by Nell Stark
“All right?”
“I think so. Even knowing what to expect, it was rather overwhelming.”
“You can never know what to expect.” When Thalia realized that some bitterness had crept into her tone, she forced a quick smile. “Except for the talk show invitations. You’ll have more of those in the next week than before a film premiere.”
“I’m ready. I wouldn’t have come with you today if I wasn’t.”
“Outing yourself at the first gay royal wedding. How apropos.” Thalia turned to face the impassive Beefeaters guarding the entrance to the nave. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
A short, stout man in royal livery stepped out of their shadow. “Good morning, ma’am. May I inspect your invitations?”
Thalia handed over the embossed note card, smothering a flash of resentment that she wasn’t recognizable enough to dispense with the security precaution. Not yet. But she would be.
“Thank you. You may be seated in any row that is not marked as reserved. Should you like an escort to assist you—”
“We’ll be fine, thanks.”
“Very well.” The man murmured into a wrist microphone, and a moment later, the double doors swung open.
Thalia had been inside Westminster Abbey before, of course—once as a reluctant child-tourist, and once as an even more reluctant adolescent on a school-sponsored trip. Despite her lack of enthusiasm on both occasions, she had marveled at the pale columns that jutted out of the earth like the skeletal remains of a massive creature. The Abbey lived in her memory as monochromatic, but today, it exploded with color. Rows of flowers lined the central and side aisles, dazzling the eye and scenting the air: red roses, orange lilies, yellow sunflowers, blue hydrangeas, and violets the shade of summer twilight. All the colors of the rainbow.
And then she laughed. The rainbow. Of course.
“What is it?”
“Just admiring Sasha’s choice of floral arrangements.”
“Oh! I see it. Clever.” Maeve took her arm. “Where shall we sit?”
“Along the central aisle, if we can. That will make for the best people-watching.”
They found a suitable place halfway to the sanctuary, but getting there proved to be rather an odyssey. Maeve paused to exchange greetings with two different actors, and then Thalia caught sight of her father. She had known he would be here, of course, but had hoped—perhaps unrealistically—to avoid him. He looked exceptionally British today in a charcoal morning coat and blue tie, his artificially dark hair neatly swept back from his forehead save for one errant strand. Beside him stood his wife, shimmering in a silver floor-length gown, her platinum-blond head crowned by a thoroughly ridiculous, vaguely aquatic-looking hat. The longer Thalia stared at it, the more it resembled a besequined octopus caught in the act of sucking out her brains. After acknowledging them with a slight nod, she looked away.
“That’s your father, isn’t it? And your stepmother? Shouldn’t we say hello?”
Mildly annoyed by Maeve’s use of “we,” Thalia picked up her pace. “No.”
“All right then,” Maeve said peevishly under her breath, but Thalia pretended that she hadn’t heard.
Once they took their seats, the conversation naturally turned toward the other guests. Thalia spotted several football stars and two other F1 drivers before her attention was arrested by a tall, red-haired man who strode smiling up the aisle, comically outpacing his escort. His dark suit was punctuated by the orange sash across his snowy white shirt.
“Is that the crown prince of the Netherlands?”
“Oh! Prince Ernst!” Maeve seemed seriously in danger of running out into the aisle after him.
Thalia shot her an amused glance. “Does someone have a crush?”
She colored. “I told you when we first met that I’m bi—”
“And did I bat an eyelash? No. Relax. I’m just teasing. Maybe you can get on his dance card later.” Thalia turned to keep him in view, but rather than sitting in one of the roped off front rows, he carried on into the sanctuary beyond.
“Looks like the royal guests will be sitting in the choir,” Maeve said.
“And probably some of the family members too, I’d guess.” Thalia craned her neck in an effort to see all the way to the high altar where, presumably, the vows would take place. Only then did she notice the two large projection screens flanking the choir area. It seemed that Sasha and Kerry cared enough about the “plebs” at their wedding to want to make the particulars of the ceremony viewable to all. Not even her golden child older brother Arthur, dubbed “the world’s favorite prince,” had thought to make such a provision at his own ceremony two years prior. Thalia had watched that one from a hotel room in Belgium where she had been test-driving Ferrari’s newest car on the Spa Francorchamps circuit.
