You or No One

by Olivier Bosman

  I looked out for him all week. I longed to give him a big hug, but he had disappeared. Had he gone back to Doggerland? Was he lying low, waiting to see if I would stick to the promise I’d made to his secretary?

  I finally saw him on Friday afternoon. I was heading for the supermarket when I saw him parked in the car park. He sat at the wheel, staring dreamily in front of him, the way he was doing when I first saw him in the quadrangle.

  He turned his head and looked at me as I passed. He smiled. At least, I think it was a smile. The corner of his mouth lifted. A half-smile, you could call it. An insecure smile. An I’d-like-to-talk-to-you-but-you-must-make-the-first-move smile. I went towards him.

  “Off for the weekend?” I asked him.

  “I’m spending the weekend in Brighton,” he said. He kept tapping his fingers on the wheel and never looked me in the eyes.

  “I signed the contract.”

  “I know,” he mumbled.

  “I won’t say anything to anyone. You can rely on me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I can understand how hard it must be for you.”

  Suddenly, he sat up and looked me straight in the eyes. “What are you doing this weekend?”

  “Nothing much. I have to write some essays. I’m always writing essays.”

  “Come with me to Brighton.”

  “What for?”

  “You can keep me company. I’m staying at the Pavilion Hotel. You’ll like it. It’s beautiful.”

  “What about my essays?”

  “You can write them there.” He saw me wavering. “I’ll get you your own room.”

  “I can’t allow you to pay for my hotel rooms all the time.”

  “I can afford it.” He leaned over and opened the passenger door. “Come on. Stop dithering about and hop in.”

  “You want us to go now?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what about my clothes?”

  He looked me up and down. “I’ll buy you some decent clothes when we get there.”

  Decent clothes? The nerve of the man! “You can’t keep spending money on me,” I said.

  “I can do whatever I want. I’m the crown prince of Doggerland.” He smiled cockily. “Now, get in. I want to beat the traffic.”

  So, I got in. Yes, I did feel a little like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, but hey, you’re only young once. It was quiet in the car at first. Neither of us knew what to say. A series of awkward looks and smiles accompanied us until we made it onto the motorway, at which point I finally decided to break the ice.

  “So…” I said. “You’re going to be king of Doggerland.”

  That was the wrong topic. His face tightened.

  “Yes,” he said softly, keeping his eyes fixed on the road.

  “When will that be?”

  “Whenever my father decides to retire. Luckily that won’t be for another few years.”

  “And what will you do in the meantime?”

  “I’ll do what all princes do when they wait to become king.”

  “Party?”

  He gave me a look. “No,” he said, frowning. “Pick a charity and become its patron.”

  “Oh.” I was a little embarrassed about my ignorant quip. I forgot just how serious Eric was. “And have you picked a charity yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Any idea what kind of charity it would be?”

  “Maybe something to do with the environment. Or world poverty.”

  “How about gay rights?”

  Wrong topic again. He frowned and turned away from me.

  “That is not an appropriate subject,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “My role is to be an ambassador to my country. Doggerland trades with many countries where homosexuality is illegal or frowned upon. It wouldn’t do to be an advocate for gay rights. The royal family must remain neutral in such matters.”

  “I don’t see why. I think that being a crown prince would put you in an excellent position to be a positive role model and to effect some real change in the world.”

  “My father would not approve. And neither would the government. I can’t do anything without their approval.”

  “Do your parents know that you’re… um…” For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to complete the question. The word gay suddenly sounded too harsh. Too confrontational.

  “I’ve never told them,” Eric said. “But I think they know. My sister knows.”

  “And your secretary knows too.”

  “Yes. Christian knows everything. He’s had to help me out of a few messy situations in the past.”

  “Messy situations?”

  “Occasions where I trusted people who later turned on me.”

  Aha. So he’d been blackmailed. That’s what he must’ve thought I was up to when I called him your majesty. That whole business in the registrar’s office had been just another well-polished ritual which had taken place many times before. I felt a pang in my heart at the thought that I had caused Eric such anguish.

