The Royal We

by Heather Cocks

  “Isn’t it funny?” she’d said brightly. “It’s the perfect souvenir for when I’m back at school dissecting kidneys, or whatever, and I want to remember what it was like to be in Prince Frederick’s little black book.”

  “That little black book is more like an encyclopedia at this point,” I said.

  She grinned. “At least I’ll go down in history.”

  Nick wasn’t as amused.

  “You don’t think you’re being bit careless?” he asked Freddie one night shortly after Lacey returned to the States. The brothers were teaching me cribbage at Kensington. “You’ve spent the last fortnight leading around half of London, including my girlfriend’s sister.”

  “Beats hiding girls under a blanket in the car,” Freddie said. “How long can you keep pretending you and Bex aren’t actually together? I’m even bringing Fallopia to Klosters and we barely know each other.”

  “Then why bring her?” I asked.

  “Her name is Fallopia. Father will hate her,” Freddie said patiently, as if this were too stupid to be discussed.

  “It’s none of my concern if you burn hot and fast with these people we’ll probably never see again,” Nick said. “But Lacey is someone we care about. I’ve no interest in denying you the great love of your life, but if she’s not, then—”

  “It was two glorious weeks, and everyone went home with a smile,” Freddie said.

  “Then what about the next time she visits? And the one after that?” Nick asked. “What happens if Bex and I get found out? Leading Lacey on is one thing, but carrying on with her would make both Bex and Lacey look bad. The last thing we need is that stodgy old Mail columnist squawking that they have a royals fetish.”

  “I know you’re the heir and I’m the spare, Knickers, but that doesn’t mean you’re also meant to be my nanny,” Freddie said. “Let me have my fun.”

  “Not everyone would call baiting the press fun,” Nick said curtly.

  “Screw Prince Dick.”

  “I don’t mean him.”

  “Why are you always bringing her up?” Freddie asked hotly.

  “Why are you always forgetting?” Nick slapped his cards down on the floor.

  Freddie slammed down his cards, stood, and angrily swiped his coat from the back of a flowered armchair. He disappeared out the door of the apartment with a bang.

  Nick rubbed his eyes. I crawled over and hugged one of his knees to my chest.

  “Lacey knows it was casual,” I promised. “And nobody recognizes her, and nobody even knows about us. They won’t put two and two together that she was out with Freddie. “

  “It’s just…” He let out a frustrated breath. “We have to talk about something, and this isn’t the way I’d wanted to do it.”

  My mind flashed to his arm around Ceres at Plush. My stomach sank. I really hate We have to talk. It never goes anywhere good, and for me, it brings back memories of the day Mom sat me and Lacey down on the couch and said We have to talk because Dad had a heart attack. I will never forget the sensation that if I opened my mouth, my own heart would come up out of it and land on the coffee table.

  I steeled myself. “Talk about what?”

  Nick tucked a stray strand of my hair behind my ear and tugged on it gently. “Well, you may not want to after that display, but I rather thought I’d like to bring you on the family Klosters trip at New Year’s.”

  The longer I sat there in shocked silence, the more Nick’s amusement turned to nerves.

  “Obviously, you don’t have to,” he said, fidgeting. “I just enjoyed your parents, and—”

  “Yes, of course, yes. I want to,” I said happily. “You just caught me off guard.”

  His face was a picture of relief. “I wanted it to be a surprise,” he said, folding me into his arms as we leaned back against the faded green love seat. “I did not want it to seem like Freddie goaded me into it, because he didn’t.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “I’m just…I’m totally excited, but I also want to throw up a little. Is that lame?”

  “I’d be worried if you weren’t slightly jittery,” Nick said. “It’s not like Father recently hit his head and woke up all cuddly.”

  I snorted.

  “Definitely do as much of that as possible,” he teased.

  I elbowed him, he tickled me, and we spent a few minutes poking at each other and laughing until he finally caught both my wrists and gave me a long kiss.

  “London stresses me out,” he said when we broke apart. “It’s full of people who want something from me, or expect something.” He smiled. “But Klosters is like Oxford. Ten minutes with the cameras and everyone leaves us alone.”

