Royal Disaster

by Parker Swift

  She eyed me, taken aback by my having found my voice so suddenly, but also, I thought, with respect. “What were you thinking?”

  “How about director of sales?”

  “And I imagine this title change would be accompanied by a salary increase?”

  “If you thought it was appropriate,” I said.

  “I do. How would you feel about a fifteen percent increase?” I could tell my bringing this up had earned me a different variety of Hannah’s appreciation.

  “That seems fair,” I said. “Fifteen percent, and if it’s not inconvenient, I’d also like to take a few personal days next week—I’d be out Thursday, returning the following Wednesday.” I figured I’d better get that in there sooner rather than later. I was on a roll.

  She nodded, smiled slightly, and returned her eyes to the papers on her desk. “If that will be all?” she asked as though she were dismissing me, but I knew this interaction had gone well. I nodded, stood tall, and turned towards the door.

  Which was open.

  And Fiona was standing just beyond it, staring into Hannah’s office. She’d clearly heard the conversation, which wasn’t exactly private, but gauging by Fiona’s reaction, there were probably better ways to convey to her that I’d just gotten a promotion. And while I wasn’t sure exactly what was at the root of the tension between me and Fiona, I knew instinctively that our friendship couldn’t bear the pressure of too many more big Lydia events.

  “Fee,” I started, determined to get to the bottom of this.

  “Whatever.” She turned to walk away. “Tell Josh I’m going to the studio,” she said without looking back.

  Shit.

  When I got to my office, Josh was there.

  “Where’s Fee?” he asked.

  “I think she’s furious with me,” I started. “She just overheard a conversation between me and Hannah. Hannah’s going to give me clothes for these events I’m going to. And I also I asked her for a promotion. Because of the store. And I got it.“

  “And she stomped out?” he asked, looking at me sympathetically.

  I nodded.

  “She has a lot going on,” Josh said, leaning back in Fiona’s chair.

  “She feels like I’ve marched in here and taken over,” I said, defeated. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

  “I know, love. She’ll come around.”

  I sat at my own desk and put my head in my hands, sighing deeply.

  “So what will madame be dressing you for? Didn’t you already get a dress for the thing with the queen this weekend?”

  I nodded and gulped. “Dylan and I are invited to the engagement party for Prince Richard,” I said, bracing myself.

  Josh’s eyes got huge. “No! Oh my god, really? That’s amazing. Oh, Lydia, this is going to be so much fun. I can’t wait to see what you wear. What Dylan wears. What Richard wears. And have you seen his friend? You know, that scamp who’s always at the clubs with him? The bloody gorgeous one? I’m pretty sure he bats for my team—you must find out. Ooh, Lydia,” he said, clapping his hands. “This is the best news I’ve heard all day!”

  I couldn’t believe Josh’s generous nature. There wasn’t a mean bone in this guy’s slim body, and there wasn’t a conversation we’d had that didn’t result in me smiling and feeling just a little bit more like he was going to be a lifelong friend.

  “Really? You’re not annoyed with me too?”

  “Are you completely mad? I know someone who will be at the engagement party of the century! My stock just went up a hundred percent. This is going on Facebook immediately.”

  I laughed, so relieved things with Josh, at least, were uncomplicated.

  * * *

  Saturday morning had consisted of me getting dressed at Emily’s London flat so she could play Barbie on my hair and makeup and supervise the assembling of my outfit. We both knew I’d be fine on my own, but this was way more fun. Frank then delivered me to the palace at noon—I hadn’t been invited to the CBC festivities beforehand, apparently something reserved only for the actual architects and elites involved.

  Now I sat patiently, stiffly, hands in my lap, legs crossed at the ankles, in a gilded chair in a hallway in some non-room room in Buckingham Palace. A man in a suit stood on the far side of the room and looked at me only occasionally with complete disinterest. Dylan had said noon. It was now 12:15, and I worried if too much time went by, I’d either sweat through my fabulous new dress, fall out of my heels, or begin to wonder if this whole thing, these glorious past few months, had been nothing but the fantastical ramblings of an insane person—me—who had turned up at the palace to make claims about some nonexistent marquess she was in love with. So, yeah, I guess I was a little nervous.