  We had a wonderful day in Brighton. After checking in at our hotel, Eric took me shopping. I’d always considered myself a snappy dresser, but in Eric’s world, I must have seemed like trailer-trash chic. I was Posh Spice to his Lady Diana; Bonnie Tyler to his Celine Dion; Divine to his Lady Gaga. He took me to shops I’d never dreamed of entering before. Shops that sold things such as silver cigarette cases, and hip flasks, and cuff links, and garters for men. He was the one paying, so I let him buy whatever he wanted. He bought me beige creased trousers; a burgundy silk shirt that was so soft and smooth on my skin it gave me an erection; a dark grey cotton blazer (he loved his blazers); and a pair of £199 sunglasses.

  I wore my new outfit as I walked out of the store. I felt like a young jet-setter from the 1960s. Like JFK, or Sean Connery in Dr No, or a character out of La Dolce Vita. After our shopping spree, Eric took me for tea in one of those places by the sea where young people used to go ballroom dancing in the 1950s, and waitresses wore black uniforms with starched white caps and aprons, and a pianist played waltzes on a grand piano. I felt like Joan Fontaine in Rebecca, nervously picking up her teacup, desperately trying not to spill anything. And he was Laurence Olivier, staring lovingly at me with that haughty charm of his, enjoying my awestruck clumsiness.

  In the evening, we dined at the hotel restaurant – and dined was the right word for it. A proper three-course meal, with appetizers and bottles of wine (which he tasted carefully and approved before we were served), and cognac with the coffee, and a glass of port at the end of it all.

  After dinner, we went back to his room. He took off his blazer, threw it on the bed, and sat on the sofa.

  “Did you have a good time?” he asked, slipping off his shoes.

  “What do you think?” I followed his example and hung my blazer neatly on the back of the chair (I’m not normally this tidy). Then I sat on the sofa opposite him. “Do you always eat like this?”

  “Of course not. I’d be a fat, gout-suffering slob if I did.”

  “I suppose you’re quite used to these kinds of dinners. I bet you have cooks and butlers and manservants waiting on you day and night.”

  He gave me one of his disapproving looks. “I have my own apartment. With a kitchenette. I do my own cooking.”

  “And what do you cook?”

  “Simple things. Porridge for breakfast. Pasta salad for dinner.”

  “So, this extravagant three-course meal… it was all done to impress me?”

  He smiled. “Did it work?”

  He unbuttoned his shirt collar and spread his arms over the back rest. He looked so different here. So confident and relaxed. His face glowed with pride, watching me enjoy a taste of the sweet life. The glint in his eyes made me horny.

  “Why am I here?” I asked. Damn it! Why did I have to ask such a corny question! But I just wanted to hear him say that he liked me. There hadn’t been much evidence of that so far. Last time, I’d thrown myself at him in
his hotel room in London. And this time I couldn’t shake the notion that he’d only asked me along because he felt safe with me. After all, I’d be in big trouble if I ever blabbed about him.

  “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, then.”

  It was the right answer. Why ruin the moment with such needy thoughts. I smiled at him, kicked off my shoes, and joined him on the sofa. By the time the waiter knocked on the door with strawberries and champagne, we were rolling on the cushions, our tongues entwined, our hands in each other’s shirts, caressing, squeezing, kneading.

  My eyes were bloated the following morning. My head was pounding. It was the port that did it. That fourth glass was a mistake. I woke up in my own room. Eric was worried about us being seen leaving the room together, so I crept back to my own room in the wee hours.

  I climbed out of bed and slipped on some clothes. Not the ones had Eric bought me. In the groggy state I was in, I felt like wearing comfortable clothes. I put on my trusted old jeans and my red hammer and anvil t-shirt with a hole in the left armpit and the old baggy fleece vest with the hoodie. I knocked on Eric’s door. No answer. Must’ve still been sleeping.I went down alone.