  “Is there ever a time when you’re not looking for everyone to leave you alone?”

  Nick rolled onto his back, carrying me with him until I was straddling his chest. “Right now?” he said, and tugged at my jeans with a wicked gleam.

  I grinned and uncurled myself. “Race you to the Howard Bedroom. Last one there gets the lumpy side.”

  “Oh no, that’s not on,” he said, leaping to his feet. “I know another secret passage you’ve not seen,” he shouted, tearing off in the other direction.

  And indeed, I slept on the lumpy side. It was worth it.

  * * *

  That December, a huge snowstorm they were calling the Arctic Sinkhole socked in the entire Midwest. I turned down kind invitations to spend the holiday with Cilla’s and Gaz’s respective families because I kept hoping for a last-minute break in the weather, but it became clear that even if I somehow got to Iowa for Christmas, I was fifty-fifty at best to return in time for Klosters. Nick called from the annual Lyons gathering up at Sandringham to tell me everyone would understand, but Lacey and Mom were adamant that I shouldn’t risk it, Mom even threatening to disown me if I tried. So I spent the holiday alone in my flat with a radiator that worked only half the time but clanged monotonously all of the time, and a toilet that wouldn’t stop flushing unless I hit the tank with the broad side of a dictionary.

  But I embraced the unplanned quietude, which I had jokingly christened my Solitary Refinement. I bought a pint-size fake tree and decorated it with tinsel and ornaments from a local drugstore. I hung the holiday cards I’d gotten above my imitation fireplace, and I stocked up on port wine and fancier beer. And every day I spruced up my blue Oxford sweatshirt with Nick’s present to me. Eleanor decreed long ago that the Royal Family must give only gag gifts at Christmas—which makes perfect sense; Sephora gift cards don’t quite cut it for a woman who has her own Gutenberg Bible—but I think Nick missed the satisfaction of giving actual thoughtful presents to his loved ones, because he blew past our amiably low price cap and bought me a delicate diamond solitaire pendant on a long gold chain (so I could wear it under my clothes, next to my heart, without anyone being the wiser). I gave him a sweater and a cheat guide for cryptic crosswords. In my defense, he is almost as hard to shop for as his grandmother, and he needed both.

  On Christmas Day, I luxuriated in changing out of my sleeping pajamas and into a new flannel set specifically for loafing around, and spent the day watching movies. Just as I got antsy for human contact—right at the part of The Sound of Music when the Von Trapp kids are parading around Salzburg dressed in nothing but some old drapes—I heard a sloppy knock at my door.

  “Who is it?” I shouted. My peephole was permanently fogged.

  “Gaz. I bring delicacies.”

  I fumbled at the chain and tugged open the door. Gaz charged through, a burst of frosty air around him as he made a beeline for my compact kitchen, carrying several grocery bags from Harrods. He dumped his quarry on whatever counter space he could find and surveyed my place.

  “Cilla said your flat was small, but I didn’t realize she meant you could see into the lav from the kitchen,” he said. “I could probably use it from here.”

  “Go ahead, you just metaphorically peed all over the place anyway,” I said. “What are you doing here? I mean, I’m g
lad to see you, but I’m not exactly company-ready.”

  “My family is all done in by about two o’clock. Big fat Christmas dinner and then straight into a food coma.” He patted his stomach. “But I’m a growing boy and I need my third meal, see, and Cilla said you wouldn’t go with her to Yorkshire to have her eighteen nieces and nephews blow their noses all over you, so voila, your savior is here.”

  Gaz started pulling things willy-nilly from the bags. “I brought all kinds of goodies. Come have a butcher’s. We’ve got cheese and onion pasties, a pork pie; have you ever had one? Bloody brilliant. Oh, and a spot of cheese and caviar, and some chocolates.”

  It was the sweetest gesture, and one he’d clearly planned well in advance. I gave him a sniffly, tight hug.

  “Now, now,” he said, reddening, but clearly delighted. “I know I’m a sexy beast, but I can’t have my mate’s girl throwing herself at me.”