Her introspection was interrupted by the arrival of another royal, whom neither she nor Maeve recognized. Fortunately, the Americans sitting behind them excitedly referred to her as Princess Monique of Luxembourg. She was followed a few minutes later by the Belgian Prince Sebastian, who was in turn succeeded by an Asian woman in a pearl-studded gown. Word spread through the crowd that she was the eldest daughter of the king of Japan, but no one knew her name.
The nave was nearly full, and the ceremony only ten minutes away, when Thalia noticed the woman in the green dress. She walked slowly, face upturned, staring avidly into the cathedral’s arches. Wavy auburn hair fell to her collarbone, below which a string of emeralds adorned her tanned skin. So intense was her expression that Thalia looked up, but saw nothing remarkable. Was she simply admiring the architecture? And did she realize that she was about to cross the invisible line separating those of royal blood from the rest of the populace?
But instead of triggering a security response, the woman was allowed to pass unchallenged behind the lattice, gold-plated screen separating the nave from the choir area. When neither she nor Maeve could identify her, Thalia turned to consult the Americans. One of them, a tall man, flushed and fidgeting, set off her gaydar. The other, a Latina woman, seemed much calmer (and probably straight).
“Do you know who that was?” she asked them.
“One of the princesses of Monaco, I think,” said the woman. “Do you remember her name, Harris?”
“Excuse me?” Harris, who had been rather blatantly ogling Manchester United’s goalkeeper, refocused on his companion with evident effort. “I didn’t catch what you said.”
“The woman who just walked by—she’s a Monegasque princess, right? Do you know which one?”
His broad brow furrowed in thought. “Not Camille—she’s a platinum blonde and would’ve worn something much more revealing. And Soraphine, the female twin, has dark, curly hair. So that must’ve been the princess in the middle. Keeps a fairly low profile, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I can’t remember her name. It begins with a P, I think.”
“It must be Pommelina.” Maeve was peering at her phone. “That’s the only option.”
He snapped his fingers. “Right! Pommelina. I’m surprised she’s here. She doesn’t get out much.”
Thalia couldn’t believe the amount of useless information he had in his head. “Are you an expert on the royals?”
“An expert? Oh no. I just enjoy following celebrit—” Suddenly, he grabbed the woman’s shoulder as if she were the only thing keeping him upright. “Oh my God! You’re Thalia d’Angelis!”
“Guilty as charged.” Pleased he had recognized her, she stuck out one hand. “And you’re Harris…?”
He pumped it enthusiastically. “Whistler. Harrison Whistler. Friend of the bride.”
“Which one?” Thalia struggled to stifle her laughter at his earnestness.
“Kerry,” his friend supplied with an affectionate eye roll. “And I’m Julia.”
Thalia was about to ask them what Kerry was like, when Harris launched into a passionate monologue about how excited he was by her promotion and what a positive development it was toward true gender pa
rity in sport, and how it would change the face of Formula One.
“How are you feeling about Spain next week? I’ve read that the changing wind directions at Catalunya can make for a crazy race.”
Was he a walking trivia machine? “That’s true. But I’ve done a lot of testing there, and I’m confident in my ability to—”
Trumpets pealed in a triumphant fanfare, setting the air afire with anticipation. As the last echoes rang through the cathedral, the organ hummed into life. Maeve gripped her arm in excitement as they both craned their heads for the best possible view. First to process down the aisle was the beaming Archbishop of Canterbury, his bald pate mostly concealed by his gold and white mitre. The Archbishop of Canterbury, officiating a gay wedding! Thalia wanted to cheer.
He was followed by three girls in white dresses who periodically pitched handfuls of white rose petals into the air. The youngest of them couldn’t stop giggling.
“The King’s nieces,” Harris stage-whispered.