  Just as I was about to bolt and check myself into a mental institution, Dylan climbed the stairs and entered the room. Right behind his parents.

  His father gave me a quick look of shock, followed immediately by disdain and then a quick glare at Dylan and another at his wife, who was right beside him. Why did I get the sense that Charlotte and Geoffrey hadn’t had any idea I would be there? And why hadn’t I anticipated how awkward it would be to see Dylan’s father for the first time after our altercation at Humboldt Park?

  I rose, and Dylan quickly swept to my side, kissed me on the cheek, and tucked my arm into his. It was clear his newfound disregard for his father’s opinion was still running strong.

  When we stepped into the golden room, the feeling that I might be in a weird dream continued. The ceilings were endless and arched, and every inch was decorated in gilded moldings. The walls were similarly adorned, and enormous mirrors shared space with oversized sconces and oil paintings and shelves of presumably priceless antiques.

  I was in freaking Buckingham Palace.

  It took a minute to register the petite, stately woman standing by the table in a blue suit, and I found myself speechless—something nobody in their right mind would ever call me. I remember curtsying, which I may have done backwards if that’s possible, and saying the words Your Majesty, which I’m pretty sure I hadn’t done since I was six and playing a make-believe princess game with a neighbor. I remember accidentally using the sugar spoon to stir my tea and then surreptitiously trying to sneak it back into the sugar bowl. I remember thinking the queen was the nicest old lady I’d met in a long time, but also having a ticker tape going through my mind that said, Oh my god, this is the queen. I remember Dylan squeezing my hand, especially hard when his father was speaking.

  But the rest of that hour was a fuzzy, pleasant blur, one of those moments that was so bizarre and extraordinary that I should try to take in every detail but also that it would be a futile effort.

  When I first realized how formal the visit would be and that I wouldn’t be attending the rest of the afternoon’s festivities with Dylan, I wondered what the point was of my even being there. But over the course of the hour I understood. Dylan held my hand throughout, and I listened to the way he found subtle moments to tell the queen a little bit of my story, how I’d just arrived in London for the first time since I was an infant, how I’d returned to start my career, how much I loved the city. I realized he was proud of me. He wasn’t showing me off or making a point to his father. He’d wanted me to meet her because he knew I would love the experience but also—and this was the part that stunned me, made me feel humbled the moment I understood it—he’d wanted her to meet me.

  There weren’t many moments when my stiff-upper-lip aristocratic boyfriend made his feelings clear to me—his non-bedroom feelings, anyway—but this was a moment I knew I’d remember for the rest of my life, no matter what happened. A moment when I felt truly loved.

  Chapter 19

  It was nearly eight in the evening, and I’d already indulged in a bowl of pasta and a solid pour of wine when I finally heard from Dylan. I’d come home after the palace, but he’d had to continue on to the actual event. It was so quiet that the buzzing phone startled me off my barstool in t
he kitchen, where I’d been reading a magazine.

  “Hi,” I said, eager to hear his voice for the first time since our audience with the queen that afternoon.

  “Damsel,” he said with a thick sigh in his voice.

  I gulped—maybe the afternoon had not gone as well as I’d thought.

  I must have been quiet for a little too long, because he finally asked, “Lydia?”

  “Do you think tea went badly?” I asked, a little nervous.

  “Oh, damsel, no. Tea was perfect. You were lovely, as I knew you’d be. As far as those things go, it was the most enjoyable I’ve had in ages. She’s got more spark than one would expect, doesn’t she? She was really pleased with you too, I think.”

  “She was probably just reassured that you’re not gay or something.”

  Dylan chuckled. “Somehow I don’t think she’d give a frog’s arse if I were,” he said, laughing again. “I know all that fuss is foreign to you, but you’d never know it. You were seamless. No one would ever know that you don’t dine with Her Majesty on the regular.”