  We carried the food into my living room and spent a lively night yelling at the remainder of The Sound of Music, cheering so vibrantly at the nun with the carburetor that my downstairs neighbor banged on the ceiling to shut us up.

  “God, what a film,” Gaz said when it ended, folding his hands onto his stomach. “That naughty baroness was the first woman I ever saw who drew on eyebrows. I didn’t know if I was afraid of her or in love with her.” He screwed up his face. “Probably both. Might explain a few things.”

  “Yes, when are you going to declare yourself to Cilla?” I asked casually.

  Gaz looked startled. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Maybe not to most people,” I said. “But the way you two thrive on goading each other always seemed suspicious to me.”

  “You’re bonkers,” Gaz sighed. “She thinks I’m a stuffed git.”

  “Cilla doesn’t suffer fools. She wouldn’t spend so much time needling you if she thought you were one.”

  Gaz brightened, then his face fell again. “She’s seeing that Tony bloke, though,” he said. “Never mind whatever shady business he’s probably up to with that nightclub of his. All that white powder in the loos doesn’t get there on its own.”

  “You’re almost a solicitor. Or a barrister. Whichever it is,” I asked. “Can’t you sue the pants off him for something?”

  “That’s tempting,” Gaz said. “I’ll be a solicitor in about a year, and then I can get into business. Maybe that’ll impress her.” He frowned and rubbed his nose. “Maybe if I weren’t such a fat oaf,” he said harshly. “Maybe if I lost a bit of weight and stopped drinking. But I can’t help it. That’s who I am. My feelings have loads of flavors.”

  I laughed, but not unsympathetically. “Lose it for yourself, if you want to, but not for anyone else,” I said. “Cilla will see through Tony eventually, and she clearly knows you were the only person for the job of cheering me up tonight. She’ll come around. Maybe even while we’re all in Klosters and Tony is stuck here.”

  Gaz shot me a grateful smile. “You’re a real mate, Bex,” he said. “Let me at least return the favor. What do you want to know about this whole Klosters bit? Or have Nick and Clive already briefed you?”

  “Hardly. When Nick and I talked about it, I got so fixated on the etiquette part that I didn’t even ask him about the other people coming,” I said. “And I haven’t seen Clive for ages.”

  “Yes, too busy doing world-beating reporting like COUNCIL APPROVES PLAN FOR NEW LIFT AT HOLBORN STATION,” Gaz joked.

  “Poor Clive. I admire how hard he’s trying,” I said. “But I do need it explained why the Palace isn’t more worried about him coming to Klosters. He’s essentially the media now.”

  “Top News hardly counts as media. It’s barely a step up from words printed on bog paper. People only even see it because it’s forced on them when they’re getting off the Tube,” Gaz said. “But we also sign our lives away, as I’m sure Nick told you. And the Fitzwilliams are thick as thieves with Richard. If Clive ever violates that, Thick Trevor will twist him up so that his nose unloads into his bowels.” He grinned. “This trip is quite good people-watching, actually. I can’t wait for you to experience Pudge.”

  I coughed around a piece of pork pie. “What is a ‘Pudge’?”

  “It’s a who. Bea’s sister Paddington,” Gaz said. “She was an eleven-pound baby, and the nickname stuck. She’s…how to put this delicately…a total drooling gobshite.”

  “That’s the delicate option?” I laughed.

  “Just you wait.” He rubbed his hands together.

  Gaz made it all sound so entertaining, but I was increasingly nervous. Intellectually, I knew I wasn’t being introduced to the extended family as anything more than Nick’s friend, and that Cilla and even Bea being there would bolster that cover. But I wasn’t the kind of moneyed or titled aristocrat with a plummy accent and a Bentley that Nick’s relations were used to; I was a first-time skier whose father made comfortable appliances for beer lovers. I didn’t know how any of that would go over with them, no matter what they thought he and I were to each other—and on that score, Richard was still in severe, sometimes apoplectic denial.

  Gaz studied me, then raised his glass. “No need to panic,” he said. “We’ll keep you out of the blast radius.”

  As we clinked wine glasses, mine cracked and squirted thick red port all over my couch.