The King himself came next, escorting his youngest daughter Elizabeth, who wore a shimmering, sky blue gown. King Andrew, immaculate in some kind of military regalia Thalia couldn’t place, looked grave—but then again, when didn’t he? He was here, and that was what mattered. Thalia wondered, fleetingly, whether her own father would afford her the same courtesy if she ever chose to marry.
The King was succeeded by his heir, resplendent in a navy Royal Air Force uniform as he escorted his wife. Ashleigh, Princess of Wales, wore a form-fitting rose gown that flared at her ankles. Only last week, she had announced that she was pregnant, but she hadn’t remotely begun to show. Her smile was genuine and her bearing relaxed. Clearly, she was enjoying herself.
Once Arthur and Ashleigh had passed into the sanctuary, the music changed key, shifting from a light and airy melody to a deeper and more viscerally powerful tune. Another fanfare rose in a descant over the triumphantly bellowing organ, and beneath it all, the scuff of two thousand feet against the floor as everyone rose to greet the brides.
They walked down the aisle together, hand in hand: Kerry in a silver tuxedo and matching boots, Sasha in a white silk dress with a short train. They took their time, savoring the moment. Kerry’s smile was impossibly wide, but it was Sasha’s expression that stood out the most to Thalia. They had attended the same secondary school and done their fair share of partying in the same crowd. At times Sasha had been almost desperate in her rebelliousness, as though she had something to prove. But now, that restlessness had disappeared, supplanted by an internal peace. She was radiant with it. Beyond happy. Joyous—that was the right word. And content.
In a way, it made Thalia sad. Not for Sasha, of course, but for herself. For a while, she had felt as though Sasha were a kindred spirit of sorts—always moving, always seeking, never complacent. Not that finding contentment equated to complacency, of course, and if there was ever anyone who could toe that line without going over, it was Sasha. But a silly, selfish part of Thalia couldn’t help but feel…abandoned? No, that was too strong a term. She and Sasha were friendly, but not close.
Left out—maybe that was better. But “left out” implied that she wanted to be included in the “married” club, and she didn’t want that at all. Serious relationships required work, and work required time—time she could be spending in the gym or in a simulator or test driving. Especially now that she had caught her big break, she had to be ruthless in eliminating anything that would detract from her focus. Catalunya was now less than one week away, and her performance there would set the tone for the entire season.
But as Sasha passed within an arm-length and shot her a brilliant, contagious smile, the promise and pressures of Spain temporarily faded in urgency. Yes, she had to prepare for the future, but she could also be wise enough to live in the moment. And in this particular moment, Thalia wasn’t a racecar driver or an activist, but a queer woman fortunate enough to be witnessing part of her own history.
Chapter Four
Alix wished she had brought a book. Everyone originally seated at her table had gone off to enjoy the dancing in the Throne Room-turned-nightclub, and even she could only admire the intricacies of the wall paneling for so long. Pretending to inspect the oil painting hanging above her chair, she took stock of the room through her peripheral vision. A few small groups of people remained, chatting over their hors d’oeuvres and drinks. No one else was alone.
Beset by self-consciousness, she extracted her phone from her purse and checked her email. She had no unread messages, and her to-do list was up to date, but if she looked busy, at least she wouldn’t seem pathetic. After aimlessly scrolling through her inbox, she switched over to her browser and pulled up a blog she had already reread several times, by a French colleague affiliated with Doctors Without Borders who was now working in the Karamoja region. Every ten days or so, he managed to travel into the town of Moroto, where there was just enough of an Internet connection to post an update on his work, along with a few photographs. They made her nostalgic—especially the picture of a lone black rhinoceros standing in a water hole, set in a naturally picturesque fashion against the volcanic mountain range in the background. She had grown up in beautiful places and among beautiful things, but there was something about the wild splendor of Karamoja that filled her with longing.
In the weeks between returning home from Africa and leaving for London, Alix had been furiously researching the legal intricacies of starting up her own not-for-profit organization, but before she began filing any of the paperwork, she wanted to hear Ashleigh’s advice. Fortunately, booking a lunch meeting with the Princess of Wales had been a simple matter of asking her secretary to contact Buckingham Palace.