  “Maybe I do. You don’t know where I have lunch every day,” I said. Dylan was quiet for a minute. “You so know where I have lunch every day, don’t you?”

  I could practically hear him shrugging on the other end of the phone. “What do you think I pay Frank for?”

  “Not to spy on me!”

  “I’m not spying, damsel. And, no, I don’t actually know where you have lunch, but I mean, I could know. And I think Frank would tell me if it were at Buckingham Palace. And if he didn’t, HELLO! magazine probably would.”

  “How boring. I mean, how’s a girl supposed to keep any secrets?”

  “And what secrets do you want to keep from me, damsel?”

  “Well, knighty, don’t you know that it’s all part of being a woman? Maintaining an aura of mystery?”

  Dylan just laughed. Then laughed some more. Fine, so I wasn’t exactly one of those untouchable mysterious girls, but he didn’t have to point it out to me! “Okay, okay, you’ve had your fun. When are you coming home?”

  Another long pause and an even deeper sigh. “Lydia, I’m sorry, but I have to travel for a few days. I need to be in Moscow until Tuesday, possibly Wednesday.”

  “Moscow? What do you have going on in Moscow?” I’d never heard him mention anything happening in Russia.

  “It’s for Hale Shipping and related to the emails, actually. I just haven’t been able to access what I need from here, so I need to go there in person and see if I can make some headway.”

  I groaned a little.

  “I’m sorry. After today I just want to climb into bed and watch you practice that curtsy a few more times.”

  “I’d never done it before!” But I sighed in resignation. “Fine. If going to Moscow means figuring out this whole email thing and letting poor Frank start protecting someone more exciting, then I’m glad you’re going. I’m just going to miss you.”

  “I know. I’ll miss you too. Hale Shipping is just having some upheaval. This won’t last much longer. And I’m hoping this will be the end of all this email business as well.” Dylan paused on the other end. “Get some sleep, baby. I’ll see you when I get back. And stay at mine if you’d like. I know Molly will be sad if you’re not there to debate terribly important cooking matters.”

  “You don’t need to boil the water first to cook pasta!” I said, recalling the playful confrontation Molly and I had engaged in the previous week.

  “I’m staying out of it,” he said defensively, and I could actually picture him putting his palms up in surrender to my ferocious opinions.

  * * *

  Monday morning was one of those perfect fall days. Crisp and cool, but not frigid. Perfect weather for boots and a jacket and carrying a hot coffee while walking to work. I knew Frank was following not far behind, but I didn’t care. I wanted to walk, and he was giving me the space.

  I was only a block from the office, where I was stopping before heading to the shop, when I was faced with my picture at a newsstand. My body was now conditioned to react with a delightful combination of terror and anxiety, immediately assuming the worst. I’d probably scowled at the queen or called her by her first name or had a nip slip or something similarly embarrassing. The headline would be something along the lines of “When will this embarrassing American girl just go away?”

  But that’s not what it said. I was on Dylan’s arm, emerging from the palace. The dress looked perfect—I looked demure but stylish. Dylan was typically perfect looking—like the duke he was in a five-thousand-dollar suit. The headline of the Guardian was simply:

  LYDIA LUNCHES WITH HER MAJESTY

  The brief article quoted the royal press release, which had said, Saturday morning, the 16th Duke of Abingdon opened the Conservation in Building Conference held by the Green Building Initiative. Subsequently the Duke and Duchess of Abingdon, the Marquess of Abingdon, and guest Lydia Bell were received by the queen at Buckingham Palace. The article went on to say that I had been recently promoted to director of sales for Hannah Rogan, and it was accompanied by an official-looking photo of all of us standing in front of a fireplace.

  Clean. Simple. Accurate. No fuss. For the first time, the press wasn’t sending me out for the slaughter. It felt great. I felt like I’d done something right, like there was no way Geoffrey or Charlotte Hale could get on Dylan’s back about this, that there was no way it could make Hale Shipping or Humboldt Park or the Hale family look bad. It put a literal swing in my step.

