“Thank you very much,” I said, slamming the empty glass on the bar. “But I really need to go back to my room. I’m tired, and I want to have another look at my essay.”
“Of course.” She smiled at me. It was a lovely smile. She had mastered it well. “It was nice talking to you, Joel.”
I had my shower and threw myself onto my bed. As I lay there staring at the ornamental designs that framed the white ceiling, all sorts of thoughts ran through my head, the foremost of which was: what was I doing here?
I’d been mistaken about Eric. He wasn’t a poor tormented soul. He was an immature little boy. A spoiled prince. He had no interest in me; he just wanted me for sex. He would probably be knocking on my door as soon as his headache receded, looking for another night of passion. Well, Eric could go fuck himself! What was I, his courtesan? His whore?
How did I allow myself to be seduced into all of this? Me, a socialist? An anti-monarchist? Was I really so shallow that I fell for all those nice clothes, and the fine dining, and a good-looking boy with a muscular physique and a royal title?
At around nine o’clock, just as I predicted, there was a knock on the door.
“Joel?” I heard him whisper. “Are you in there?”
I didn’t answer. I turned my back to the door, placed a pillow over my ear, and closed my eyes.
I got up early that morning. I entered the breakfast room five minutes after it opened. I wanted to beat Eric to it. I wanted to be the one to tell him to fuck off when he pulled up a chair at my table. I sat at my table at five past, sipping coffee and enjoying another croissant. I was engrossed by that croissant. How did they make them so delicious? I was busy dissecting the different pastry layers when a voice suddenly spoke to me.
“Mother never taught you not to play with your food?”
It was Eric, towering over me. His rosy face looked freshly scrubbed, his hair neatly combed, his white silk shirt freshly ironed, his beige chinos pressed. Before I could do anything to prevent it, he pulled up a chair and sat down before me.
“Where is Petra?” I asked.
“She’s gone to her friend’s hen do. Probably won’t see her again for a few months.”
He lifted his arm and clicked his fingers at the waiter. “Coffee, please. Black. And… um… eggs. Scrambled.” Then he shooed the waiter away with his hand.
How rude! This was a side of Eric I hadn’t seen before.
“How was your little drive yesterday?” I made no attempt at hiding the bitterness in my voice.
“It was good. We drove along the coast and had a good, long chat.”
“What about?”
“About you, as it happens.”
“Me?”
He sat up and cleared his throat. “I… um… I want to ask you a question. I wanted to ask you last night in your room. But you were sleeping.”
“What do you want to ask?”
He hesitated for a few beats. Then he blurted it out. “Would you like to marry me?”
Well! I don’t need to tell you that I was shocked. I gaped at him silently, perplexed.
“This isn’t a proposal, you understand,” he added hurriedly. “I’m not asking you to marry me. Not yet. I can’t without the permission of my father and my government. But I’m asking you whether marrying me is something you would consider.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Petra said she talked to you last night. She likes you. She said you’d make a good partner for me.”
“But we only talked for about ten minutes.”
“Well, she’s a good judge of character. She saw the same good qualities in you as I did.”
“What good qualities?”
“Your confidence. Your self-assuredness.”
“But I have no confidence.”
“Of course you do. I mean, look at you. You’re poor, you’re Welsh, you’re not particularly good looking, and yet you’re sitting here in the smartest hotel in Brighton as if you had every right to do so.”
“Wow! You really know how to sweep a boy off his feet!”
“No, you don’t understand. These are things that I like about you.”
“That I’m not particularly good looking?”
“What I meant was…” He shook his head. “This conversation isn’t going at all the way I planned it. What I meant was that you’re grounded. You’re down to earth. You don’t care what people think of you. Otherwise you wouldn’t be wearing that.”
“What?”
“That hoodie. This is the Pavilion Hotel, not a hip-hop bar in Brooklyn.”
“Do you want me to take it off?”
“No. You don’t understand. I like that about you. I like that you snubbed the nice clothes I bought for you and chose to wear your council estate gear instead. I like that you come down for breakfast without even bothering to comb your hair. I like your ordinariness. Your earthiness. You’re a working-class kid with the balls and intelligence to break out of your environment and compete with us rich kids. And you outshine us. Not with your clothes, or your wit, or your family name, but by being yourself. That’s what I like about you. And that’s what I want standing beside me when I’m king. Petra thinks so too, and she’s an excellent judge of character.”
I was flabbergasted. Never had I felt so insulted and complimented at the same time! I’d read Petra wrong.
“Well?” Eric asked.
“What?”I’d long forgotten what the original question was. I was still reeling from his speech. You outshine us. That was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me.
“Would you consider marrying me?” he said. “Or rather, what I’m asking is whether you’d be willing to be my right-hand man. We’d be the first gay royal couple in history. We’d do all those things that you talked about in the car. Be ambassadors for gay rights and so forth. But it won’t be easy. We’ll be hated by many. There’ll be insults, ridicule, maybe even death threats. And that’s only if our marriage is approved by king and parliament, which will be a whole battle in itself. But one I’m willing to fight if you are by my side. So, what do you think? Will you consider it? Will you be the next prince consort of Doggerland? Will you be my husband?”
