem to want or I find another job?"
I can hear her smiling through the phone. "Yes, honestly. I think you have to do some serious consideration of where your priorities lie. I suggest that you take the long weekend and think about whether or not you really want this job."
That's when I hang up the phone on her. I didn't exactly mean to do it, I am just so put off by everything she had to say and how she had to say it. I couldn't listen to another word.
I'm left staring at my phone screen, agog.
Was I just fired from the paper? It certainly feels that way.
I get a notification on my phone that Freja just shared a document with me. I open it up, biting my lower lip. It's a breakdown of each story she has asked me to pursue and how she sees each one ending up. Essentially she has already all but written the articles that she is demanding. I'm just supposed to write down some words and sign my name to this… this fiction.
I just can't believe it. As if everything else in my life is just going fine and dandy…. No, it’s definitely not. I don't need any additional stress and finding a job as a journalist right now is definitely beyond harrowing.
With my heart still heavy, I start to get dressed to meet Margot as we have agreed. I shower quickly and then I put on a peach silk dress, layering it with a long white cardigan and chunky black heels.
I’m still fuming as I finish getting dressed. How dare Freja even make such demands of me? Someone in the royal press office needs to hear about this in the morning. I kind of hate to fight dirty, but they can exert pressure on the owners of Politken when I may or may not have any say in the matter.
I can't be bothered with my hair so I up throw it up in a messy bun and put on just enough mascara and blush to make myself presentable.
Then I look at the time and realize that I am definitely going to be late to meet Margot, even if I hurry. Pulling on my warm winter coat, I grabbed my purse and head downstairs. The cool winter air of the late afternoon catches me by surprise.
It's not that I don't know that it's cold outside, I just didn't expect it to be this cold. I pull my jacket tight around myself, thinking that maybe I should catch a cab. I only have to go about ten blocks, but if I catch a cab, I will not only be warm but I will get there faster.
In my haste, I rush by a chic blonde woman in a dark trenchcoat, bumping her shoulder carelessly. I turn to apologize, my mouth flying open. But when I turn, she is standing still, a tiny smirk on her face.
"Careful, Sylvie."
My eyes widen. My pulse starts racing.
How does she know that name?
"I'm sorry?" I say, pretending that she has the wrong person.
Hell, for all I know, she does.
She arches a delicate brow. She takes off her glove and extends her hand to me, staring at me. "We haven't had the pleasure yet, Sylvie. You can call me Mrs. Olson."
Frozen in place, I don't move to shake her hand. "You must have me mistaken for someone else."
I start to turn away, clearing my throat. Ms. Olson steps forward and grabs my elbow, turning me back around. This close, her gray eyes seem like they are filled with a laughing sort of mockery. "Oh, I don't think so. I think you are Sylvie Martin. And I think that you've been masquerading as Pippa Welch for years. Have I got it right, Sylvie?”
Trembling, I jerk out of her grasp. "I don't know who you think I am, but you had better leave me alone."
Her eyes sparkle maliciously. "Unless you want me to tell Prince Lars your secret, you will listen to me."
I shake my head, beginning to walk away. I called back, pointing a finger skyward. "Leave me alone. I mean it."
She calls after me. "You're going to get the opportunity to make yourself a bigger part of Lars’s life soon. If you're smart, you'll position yourself to be his future spouse. And when that happens? I'll be in contact."
I stop, glancing back at her. "You're crazy. You don't even know me. You definitely don't know that there's going to be any kind of quote on quote ‘opportunity coming down the line’.” I pause, dragging in a breath. “Shit. Why am I even talking you again?"
I start walking away, shaking my head. My hands are shaking with a mixture of fear and anger.
Who is this stranger? And how does this woman know who I am?
I turn the corner, but I can't miss the words that are shouted at my back. "I'll see you again very soon, Sylvie…”
I start to run.
6
Lars
I'm sitting at the end of a long, polished conference table, trying not to feel like I'm about to be punished. I lean back in the chair I was given, pushing my cheek out with my tongue.
It’s well past eight in the evening. The shadows here in Stellan’s study have lengthened. I try not to fidget or show that this little charade of calling me here so late has made me quite nervous.
Inside though, I am drawing a big blank where it comes to guessing w
hat the purpose of this little meeting could be. At the other end of the conference room table, Stellan sits with our very nosy grandmother, Queen Ida, and an older cabinet minister.
Jorgenson. No, Svenson.
Shit, I’ve forgotten his name.
Stellan looks a little uncomfortable. Momse, as we call the former Queen, looks as pert and pulled together as always. Her sleek gray hair pulled back in a chignon and her dove gray silk dress hiding her too-demure smile.
It just makes me think of how I've never really gotten on with my grandmother like everyone else does. Momse is controlling and manipulative, always behind the scenes trying to pull everyone’s strings like a puppeteer. She was always more interested in Stellan, as he was going to take the throne someday.
I try not think about it too much.
The older cabinet member is short and gray-haired, his piercing black eyes focused on me. He is outright glaring at me, held in check I'm sure by whatever machinations my grandmother has in place. I have no idea exactly why I've been summoned here, but I know that it isn't good. I'm trying not to show it on the outside, though.
Stellan leans forward, running a hand to his dark hair. He shakes his head a little as he looks at me. "I think you have really done it this time, Lars."
My heart beats a little faster. I'm not sure exactly what I’ve done or how I can be punished for it, but seeing my grandmother here is definitely not a good sign. Still, I try to play it cool.
"You're gonna have to be more specific about what I have done wrong this time." I say it casually, as if I'm just tossing off the first response it comes my head. But underneath the table, my hands are clasped together in my lap, knuckles turning white.
My grandmother tucks an unseen hair behind her ear and smiles a little flatly. "As expected, as I have warned you not to do on multiple occasions, you have violated the wrong young woman."
I squint at the three of them. "Violated? Who are we talking about, here? I definitely never done anything to anyone who wasn’t a willing participant."
