The Royal We

by Heather Cocks

  “Not when she packed special steam-powered hair curlers,” Dad said.

  Mom swatted him. “Appearances matter,” she said, tugging at her tweedy Chanel suit jacket. “And Nick needs to know we take this seriously. I just don’t want him treating Bex like Ms. Right Now if she thinks he’s Mr. Right.”

  “Oh God. Please don’t quote some decades-old Cosmopolitan that you found at your hairdresser,” Lacey said.

  “I suppose next you’re going to tell me I gave him the milk for free,” I said.

  “I am an extremely modern woman,” Mom said defensively. “I use text messages and the Skype and everything. That doesn’t mean I can’t be concerned.”

  “Come on now, Nancy. Nick seems like a good guy,” Dad said, patting her arm. “And Bex is no slouch. She has my keen eye for reading people.” He winked at me over the tea sandwich dwarfed in his large hands. “I am sure everyone’s intentions are good.”

  Mom blew on her tea, frowning, not having heard a word. “Isn’t his mother even the slightest bit curious about you?”

  Another eminently fair question, and one that I treated as rhetorical, because I had no answer. Nick and I had talked about almost everything else: how he’d lost his virginity (to Gemma Sands, at fifteen, about ten minutes after feeding the giraffes at her father’s wildlife preserve), how he got the scar on his chin (Freddie clipped him with a polo mallet), that he had a recurring nightmare about one of his grandmother’s porcelain soup tureens. Emma, however, was inhospitable territory. The times she’d come up organically, Nick either changed the subject, or clammed up completely. I wanted to draw him out, to be there for him, but was afraid it would come off like prying. So I let it go.

  But I was tired of telling him eccentric bits and bobs about my own family—how Dad helped Lacey build a working model of an intestine for our high school science fair, or the way Mom buys a new summer and winter suit each year for the purposes of being buried in seasonal attire, should the worst happen—that I had to qualify with, You’ll see when you meet them. To his credit, Nick was delighted when I suggested an introduction, and immediately had his people book Mom and Dad a suite at The Dorchester—one of London’s poshest old hotels, and the one the Queen most trusted for discretion. So far, my family had enjoyed a great visit. We traipsed around the Tower of London, hopped the train to Hampton Court, even took a boat ride on the Thames—all the lively touristy stuff that I couldn’t do with Nick. Dad made it his mission to eat in as many of the ubiquitous pubs with Arms in the title as possible, and sought out an antiques shop on Kensington Church Street that kept all the most fabulous items under the floorboards, hidden from view except to those with a large enough wad of bills. Dad claimed he just wanted to investigate, but left with a walking stick concealing a sword, and an old leather book that was actually a hiding place for a lady’s gold-and-ivory-handled pistol. Never mind what he thought he was going to do with any of them. We ribbed him about it the whole week.

  Still, the prospect of this day hung over me the entire time. Our tea was a strategic prelude to make sure Mom felt properly civilized, and my dad properly fed and watered. The Dorchester’s Champagne high tea is as elegant as its marble-floored lobby dining room, which was infused with the gentle tinkling of utensils on fine china. Down the way a piano player tapped out “I Dreamed a Dream,” eyes closed, head bobbing in deepest passion.

  “Nothing like a song about a dying hooker to wash down your scones,” I said.

  “Bex, be regal,” Mom said. “For once. Please.”

  Lacey wiggled into perfect posture. “This is the life,” she said. “Sleeping in, wandering through Harrods, gorging on Champers and tea and cakes…I could so get used to this.”

  Lacey often chose to forget that I didn’t live like this all the time. My appalling flat didn’t have any water pressure, but it did have mice, and I spent any leftover money on cheap art classes and highballs rather than Harrods and bubbly. I’d never even been inside Harrods until she took me. But Lacey had always been wistful with respect to England. She’d just finished her first year of med school at NYU, but she was never as interested in discussing that as she was in planning her next trip to London. She’d arrive here with a fresh head of highlights and a meticulously curated suitcase, primed to dazzle every guy in her path, reeling in admirers the way she used to friends at summer camp—but unlike when we were kids, she used the phone numbers she brought home. I wanted her to love London, but this felt more like trying to conquer it.