CHAPTER SIX
Sea, Sheep and Herrings
“He asked you to do what?”
Trevor sat on the edge of his bed, staring at me with open-mouthed amazement.
“He asked me to marry him.”
It took another few beats for the news to register, but when it did, Trevor jumped up like a jack-in-the-box and trampolined on the bed, clapping and laughing and saying, ‘Oh my God’ over and over again.
I frowned. “What are you so excited about?”
“You are going to marry the future king of Doggerland! What will that make you? Queen Joel? Oh my God, are you going to be called Queen Joel?”
“For fuck’s sake, Trevor, calm down. And lower your voice. I’m not supposed to say anything. Not even to you.”
Trevor resumed his position on the edge of the bed. “Okay, I’m calm, but tell me more! Tell me more!”
“There are two things you need to know,” I said to him. “One: I didn’t say I was going to marry him. I only said that he asked me. And two: what are you getting so excited about? I thought you were meant to be a socialist.”
“Fuck socialism!”
“What do you mean fuck socialism? We’re anti-royalists. We’re against rich families hoarding all the money and opportunities. Isn’t that why we wanted to enter politics in the first place? To change the inequality?”
“Oh, stop getting up yourself! You can’t decline this opportunity. You know that you’ll be in a far better position to change the world as Queen Joel than by being some lowly intern in the Labour party. I can see it before me. The fabulous Queen Joel with her diamond tiara and pink tutu. Royal crusader for the poor. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
I sighed. “I thought I could have a serious conversation with you. And, you know,
maybe get some advice. But clearly I was mistaken.” I lay down on my bed and turned my back to him.
“Okay, sorry.” Trevor crossed his legs and put his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand. “I’m serious now. I’m listening.”
I turned back to face him. “I just don’t know what to do.”
“I take it you haven’t turned him down.”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“Good. Thinking about it is good. Better than saying yes straight away. That makes you sound too keen. Too eager. Too gold-diggerish.”
“But I think I will say no.”
“Why?”
“Well, my political inclinations aside, I just don’t know what to make of him.”
“Aren’t you in love with him?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I am and sometimes I’m not. I like him when he’s insecure and unsure of himself, but there’s an arrogant side to him too. He does this to waiters.” I mimicked the hand gesture. “Like he’s shooing away a fly.”
“He’s a prince. He’s bound to be spoiled and arrogant. But you can change that when you’re married. Does he love you?”
“I think so. He said I outshine him.”
Trevor thought about this. “That’s nice. Outshine. Original. So, what’s the next step?”
“He wants me to go to Doggerland with him.”
“Oh my God. When?”
“I don’t know. Soon. He needs to arrange it with his secretary. He wants me to meet his parents.
Trevor put his hands to his mouth. “Oh my God! The king and queen of Doggerland!”
“It’ll be an informal visit, he said. But an awkward one. He’s not out to his parents yet.”
“They don’t know he’s gay?”
“They know, but they’ve never talked about it.”
“Oh.” He thought about this, then shrugged. “Well, they do things differently in royal circles. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. There’s never been an openly gay prince before. There’s never been a gay royal wedding before.”
“There was when Elton John married David Furnish.”
I frowned. “I thought you were going to be serious.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s a big deal, Trevor. Him coming out to his parents and to his countrymen is a big deal. There’ll be repercussions. There’ll be media attention. There’ll be backlash. I’m not sure he’s strong enough to deal with it. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to deal with it.”
“Yes, you are, Joel. You’re a rock. You’re a fortress. He needs you.”
“That’s what he said.”
“You’re not committing to anything by going to Doggerland, are you?”
“No.”
“So, what are you fannying about for, then? Just go already!”
Eric wasted no time in summoning Button-eyes over from Doggerland. We travelled to London to see him and met at a city centre lounge bar.
“You want Mr Bottomley to meet the king and queen?” he asked from across the coffee table, raising his eyebrows.
Eric frowned. “Not the king and queen, Christian. My parents. I want Joel to meet my parents.”
Button-eyes turned towards me and looked me up and down. I swear I could see his lip curl slightly. “The king and queen are in Denmark,” he said. “They’re on a royal tour. They’ll be visiting Germany next week. And Russia, Japan, and Canada after that. They won’t be back in Doggerland until June.”
“I am aware that they’re on a royal tour, Christian.” Eric sounded annoyed. “What I want to know is whether they can make time in their busy schedule to come to Doggerland and meet Joel.”
“Is it that urgent?”
“Yes, it is.”
“May I ask the reason for the urgency?”
Eric paused before replying. “Joel and I want to get married.”
Button-eyes stared at me, his face as inscrutable as always. “I see,” was all he said. Then he grabbed a tablet out of his briefcase and consulted it. “I suppose they can fly back to Doggerland on Thursday and travel on to Germany on Saturday.”
“Can you arrange that, please?” Eric said.
“Shall I tell the king the reason for this urgent meeting?”
Eric thought about this. “Tell him I want him to meet a special friend of mine.”
“He will want to know what is so special about your friend.”