  I had just walked into the office and was about to try to have a gossip session with Fiona when Hannah barged in behind me. “Well done, Lydia. Well done. You’re oozing grace in that photo. It’s exactly the kind of press you want, and you two look divine together. And next time you’ll be wearing Hannah Rogan. Between this and the store, you’re certainly earning your keep around here.”

  Fuck. Sure, that was a good professional moment, but one look at Fiona’s depressed expression, and it was abundantly clear that I had some in-house diplomacy I needed to attend to. Screw that, I had a friendship to save.

  “Fee,” I started as soon as Hannah had slipped back into the hallway.

  “Mmm?” she asked, not taking her eyes from her computer screen.

  “Let’s talk.”

  “What about?” She still wouldn’t look at me.

  “About the fact that you can’t stand me right now. That I’m an annoying upstart busybody who marched in as a second assistant and all of a sudden is doing this whole other thing. About the fact that if I were you, I’d be pissy as hell about it. And also maybe about the fact that you’ve barely mentioned Ben in over three weeks, and obviously there’s something going on there. You know, about everything. Because we’re friends. Or were friends. I feel like the further down the rabbit hole of this store I go and the longer I’m with Dylan, the further and further apart we get.”

  “Bloody hell. You Yanks really do like to have it out, don’t you?” she said, now not only looking at me but staring at me the way only a Brit who’s being asked to chat about her feelings can—with shock and just a little bit of horror.

  I shrugged. She sighed.

  “I don’t hate you or anything,” she started.

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “I’m not an idiot. I’m good at my job. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I graduated from Edinburgh with a first.”

  “I know. You’re brilliant.”

  “I’m just…Here’s the thing, Lydia. You know what you want. You just go after it. It’s not exactly your most British quality—being all outspoken and proposing grand ideas after being here for two months. But it’s right fabulous, and the truth is that I wish I had your guts.”

  “Well, when you put it that way I’m kind of mortified. Do you think I was overeager about this whole flagship store thing?”

  “Who cares? It worked!” she said, throwing her arms up in the air, both mystified by me and frustrated at her own situatio
n, which I still didn’t quite understand. I laughed, because she was right, and also because this was the most animated I’d seen her in weeks. “I mean, let’s be clear: I think you’re a nutter to be taking this on with no real experience starting a business, but I also think it’s going to be great.”

  “You know, I never really knew exactly what I wanted to do within the fashion business. I just knew I wanted to be a part of it. And when all of those orders started coming in after Fashion Week, and you and I were running back and forth between here and her studio, organizing fittings and running ourselves ragged, I found myself longing for the days when I worked at this little boutique in New York. I actually thought, ‘Man, I wish there was a way to help Hannah with all of these sales in a more organized way and from one place that wouldn’t interfere with everything else.’ I mean, isn’t that ridiculous? It was like I had to reinvent the idea of a store before I even realized that’s what I was thinking about.” I tapped my head with my knuckles, as if to see if anything was in there at all. “I think anyone would agree this is all a bit insane. Hannah had plans for it, of course, but was thinking two years out. I was just lucky she was willing to let me go after it.”

  “Well, you’re obviously bloody brilliant at it.”

  “Let’s be honest—the timing was also right. Had I tried this pre-‘DyLy’”—I threw air quotes around the ridiculous nickname, and sure enough, Fiona gasped and laughed simultaneously, probably relieved that I was willing to make fun of myself—“I probably wouldn’t have gotten further than Hannah’s threshold. I know I’m lucky. I don’t even want to think about it too much, or I’ll probably just realize none of it would’ve happened at all without Dylan, and what does that say about me?”

  “Eh, fuck it,” Fiona said in her perfectly vulgar and yet reassuring way. “We all have our advantages and handicaps. Best to just use ’em and accept ’em as wisely as we can.”

  “Wow—that was actually kind of wise…So what do you want to do? I can’t imagine your end goal is being Hannah’s assistant.”