  The piano player switched into the theme song from Phantom of the Opera, banging it out so violently I was sure his hands would bleed out all over his instrument.

  “This guy’s repertoire isn’t very uplifting,” Dad noted.

  I checked my watch. “Fortunately that’s our cue. Finish your scones. Nick will be upstairs any minute.”

  In addition to getting my parents a lush suite for their stay, Nick had reserved one specifically for our meeting that boasted both private access for him—for maximum discretion—and breathtaking views of Hyde Park, for maximum brownie points.

  “Hideous,” my dad said, stepping out onto the terrace.

  “The worst,” I said, threading my arm through his.

  “Intolerable. How does anyone live like this?”

  “With ten thousand pounds a night, according to the website,” Lacey said, coming up next to us. “Can you imagine being able to snap your fingers and get this whenever you want? Your life is insane, Bex.”

  “This isn’t my life,” I said, feeling like I was repeating myself. “This is one day in my life. The rest of the time, I have ants and no central air.”

  “Ah, but the ants provide such a tremendous distraction from the spiders,” came a voice.

  Nick walked out into the most insanely cinematic beam of light. It honestly did look as if the Heavens were kissing him—exactly, I suspect, the way my mother (and The Bexicon’s Aurelia Maupassant) had imagined it would be, minus Handel’s Hallelujah chorus. His sandy hair gleamed slightly red in the sun, his jeans were perfect yet perfectly broken in, his Pumas worn but not dirty, his rugby shirt the exact level of sporty my parents always expected from a boyfriend of mine. The only hint of his status was the gold vintage Rolex that had been a gift from his great-grandmother Marta on his eighteenth birthday.

  Mom immediately dipped into a curtsy. Lacey buried her face in her hands.

  “Nancy’s been practicing for weeks,” Dad said, clapping Nick on the shoulder while shaking his hand. “If she needs bionic knees after this, I’m sending you the bill.”

  Nick laughed. “Mrs. Porter, it’s a pleasure,” he said, bowing deeply and kissing her hand. “Your form is miles better than Mum’s, but if you breathe a word of that to anyone I’ll deny it.”

  “Well!” My mother blushed, speechless. He was good.

  “Hey, Nick,” Lacey said, giving him a quick hug. “Good to see you.”

  “And on such a miserable day,” Nick joked, gesturing at the clear blue skies. “Father once booked this suite for some of our European relatives, and it bucketed down rain the entire time. Couldn’t see a thing. They swore never to come back.” He winced. “That may have been a blessing. One of them kept telling us we were all supposed to be German by now.”

  My father let out a booming belly laugh, and I could tell Nick was tickled by Dad’s warm reaction. “Dreadfully sorry about the Cubs, though, Mr. Porter,” he added. “I heard the Padres swept them.”

  “Call me Earl. You should shoot over for a game!”

  “Yes, Bex swears Cracker Jack is much better when it’s fresh,” Nick said.

  “It’s better in the stands,” I corrected him. “It’s never really fresh. That’s part of its charm.”

  Nick grinned at me before gesturing for my mother to head back into the hotel room, where what looked like yet another tea service—and two cold lagers in pint glasses—had been set out on the glossy coffee table. We’d all turn into scones before long.


  “So, Nick, I could use your advice on a small weapons issue I might’ve gotten myself into,” Dad said. “There’s this antiques shop, see…”

  Their voices trailed off and the door clicked shut. Lacey and I stayed on the balcony, enjoying the sun.

  “So what now?” Lacey asked.

  “I figured we’d hang for a bit, then send Mom and Dad to the theater.”

  “I mean with Nick.”

  “We’re going to usurp the throne, and invade Switzerland just to be cute,” I said.

  “Be serious, Bex.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Seriously, why does anything have to happen now? We’re young. We’re happy. Why does everyone want to rush this?”

  Lacey threw out an aggrieved hand. “If that’s how you want to play it,” she said. “As long as you’re not going all Bex about it and avoiding reality. Isn’t that how you ended up stringing Clive along?”

  “That’s a low blow.”

  “Well, it’s tough love time,” Lacey said. “And those two are basically falling in love with him right now, too, so get ready. The longer you go without meeting his family, the more questions they’re going to ask.”