“Tell him he’ll know when he meets him.”
“Very well.” He made a reluctant note of it on his tablet. “Mr Bottomley will have to be vetted, of course.”
“Vetted?”
“It’s palace protocol. We can’t allow him to enter the palace and meet the king without proper vetting.”
“Joel has already signed the confidentiality agreement.”
“That is not enough. I need to have an idea of his history.”
“He has no history. He’s only nineteen.”
“Has Mr Bottomley had any jobs?”
“No.”
“Actually, I worked at McDonald’s for two years.” It was the first thing I’d said since the meeting began. Eric and Button-eyes looked at me as if they’d forgotten I was there. “It’s just outside the village of Tonypandy. I worked there every Saturday.”
“I need a list with your employment and education history and all the addresses you’ve lived in.”
And so, on Thursday morning, Eric, Button-eyes, and I went to London City Airport, where a private jet was waiting to fly us to Doggerland.
It was not Eric’s own jet, Button-eyes was quick to explain. The family jet, or royal jet, which was actually owned by the state and not the royal family, was only used for official purposes and was currently in Denmark. The king and queen would use it to fly back to Doggerland that evening. This was a rented jet. Paid for with money from Eric’s private income.
I wondered why Button-eyes felt the need to explain all of this to me. Perhaps he was afraid I’d accuse him of wasting public money on one of Eric’s whims. But in fact, I was barely listening. I was far too impressed by everything going on around me to give such things any thought.
My heart pounded in my chest as we walked out of the terminal towards the plane. A stewardess handed out glasses of champagne as we boarded. Eric declined his drink by frowning at the stewardess and brushing her away with his hand. (I really had to say something about this. This rudeness had to stop.) He plunged himself down in the corner, rested his head against the galley wall, and closed his eyes. He’d barely spoken in the car on the way to the airport. I sat beside him. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight.
“We’ll be fine, we’ll be fine,” he whispered to himself.
Button-eyes took a seat on the bench opposite. “You’d better fasten these,” he said, picking up the two straps of the seat belt. “It can get quite bumpy over the North Sea.”
He wasn’t wrong. There was a lot of turbulence, and I admit I was a little scared. I’d only flown on two previous occasions. My parents took me on a holiday to Spain twice when I was a child (at that time, they still made an effort to get along). Eric seemed unbothered by the constant bumps and dives. He slept through them. And Button-eyes and the stewardess were equally relaxed. He was reading something on his tablet, and she was sitting by the cockpit, filing her nails. I tried to ignore the discomfort, sitting sideways on the bench and gazing out of the window.
It wasn’t long before our destination came into the frame: a cluster of green islands surrounded by choppy dark blue waters. As we descended, I saw the sea waves lash and froth against the islands’ rocky edges. Scattered over the diamond landscape were herds of sheep grazing on the luscious pastures and brown stone farmhouses with orange-tiled roofs. Bridges and causeways linked the islands together, like an embroidered pattern on a silk doily.
As the plane swept over the green fields, I finally saw the capital city come into view. (Although city was a grand word for it. Robberog was more of a provincial to
wn than a capital city.) It was built around a large cathedral, which stood on a rock and towered over the inhabitants.
“That’s Saint Bonifatius,” Button-eyes said, pointing at the church. “It was built in 1056. It is the oldest building in Doggerland. By law, no building is allowed to be higher than the church spire. You know, of course, who Saint Bonifatius is.”
I looked at him blankly.
“Known as Saint Boniface in England.”
Nope. Still nothing.
“He was an Anglo-Saxon missionary who converted the Frisians in the Netherlands and in Doggerland. A very important figure in our history.”
“I see.”
He stared at me quizzically. “Anglican?” he asked.
“No.”
“Catholic?”
“I’m not much of anything, really.”
“So, you’re an atheist.”
“I suppose so.”
“Doggerlanders are a religious people. Very conservative and traditional.”
“Are they?”
Why was he telling me this? Was he trying to scare me off marrying Eric?
As the plane turned, I saw Robberog’s main square. Opposite the cathedral there was a large building with a courtyard in its centre.
“Ah, there it is,” Button-eyes said. That’s Dunefort. The royal palace. That’s where you’ll be sleeping tonight.”
Dunefort Palace was surrounded by leafy parks. The parks, which belonged to the palace, opened to the public for several hours every day and were eagerly visited by people all over the land. Trees were something of a rarity on these windswept islands. The sunken ground in which the park was laid, and the high palace walls, protected the trees from the constant, destructive wind and allowed them to grow to their full potential.
The palace was grand but sober. It had none of the frills and ornamental masonry that were common in British stately homes. The Calvinistic Doggerlanders frowned upon any displays of power and wealth, and no single building was allowed to outshine the cathedral. Dunefort looked more like a bank than a royal palace. No towers, or domes, or crenelated parapets. Just a long white building with a green copper roof. Its only grandeur was its entrance – a massive oak door with golden knobs and large steps leading up to it. Two soldiers stood guard at the bottom of the steps, wearing ceremonial uniforms and staring ahead with stoic expressions on their faces while tourists took pictures of them with their phones.
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