“Oh, how striking!” The sentiment came from just behind her, and Alix turned to see none other than Ashleigh herself, one hand resting on the back of her chair as she leaned in to gaze intently at the photograph. Up close, she somehow managed to be even lovelier than at a distance—softer somehow, in a way that made her feel more accessible, more human.
“Yes, it’s one of my favorites,” Alix said, surprised at Ashleigh’s informality. They had met a few times, but never to do more than exchange small talk. Wanting to be certain not to offend, Alix rose and extended her hand as protocol demanded. “It’s good to see you. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me tomorrow.”
Ashleigh ignored her hand and instead stepped in to embrace her lightly, ending with a kiss to each cheek. “I’m so glad you reached out. We can save all talk of business until tomorrow, if you wish, but I wanted to touch base tonight to let you know that I’m looking forward.”
“As am I,” Alix said, even as she automatically catalogued the pallor beneath Ashleigh’s subtle makeup. Fatigue, most likely. “Please, sit. I hope I don’t appear antisocial, but I’m not much for dancing.”
Ashleigh’s laugh was just like the rest of her—refined yet genuine. “No need to explain. It’s been a very good day, but a very long one.” She settled herself in the chair. “You recently returned from Uganda, is that right?”
For the next half an hour, they traded stories about their time spent on the African continent. Most of Ashleigh’s experience was in rural South Africa and Lesotho, and it was illustrative for Alix to hear about the circumstances of the people there. In Lesotho, almost one quarter of the population was HIV positive—a much higher number than in Uganda—and Ashleigh spoke eloquently about the foundation that Arthur had founded before they had met, which supported children orphaned by AIDS.
“And your foundation takes a business development perspective, is that right?” Alix asked.
“Yes, I’m hoping to—”
“Ash!” The soprano call came from across the room. “There you are! We’ve been scouring the world for you!”
Alix turned toward the noise to see Sasha approaching them, dragging her bride by the hand, a few other women following in their wake.
“The party’s found us,” Ashleigh murmured with a smile. “To be con
tinued tomorrow?”
“Of course.” Alix rose as they approached, but Sasha waved her back into her seat.
“Oh please. We’re not standing on formality tonight, Pommelina.” She collapsed into a chair and Kerry took the one beside her. “Are you enjoying yourself, I hope?”
“We’ve been chatting about Africa,” Ashleigh said. She turned to Alix. “And you generally go by ‘Alix’ these days, correct?”
“Yes.” Alix was grateful to Ashleigh for having brought it up. “I’ve never been very fond of my first name.”
“Alix it is,” Sasha declared. She gestured to the other women who had just joined them. “I’m sure you know Thalia, but have you met Maeve? She’s a fantastic actress in one of the new BBC sitcoms.”
Maeve, slender and pretty and all smiles, extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure,” Alix said. “But I’m not acquainted with Thalia either.”
The woman in question was taller than her companion and wore a black tuxedo accented by a thin, silver tie. Dark, glossy hair brushed her broad shoulders, framing an oval face from which her eyes, bright blue and almond shaped, stared curiously into Alix’s. To her embarrassment, she found she couldn’t look away. Despite her unorthodox attire, Thalia was the most striking person Alix had ever seen. Her exotic beauty combined with an aura of easy self-confidence to lend her a palpable magnetism that Alix stubbornly wanted to resist.
In an effort to dispel the unwelcome feeling, she forced herself to notice details rather than the whole. Thalia had a small scar two inches below her left eye, and a golden lightning bolt stud in the helix of her left ear. The colorful hint of a tattoo peeked out from beneath her right cuff. When Alix caught herself making assumptions about Thalia’s sexuality, she mentally scolded herself.
“Excuse me?” Sasha’s tone betrayed her disbelief. “You two have never met? How is that possible?”
Her name did seem vaguely familiar, but Alix was certain they had never been in the same room together. Why was Sasha being so adamant?