  I knew she was right. Nick swore he loved me, and he emphatically acted like it—including his willingness to hang out with my dad and discuss, by the sound of it, the nuances of televised darts. But I was beginning to feel unsettled. Like Nick had a hidden reason, or Reason, for keeping me on the down-low.

  “I’m good. It’s handled,” I lied. “And speaking of Nick’s family, I have a surprise for you. He’ll be here in about three hours.”

  Lacey’s face lit up. “Freddie,” she breathed, throwing her arms around me in glee.

  “Freddie.” I grinned, squeezing her back.

  * * *

  The Bexicon glosses over Lacey and Freddie. In fact, it whitewashes almost all the supporting players, as if Nick and I got where we did in some kind of vacuum, untouched by anyone except the fairies of true love who’d drawn us together. That unforgivable turn of phrase is a direct quote—pure Aurelia Maupassant. As is this:

  It is natural to imagine an attraction between England’s premier charming rogue and Lacey, a dynamic golden-haired sprite. But such rumours are utterly fantastical and spurious. As Rebecca and Nicholas yachted the oft-tempestuous seas of romance, Lacey and Freddie came together only as their siblings’ invaluable confidantes. Nothing more.

  Glorious bullshit.

  Nick left the massive Dorchester penthouse with plans to return, Freddie in tow, after their slate of meetings at Clarence House. With Mom and Dad off seeing something deliriously British on the West End, Lacey and I had plenty of time to primp for a night out with the princes. Meaning, I watched the worst TV I could find while Lacey took a bubble bath, and then she shoved a dress and a pair of heels into my hand and told me if I so much as tried to put on flats, wedges, or jeans, she’d throw them off the balcony.

  “I mean, those aren’t even skinnies,” she said. “They’re straight leg.”

  The dress was undeniably flattering: sleeveless and short with a lightly flared skirt, the plunging V-neck counterbalancing the relatively innocent silhouette, especially after Lacey accessorized it with a delicate lavaliere that rested right between my breasts. She tucked in my bra strap, then stood back to admire her work, rolling her eyes when I futilely tugged the fabric over whatever cleavage I had.

  “For someone who has streaked as many places as you have,” she said, undoing what I’d just done, “you are so uptight.”

  “I have to be careful,” I said. “It would be just my luck if Nick and I got caught on a night when my boob was hanging out. It’s Murphy’s Law.”

  “Well, Murphy is a killjoy,” she grumbled, smoothing her stunning, snug leather mini.

  The guys were twenty minutes late. Lacey spent that time wiping off her lipstick and trying different shades, then chucking her entire outfit and going through four other options. She was mid-change when I heard the suite door open and the sound of two male voices.

  “Stall!” she whispered.

  Freddie let out a low whistle when I walked into the living room.

  “Nice legs, Killer!” he said, taking my hand and ogling me exaggeratedly. “I never figured you for a miniskirt kind of girl.”

  I blushed. “Lacey is a bad influence.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Freddie said.

  “You look amazing,” Nick said, then pulled me in to whisper, “I’m dying to know where the pin is. Maybe we should stay in so I can conduct a thorough search.”

  Nick made it difficult for me to behave sometimes.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” I asked, tearing myself away.

  “To Shoreditch, if you lovers can stop manhandling each other,” Freddie said. “This bird I’m sort of seeing wants to have a look at Tony’s new club.”

  “Ask her name.” Nick nudged me.

  “I don’t know what you find so amusing, Knickers,” Freddie said airily. “Fallopia is a beautiful name.”

  I nearly choked. “Fallopia? Where did you meet her?”

  Freddie’s lip twitched. “The Tube, of course.”

  I burst into laughter. Freddie looked delighted. Even Nick giggled.

  “What’s so funny?” Lacey asked, sauntering out from the bedroom doors.

  I’d recognized her whole wardrobe-indecision gambit from high school—last one out of the bedroom makes the grandest entrance—and it worked just as she’d clearly imagined. She’d decided on a sleek black halter dress, which managed to seem classy while simultaneously leaving very little to the imagination; if Freddie had been a cartoon, his eyes would have dropped out of his skull and rolled along the floor until they landed at Lacey’s feet, looking up her skirt.

  “Nothing is funny,” Freddie said, offering Lacey his arm. “There is absolutely nothing funny about the fact that Bex has selfishly kept a blond goddess to herself all this time.”