  As I entered the breakfast room, however, there he was, sitting at a table by the window overlooking the English Channel. And he wasn’t alone. There was a beautiful blonde woman sitting opposite him. They were holding hands.

  I walked towards them. They were too busy gazing into each other’s eyes to notice me.

  I cleared my throat. “Good morning.”

  They turned to look at me. She was stunning. Blue eyes, perfect skin, and a broad smiled which revealed a set of perfectly aligned, shiny white teeth. She was almost as beautiful as Eric. In fact, she could’ve been Eric, if Eric had been a woman.

  “Oh, hi, Joel,” Eric said. “How are you feeling?”

  “A little groggy.” I was still staring at the woman. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  “This is my little sister Petra.”

  Petra got up and gave me a big hug. She wasn’t that little. She was taller than me. Nearly as tall as Eric.

  “I’m so glad to meet you,” she said, squeezing me in her arms.

  “Petra is the reason I came down to Brighton,” Eric said.

  “Is she?”

  “My friend is getting married,” she explained. “I’ve known her since boarding school. I flew over to attend her hen party.”

  “I see.” But I didn’t see. Eric hadn’t said anything about a sister. He’d said he wanted me along for the company. I thought this was supposed to be a little romantic getaway.

  I picked up an empty chair from a nearby table and was about to slide it towards them when Eric said,

  “Didn’t you say you had some essays to write?”

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps now would be a good time to do so.”

  “Now?”

  “It’s a sunny morning. You could sit outside.” He pointed at the terrace, where the sun was shining on a group of tables overlooking the sea. “You don’t mind, do you? Petra and I haven’t seen each other in a long time, and we have a lot of catching up to do.”

  I looked at Petra. She was still smiling at me.

  “No, of course not,” I said. But I did mind. Was I being snubbed? I looked around me for a way to get onto the terrace.

  “The door is over there,” Eric said. “A waiter will come to you. Give him your room number and pick whatever you want. The scrambled eggs are good here.”

  “Right,” I said and shuffled forlornly off towards the terrace.

  So, there I sat. On my own at a table, sipping coffee and nibbling on a croissant (a very good croissant, by the way. It was crispy and buttery and made by a real French pâtissier). The wintersun was unusually warm, and I could hear the sea waves lapping against the shore. It could have all been so romantic. But it wasn’t.

  I tried not to look, but from the corner of my eye I could see Eric and his sister through the window, chatting. Were they talking about me, I wondered? Is that why I’d been banished to the terrace?

  Suddenly, I saw them get up and head out of the restaurant. They stopped at the door. Petra whispered something to Eric, and he looked back at me. He left Petra waiting by the door and walked – a little reluctantly – towards me.

  “Joel.” He popped his head through the terrace door. “My sister and I are going for a drive. We should be back tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “I don’t know what time. It might be quite late. But you have your essay to write, haven’t you, so you’ll be glad to be rid of me.”

  He drew his head back in and skipped back towards his sister. I watched the two of them walk out, holding hands and laughing.

  I suppose I didn’t really mind having my breakfast at a separate table, if Eric and his sister wanted to talk about me. Nor did I mind being left alone for the day (Eric was right, I did have to work on my essay). What I minded was the clumsy way in which it all happened. Eric would have left without saying anything if his sister hadn’t reminded him that I was still there.

  After they left, I grabbed my notebook and pen from my room, went back to my sunny table on the terrace, and worked on my essay. By the time I’d finished a good draft, it was already three o’clock, and an admirable collection of empty coffee cups had accumulated on the table. It was still sunny, which is nearly unheard of during an English winter, so I decided to make the most of it. I went for a nice stroll along the beach and did my darndest not to think about Eric and his odd behaviour.

  I returned to the hotel just before it got dark. The walk had done me good, but the sun and salty breeze had tired me out. I felt invigorated, but I also felt like a shower. I walked into the lobby and pressed the button on the lift, then somebody suddenly called my name. I looked around me and saw Petra sitting at the bar, smiling and waving at me.

