by S. A. Gordon
She’d met Lisa through work—her first job, doing all the odd little things at a street magazine. Lisa had worked in the design department. Now she was working in fashion, so their jobs still weren’t that far apart—except Lisa would be a more natural fit with the magazine’s fashion division than Caitlin was. There was no accounting for friendships, really—just like there was no accounting for couples. People just got together and it seemed to have a lot to do with luck: you met the right person at the right time. Caitlin and Lisa became friends because they had both needed someone to talk to at that crappy little magazine; they discovered that they could laugh with each other and that they were a good balance: Lisa was the party girl and Caitlin was the responsible one. Between them, they could have a safely fun evening out.
Still, Lisa didn’t need to know about David. Not yet.
Not ever, said one of the rational parts of Caitlin’s brain. And Caitlin didn’t want it to be true, but she was starting to think that it might be.
She couldn’t help thinking about David, though, even if she knew it would probably just make her fret more. For the first time in her life she’d met a man she wanted to adapt to but who she could also be herself around. She didn’t think she was imagining it—she didn’t think she was projecting anything onto him just because he was famous. He’d shown her his real self—as much as he’d wanted to show her. Obviously nobody revealed everything on a first date. Not even when they kissed like that …
Caitlin’s cheeks felt hot as she looked at the phone yet again.
What if you never hear from him again?
She didn’t know which part of her brain was saying this to her, and she didn’t want to. It wasn’t a situation she was prepared to contemplate, even if she knew it was the most likely one. Who was she, after all? Just some random young woman in Manhattan who thought she had a connection with the most eligible bachelor in the world.
Caitlin suddenly knew what she needed to do in order to quiet this chattering part of her brain: she needed to check the British newspapers online. The US papers didn’t carry as many stories about him, even when he was photographed in a bar in her own city, so she knew she’d find out more in a British paper. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t done it earlier.
Going to the website of the most tabloid of the papers, she wasn’t disappointed: there, on the sidebar, was a photograph of David and the woman who had been in the bar with him, along with the headline THE PRINCE AND THE CALL GIRL? Caitlin clicked and was taken to a story that claimed the woman who had looked so much like a model—Alessandra someone—was actually a high-class call girl known for being the regular companion of Italian politicians, who seemed to claim her as an expense. There were photos of her with the disgraced former Italian prime minister and half of his Cabinet. All innocuous looking, Caitlin noted: they were clearly photographs taken at cocktail parties or something similar.
Accompanying those photographs was one of David on a horse, and its caption: Carefree Prince David plays polo while beauty’s past is exposed. Caitlin pursed her lips, starting to think David callous, but then she realized that the same tabloid that was “exposing” the beauty’s past was also chastising him for seemingly not caring about it. And the fine print on the polo photo said that it had been taken two years before. But there was nothing to prove that what they were saying was true. There was nothing to say that, even if it was true, David had any idea. There was no evidence, no supporting statement from anyone else. Just conjecture and innuendo. And it left Caitlin with the unsettling sensation that simply knowing Prince David could have consequences that she might not be able to anticipate, let alone like.
*
Caitlin didn’t really know why she’d taken Liam’s phone call. It wasn’t like she couldn’t see it was him—he’d programmed his own number into her device the night they’d sat together, just the two of them, downstairs at the Hamptons house. Just last Saturday. It wasn’t even a week ago but it felt like she had lived through three miniseries’ worth of angst since then.
Actually, she did know why she’d taken his call: because it was Friday and she still hadn’t heard from David. She’d been reading the newspapers and there was no sign of him—which was a consolation, she guessed, because at least he hadn’t been spotted on a date with someone else. Nor was there any mention of their own rendezvous at the bar. David was obviously right to believe that he was safe there—that they didn’t tell stories about him. Except now it was like it never happened. No story in the press; no phone call; no photographs of him out and about in Manhattan. How could he just disappear?
Why don’t you call him?
Now the less critical part of her had moved from saying that it was early days to insisting that she make contact. But she just … couldn’t. He’d said he’d contact her. She didn’t want to contact him only to end up leaving a message and never hearing from him again. That would be worse. At least this way she could tell herself that something had happened to him—that circumstances were keeping them apart. If she left a message and never heard back, she’d know that wasn’t the case. Worse still would be to have him answer the phone and clearly be disappointed to speak to her.
All of these scenarios she had played over and over in her head, in all sorts of combinations, and she kept arriving at the same conclusion: do nothing.
So when she’d seen Liam’s name lighting up her cell, she couldn’t think of a single reason to not answer. If she was doing nothing in regards to David, perhaps that meant she was meant to do something with someone else. What was it Lisa liked to say—“everything happens for a reason”? As much as she thought it was New Age mumbo-jumbo, maybe there was something in it. Or maybe she could make there be something in it. Perhaps she had to get her David crush moment out of the way in order to fully appreciate Liam. She had to let go of the idea of the ultimate fantasy boyfriend in order to appreciate a very good real-world alternative.