  “Well, now we’ve fixed that,” Lacey said, never once betraying that she was flirting with a guy whose picture used to be tacked up on her wall, “let’s not waste any more time.”

  Nick and I traded amused glances as Freddie escorted her to the elevator.

  “I don’t like Fallopia’s chances too much, do you?” I said.

  “Hurricane Freddie,” was all he said.

  Plush, a pop-up offshoot of the original Club Theme, was not Tony’s best effort. Its fur-covered tables and chairs, damp from perspiration and sticky from spilled drinks, couldn’t be cleaned and were unpleasant to sit on, which may be why so many people opted to dance in the cages suspended from the ceiling. Clive and a very drunk Gaz immediately goaded me and Lacey into the two above the VIP section while they catcalled appreciatively—and, in Gaz’s case, clambered up to join us.

  “This is brilliant!” Gaz shouted, jerking into a triumphant pose that had the cage swinging perilously (and Tony flinching).

  “Yes, our Garamond is a font of bad ideas,” Cilla cracked from the floor beneath us, loudly enough for Gaz to hear and salute her comically.

  “What’s the matter, Clivey, can’t lift yourself in there?” shouted Martin Fitzwilliam, whom Clive referred to as his stupidest brother. “Worried you’ll pull a journalism muscle?”

  I saw Clive shake his head. Then he drained his drink and climbed in with me.

  “If I can’t beat them, I’ll join you,” he quipped. “And if there’s one thing they’ve proven over the years, it’s that I can’t beat them. I broke a finger once punching Thick Trevor in the chest.”

  “I thought Martin was the stupid one,” I said.

  “He is,” Clive said. “And Trevor is thick. You’ll understand the difference if you see them together.”

  I grinned. “All I know is, Martin must be stupid, or else he’d be the one up in a cage with a girl.”

  Lacey always says club dancing looks like a seizure—as with Halloween, she’d rather look cute if she plans to be the center of attention—s
o she and Gaz started some deliberately exaggerated dirty dancing that eventually morphed into a facetious dance-off against me and Clive. He made a good partner in our pseudo-lambada—even his stupid brother Martin ended up cheering for us—although I did feel a twinge seeing Nick out of the corner of my eye and knowing he and I could never do this, even in jest. Freddie, however, seemed to be considering it. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Lacey’s cage.

  “Isn’t she a dynamo,” Bea said to me during a break in our revelry. “What’s next for you two? A trapeze?”

  I smiled sweetly. “Can’t,” I said. “I believe it’s currently jammed up your ass.”

  “While I fetch it,” Bea said through a matching smile, “you might enjoy the view of Nick with his old flame. Don’t they look cozy?”

  I peered around her at Nick, talking to a lithe, fair-skinned blonde who was positively overloaded with jewelry.

  “He was devastated when Ceres cheated on him,” Bea continued.

  At that moment Nick laughed loudly and put an arm around Ceres’s shoulder. A jealous pit blossomed in my stomach, but I ignored it. Insecurity had never been my style.

  “I’m sure he’s just thrilled to hear about the cutting-edge world of party planning,” I said.

  “Yes, well, it’s not so avant-garde as greeting-card design, but what is?” smirked Bea, drifting back to them.

  “What was that all about?” Lacey asked, coming up behind me. “Do you need me to crack some skulls?”

  “You sound like me,” I said, hugging her around the waist.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said. “Now, forget Lady Bellatrix Hyphenate Whatever, and let’s give the Wales brothers a night they’ll never forget.”

  We did our best, and I’ll wager Freddie returned the favor: I caught him the next morning tiptoeing out of Lacey’s bedroom. She immediately extended her trip—blowing off the beginning of her med-school semester in a giddy lather—and he rebooked the penthouse, and the two of them embarked on a full-fledged fling. Lacey particularly enjoyed the covert shenanigans of sneaking in and out of bars to avoid the paparazzi, although once she mistimed her exit and got caught in a shot with Freddie. Fortunately, he was blocking most of her body and all of her face, except for her ear, and a couple of curls. She bought four copies of the story, even though it included shots of him with two other girls under the headline FRISKY FREDDIE BLAZES THROUGH BLONDES.