  I nodded and smiled back. She kept staring at me. Did she want me to come over, I wondered. I wasn’t really in the mood to talk to her, but she beckoned me to join her.

  Damn it, I thought. I walked towards her.

  “Do you like champagne?” she asked. “Have a glass with me.” Before I was able to answer, she turned towards the barman and ordered me a drink. “So, tell me.” She patted the barstool beside her. “How was your day? Did you get your essay written?”

  “Yes.” I climbed onto the barstool and looked around for Eric. “Where’s your brother?”

  “Eric’s in his room. He has a headache. So, what is it about? The essay?”

  “Oh, it’s… um… it’s about the divide-and-rule strategy.”

  She smiled and quoted my assignment to the word. “‘What are the conditions which enable an autocratic ruler to implement the divide-and-rule strategy?’.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “How did you know that?”

  “I’m preparing to study PPE next year. I could’ve started this year, but my parents wanted me to wait until Eric finished. I suppose they didn’t want us both to be in England at the same time.”

  “So, what are you doing in the meantime?”

  “I’m on a gap year.”

  “You have no royal duties as a princess?”

  She didn’t wince like Eric did when I mentioned her title. She just continued smiling.

  “Oh, I have to attend a few openings and premieres, but that’s usually quite fun. So, what’s it like, PPE? I can’t wait to start.”

  “Hasn’t Eric told you?”

  “Yes, but he hates it. I’d like to hear from someone who actually chose the subject.”

  “Well, it’s hard. But interesting.”

  “Good. I do hope I can start next year. There’s every chance I may have to wait longer, if Eric fails his last year. Eric’s not very academic, I’m afraid. I am the brains of the family.” She smiled. “I hope you don’t think that sounds too boastful.”

  She didn’t look at all as if she minded sounding bo
astful.

  “You’re very confident, aren’t you?” I said.

  She nodded proudly.

  “I bet you’d quite like to be the next queen of Doggerland.”

  She laughed. “Eric’s the firstborn. It’s his birthright.”

  There was something artificial about her constant smiling. I suspected that perhaps she wasn’t as warm and loving as she made herself out to be.

  “But you’d quite like to, though,” I said. “Or am I wrong?”

  “Well…”

  “And I don’t think Eric is all that interested.”

  “Oh, but he is. He’s just doesn’t feel prepared. And he isn’t yet. But he will be.” Suddenly, she looked up, straight into my eyes. “What he needs is somebody strong to stand behind him. Someone to support him. Someone with confidence. With self-assurance.”

  She was talking about herself, of course. About her plans to become monarch by proxy.

  “The problem with the hereditary system is that you don’t always get the best person for the job,” she said. “Being the firstborn isn’t really much of a qualification. But in those cases when the crown prince is weak, it’s the woman behind the man that makes all the difference. Queen Victoria was nothing after Albert died. And George VI relied entirely on the Queen Mother.”

  “So, you’re suggesting that Eric should marry a strong-minded woman?” I was teasing her. I knew perfectly well that she was suggesting she should be the woman behind the man.

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head vigorously. “Eric would never marry for convenience. He’ll marry for love or not at all. That’s the way he is. He’s an all-or-nothing kind of person. And I’m afraid that that has doomed him to remain a bachelor for the rest of his life.”

  There was something frightening about this woman’s ambition. She seemed dead set on becoming queen. Eric was just a puppet to her. I now understood why she was so eager to share a drink with me. It was to scare me off. To show me who pulled Eric’s strings.

  I could have argued with her. I could have told her that Eric could also marry a man. That a man could usurp her, and how would she feel about that? But I was tired. And anyway, I’d gone off Eric. I was sweaty, my skin tasted of salt, and my hair was rough and sticky. I really wanted a shower. I picked up my glass and downed my champagne.