Liam had been apologetic—again.
“Honestly, I had no idea Julia was coming over,” he’d said. “I meant what I said on Saturday night—I want to see you here, in the city.”
He’d sounded like such a child, really, compared with David, who was so assured. Caitlin could imagine that even if David was being apologetic, it would be done in such a way that he still sounded in command. And part of Caitlin was annoyed that Liam seemed to be pleading with her—it put the onus back on her to forgive him, to say it was all okay. Couldn’t he just say, “Well, that was a mistake—but I’d love to see you. Dinner?” No doubt that’s how David would do it.
Yet she had agreed to see him. She couldn’t deny that she was partly curious and partly hedging her bets in case she never heard from David again. She couldn’t believe that Liam—who had seemed like the ultimate catch on Saturday—now seemed like the consolation prize. But she needed consoling. So she’d see him for dinner. But not tomorrow night. Tomorrow night she wanted to stay home while the rest of the city went out to play. She’d see him Sunday night.
Then it would be Monday, and a week since she’d seen David. One whole week. Maybe she should get used to the idea.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Honestly, Caitlin, I’m so sorry,” Liam said, trying to take her hand, which she was keeping pressed flat against the table.
“You’ve said that,” Caitlin said, sounding bored. Because she was bored. This apology was too drawn out—it suggested that Liam thought she was far more interested in him than she actually was, that she must just be so upset that his ex-girlfriend had turned up at the house. So she decided to set him straight. “And, honestly, Liam, I’m not upset. It was a bit of a shock initially, you know, because you and I had had such a great night—but you saw me when I came back to the house. I was fine, wasn’t I?”
Liam coughed once. “Yes—you were … you were really sweet to Julia. Not that I thought you’d be anything else.” Caitlin could have sworn he smirked. “You’re just right in every situation, aren’t you?”
>
Caitlin frowned. “What do you mean?”
Liam held up his hands, as if in protest. “That wasn’t a criticism,” he said, laughing. “It’s an absolute positive, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I still don’t know what you mean,” Caitlin persisted.
“I just mean …” Liam tried to take her hand again, and this time she let him. “That you’re perfect.” He squeezed her fingers. “I think you’re perfect.”
“Okay,” she said, suddenly feeling unsure. She knew she wasn’t perfect—so why did he think she was? He hardly knew her, so it wasn’t even as if he had accumulated evidence of her so-called perfection.
Liam smiled brightly. “Can I, uh … can I buy you a drink?”
They were in one of the hippest new downtown bars. Liam lived in Soho—“I’m taking a break from the Upper East,” he’d told her—and there was some new place with a Russian name just around the corner from his home. Caitlin had balked initially—going anywhere near his apartment suggested that he’d try to get her back to that same apartment, and she’d said as much—but he swore it was just that the bar was the best he’d been to in ages. Caitlin had never been able to work out what made one bar so much better than another—they all served alcohol and they all had places for people to stand and sit—but she was prepared to be educated. It might be all she’d get out of the evening, apart from dinner—they were going to move on to some Vietnamese place, also new, also in Soho.
“Sure,” she said. “A sparkling mineral water, please.”
“Nothing stronger?” he said, frowning.
“It’s Sunday night,” she said primly, and then cringed inwardly as she realized how judgmental she sounded. “If I drink tonight I’ll be a wreck for work,” she explained. She shrugged and rolled her eyes, like she was the most unexciting person on earth and what could she do about it? But he didn’t press; instead, he walked to the bar and returned soon after with her water and a beer.
“Thank you,” she said. “So, how’s your weekend been?”
“Fine,” he said tightly. “I was out at the beach again.”
“Lucky you,” she said, smiling. “It’s so beautiful there.”
He took a sip of beer, nodding.
“I didn’t see your friend,” he said, looking at her with curiosity.
“My friend?”
“Charlie.” Liam watched her face as he said it.
Caitlin frowned, then remembered David’s pseudonym. “Oh, yes—Charlie. I’d forgotten about bumping into him there. It was so strange!”
“Why?”
“I just …” She averted her eyes, buying time while she thought of something. “I hadn’t seen him for so long. He’s always been very sweet to me.”
“It looked like more than sweet to me,” Liam said with a tone sharp enough to make Caitlin look at him closely. She made a quick decision about how to handle this moment that could potentially expose her in all the wrong ways, to the wrong person.
She grinned suddenly, then lightly pinched Liam’s arm. “You sound a bit jealous,” she said playfully.
Liam gazed at her as he took another sip of his beer. “Maybe I am,” he said quietly, then put his beer down. “Would that be okay?”
Caitlin’s smile softened a little and she rubbed his arm where she’d pinched him. “Maybe,” she said, then turned away from him as she took a sip of her own drink so he couldn’t see the play of emotions on her face: disappointment that David hadn’t called her; resignation that he hadn’t and that she should move on and consider Liam as an alternative; acceptance that Liam was, by anyone’s reckoning, someone she should be happy to spend time with.