  “Don’t tell Cilla about that,” Gaz warned. “She’ll say it’s an omen.”

  “I don’t believe in omens,” I said.

  Chapter Three

  Freddie calls Klosters “ten degrees below narcolepsy” because of its lack of nightlife, but I have always found the sleepy mountain village enchanting: clusters of pitched-roof cabins flanked by towering pines, their branches heavy with snow—like Whoville without the Grinch, unless you counted Richard. But for jaw-dropping grandeur, the Swiss Alps might meet their match in the two chalets Richard always rents, for something like forty thousand dollars each. Each spread has four floors, a staff of maids and cooks on loan from Balmoral, a guesthouse for the PPOs, a seventy-two-inch flat-screen, heated bathroom floors, and Champagne on tap. Literally. Champagne actually comes out of a faucet. Once the Coucherator debuted in the SkyMall catalog it had changed my family’s life, but every Fourth of July we still holed up in the cabin in Michigan my mom and Aunt Kitty inherited, with its one bedroom and broken futon. So luxury purely for the sake of luxury was new to me, and as I unpacked in the fourth-floor master that I was sharing with Nick, Lacey’s words echoed in my head: Your life is insane, Bex. It hadn’t felt true then. It did now.

  “May I come in?”

  When I looked up to see Clive standing in the doorway, it struck me that all the gradual tweaks he’d made since Oxford added up to a comprehensive, carefully planned upgrade: He was now more muscular, his hair was artfully spiked rather than slicked, and his recent LASIK offered a better view of the indigo of his eyes. He looked great, even though I missed the brainy cuteness of his specs.

  Clive stuffed his hands in his back pockets. “I just wanted to get any initial strangeness out of the way. We haven’t done a lot of sober socializing recently.”

  “Good thinking,” I said. “A lot has changed.”

  “And in a way nothing has,” he said. “Gaz and Cilla still haven’t had sex or stabbed one another, you and Nick are still a secret…”

  “Is that what you came in here to talk about?” I asked, bristling, his words taking me right back to that night in Pembroke.

  “No, no,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure everything is good.” He touched me on the arm, never breaking eye contact. It brought back more pleasant memories. “It’s important to me that you’re happy.”

  “I care about you, too. Sorry to be so defensive,” I said, sinking onto the bed. “It’s just…well, you know. My situation is complicated. How is life at Top News?”

  “Dreadfully dull. They made me do a story on holiday shopping,” he said, sitting next to me. “I had to hang about outside stores, flagging down anyone wit
h a decent amount of bags, asking how the economy is affecting their spending.” He grimaced. “The ones that don’t run away immediately will talk for ten minutes and then say, ‘Oh, but you’re not using any of that are you?’ and then run away. It’s maddening. I’m so tired of working for a crap free paper doing the stories nobody else wants. I’ve paid my dues, but they keep saying, one more month.”

  “You’ll get out of there soon enough,” I assured him.

  “How’s the art?”

  “I’m currently very occupied drawing comforting landscapes for the bereaved.”

  He put an arm around me and squeezed. “We’ll both get there,” he said. “I’m sure it’s also quite time-consuming being the secret girlfriend of Prince Nicholas.”

  “It’s hard not being able to grab a sandwich together on my lunch hour, like normal people. Especially with him being so busy,” I said. “And, I mean, look at this disgusting slum he’s foisting on me.”

  Clive laughed.

  “Cheers, Clive,” Nick said, walking in from the balcony, a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck.

  Clive slowly lifted his arm from around my shoulder, standing up to give Nick a handshake.

  “Just catching up with Bex,” Clive said. “We haven’t had a proper talk in ages. But I wanted to chat to you, too. I’m seeing somebody and I wanted to be the person who told you about it.” He took a breath. “Gemma Sands.”

  Nick cocked his head. “My Gemma?”

  I didn’t miss that. Neither did Clive.

  “My Gemma,” he corrected.

  “She never mentioned to me that she was seeing anyone,” Nick said.

  This sounded a trifle like jealousy, and my mind screamed, How often are you talking to her?