Now it was Liam’s turn to pinch her arm. “Where are you?” he said.
Caitlin realized that tears were welling and she blinked them away quickly before turning back to him.
“I’m here,” she said, and part of her meant it.
“What’s the matter?”
She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “You’re just … you’re very sweet, that’s all.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I’m not used to it.” She meant it, too. She was all over the place and he could so easily have given up on her by now—but instead he was still here, trying to make the evening easy.
She quickly took a sip of her drink as he looked at her adoringly. “I find that so hard to believe,” Liam said, placing his hand on top of hers as it rested on the table.
“You’re so amazing,” he continued. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt you.”
“Well, they have.” She smiled tightly.
“I won’t,” he said defiantly, squeezing her hands.
Caitlin just wished she could make the same promise to him.
They hadn’t left the bar in the end—they had stayed talking, making do with bar snacks. Caitlin had wanted an early night anyway and Liam hadn’t pushed her to extend it. He had even walked her to the subway and had tried to wait with her for the next train, but she had insisted that he didn’t—there were plenty of people around, and she would be fine. In reality, she just wanted to be alone inside the crowd. She’d had a pleasant evening but she was ready for it to be over. She wanted to go home and curl up around her memories of David’s smile, David’s laugh, the haunted look in his eyes and the sound of pride in his voice as he’d talked about his sisters. She knew that the memories wouldn’t last forever, and they might be all she’d ever have of him, so she wanted to enjoy them while she could.
As she waited on the subway platform, she checked the latest headlines on her phone. She thought her stomach actually lurched as she read KING JAMES IN HOSPITAL, then clicked through to read the story:
King James III has been hospitalized with an unknown illness, say sources connected to the King Edward Hospital in London, where the monarch is apparently now resting comfortably. It is believed that His Majesty was taken to hospital at the start of the week but his condition was kept from the public as the monarch and his daughters, Princess Alexandra, the Princess Royal, and Princess Margaret, were due to leave for their annual summer holiday today. It was hoped the King would go on holiday as scheduled but he has remained in hospital pending further examination by his physicians. His son and second in line to the throne, Prince David, is believed to have returned to London on Tuesday and has been visiting his father regularly. Sources say that Buckingham Palace will shortly confirm that the Princess Royal is acting as Regent.
Her first thoughts were of David—how worried he must be, not just for his father but for Alexandra. Then she felt something like relief, knowing that there was a perfectly good reason for his silence. Next she felt guilt that she could even have such a thought at a time when she would be the last thing on his mind—if she occurred to him at all.
As the train arrived, though, she realized there was a very good chance he had left the United States for good. Even if she heard from him again, what could they say to each other? He was over there, and she was still here, and those two facts were not likely to change.
Her phone beeped with an incoming text message. From Liam. It was so great to see you, it read. Can we meet up again soon? Tuesday?
Caitlin slid her cell into her handbag. She might have realized that David was now out of reach, but that didn’t mean she was ready to pull Liam closer. Not yet. She’d answer him tomorrow.
*
David and Alix sat in their father’s hospital room, watching him sleep. It was the most relaxed they had seen him since before their mother’s illness. Since the day of Queen Caroline’s diagnosis, their father had developed what had seemed to be permanent frown lines: two vertical marks on his forehead that were present regardless of the time of day or the circumstance. Before their mother died he had been a strong, proud man—straight of shoulder, gleaming of eye, with a head of hair the envy of men half his age. After her death, when he had become a sole parent—a fact that the press never mentioned, but a responsibility that weighed on him heavily because, ultimate
ly, while he could get help being king, no one could help him be a father—his shoulders had seemed to develop a permanent slump, his eyes had grown dull and his hair had thinned. He seemed to be literally half the man he was.
Now, David realized, the frown had gone. He wondered if the stroke had rendered the muscles inactive—perhaps his nervous system was no longer delivering the message to them. He hated having these thoughts; hated having to think of his father this way. He still remembered the father of his childhood: tossing them around the swimming pool at their country estate, teaching them to ride and jollying them along through public engagements when all they’d wanted to do was play with their dolls or have pretend fights in church pews. He had been stern yet loving; it was, David had often thought since, the best combination a father could possess. He just hadn’t told the man himself.
“He’s been a good father,” David said softly now, as if his father could hear.
“You say that like he’s dead,” said Alix, sounding wrecked.
“No,” David said, suddenly alert. “I just … I’ve never told him.”
“Tell him when he wakes up,” Alix said with a bossy tone.
David shifted in his seat to face her and noticed their protection officers outside the door, facing away from them, watching for danger. His whole life he’d had people watching out for him. When he was not much younger than he was now, it had seemed stifling; these days, it seemed like a blessing.
“Were you always this … big sister-y?” he said, smiling at Alix.
