The Royal We

by Heather Cocks

“Prince Nicholas is at the National Portrait Gallery tonight,” an entertainment reporter gushed as Nick’s picture came up, “and you won’t believe what he said about his future!”

  It was the Queen Mum’s birthday, and Nick was at the gallery to unveil a painting of her in her youth, crisp as usual in one of his navy suits. This channel’s cameraperson was in the phalanx of media stuffed behind a metal barricade; Nick had obviously agreed to answer a preapproved question or two, but as he’d finished, someone went rogue. The news subtitled it even though I heard it plain as day.

  “Oi, Nick! When’s the wedding? None of us are getting any younger!”

  I knew the voice. It was Mustache. I sucked in a breath, but on the TV, Nick played it off with a comedic head shake.

  Until.

  “I don’t know why you lot are in such a hurry to chain me down,” he said. “Getting married is the last thing on my mind. Talk to me again in a decade.”

  The station cut back to the studio, where the newscaster was chuckling.

  “Someone better tell Rebecca Porter,” she said. “Although maybe Prince Nicholas just did. Up next, part three in our report on the common household pets most likely to kill you.”

  I told myself it was nothing. I told myself Nick loved me, and that everything else was just smoke and mirrors. I told myself we’d laugh about it when he came over later, the way he always did. But his glib reaction was all I saw, on a loop, every time I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Because I ended up being wrong about one very important thing: Nick never did come home to me that night.

  But he was waiting on my bed the next morning when I got out of the shower, annoyingly huggable in gray heathered cashmere (he’d had breakfast with Marta, who’d wanted to celebrate turning ninety-nine with a full English fry-up that would make her arteries “really work for it”). By this point, I was in a state: poorly rested, emotionally wounded, fresh from my twentieth dramatic imagining of how this conversation would go, and ready to take off his head with whatever blunt instrument I could find. Including my tongue.

  Nick reached for the pile of newspapers next to him and wordlessly tossed me The Sun. Near the photographs of Lacey from Harrods were shots of her with some guys I vaguely recognized from the society pages. The only solace I could take was that she wasn’t with Freddie—Lacey had, at least, followed the letter of that law—but the headline read POSH AND BEX AND THE PARTY GIRL, and that was bad enough. But it was also clearly a sidebar to something larger. I unfolded the paper, and found a photo of Nick in front of the gallery, under the words MATRIMON-OH-NO!

  “Good morning to you, too, Nick,” I said, brandishing it and then throwing the paper back at his head.

  “Sorry. Good morning,” he said guiltily.

  “Too late. I’m mad,” I said, dropping my towel and giving my wet hair a vicious rub. “You spend all that time lecturing me and Lacey, but now it’s okay for you to feed the beast?”

  “If we’re going to fight about this, would you mind putting on some clothes?” Nick said. “You’re very distracting right now, and I want to be at my best.”

  “Stop trying to flirt your way out of this,” I said, stiffly tugging on my bathrobe.

  His face fell. “I didn’t actually mean it.”

  “Which part?”

  “Any of it,” he insisted.

  “If I had done anything like that, Barnes would deep-fry my head for lunch,” I said.

  “How do you know he didn’t deep-fry mine?”

  “Because I’m sure he’s extremely relieved to have it confirmed that I’m just keeping your bed warm,” I said, choking up. Nick looked as surprised as if I’d just handed him my acceptance letter to Hogwarts. “Did you even think about how this would make me look? Like some tragic American girl you’re just toying with, until someone better comes along.”

  Or in case no one better does, I didn’t say.

  “I promise, that bloody photographer just caught me off guard,” he said. “This marriage nonsense and their obsession with our relationship drives me up a tree, and it slipped out. I should have ignored him. I don’t know why I didn’t. I suppose I’m not immune, either.”

  “You snapped,” I said meaningfully.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Bex,” he said. “Hurting you was the last thing I wanted to do. If we were two normal people…”

  “But we’re not,” I said. “We’re one normal person, and then you.”

  Nick attempted a wan smile. “How many times do I have to tell you, Bex? You’ve never been normal.”

  This reference to Windsor made something inside me unfold. I crossed the room and kissed him.

  “You know I don’t care about getting married, but I do think I care about the hiding,” I said, sitting next to him. “It’s been almost four years. Four, Nick. I don’t know how much longer it’s fair for us to live in a cave.”

  “Well, this cave has satellite TV and a very enticing bed,” he said, nudging me.

  “Be serious.” I smacked his leg.

  “Sorry. The bathrobe is too flimsy to keep me focused,” he said, picking up the satiny tie and rubbing it between his fingers. He sighed. “It’s not like I’ve ever done this before. Not really. And it’s not like I can ask my parents for advice. They were miserable even when Mum was well.”

  “So neither of us knows what we’re doing,” I said.

  Nick looked at me and although his lips smiled, his eyes didn’t. “Haven’t a clue,” he said.

  I took his hand, almost as if to bridge the silence that fell between us. My eyes landed on my flag pin, our private little talisman, sitting on the dresser staring back at me, daring me to put it on and feel the same as I ever had.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Nick said suddenly. “Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe we just stop running.”

  “You mean, go public?” I asked, my jaw swinging open wider than was strictly ladylike. “Are you ready for that?”

  “I guess this is as ready as I’ll ever be,” was his reply.

  Not the answer I’d hoped for, but it was all he said.

  Chapter Six

  Very few people in this world look, in person, exactly as you imagine them. I, for example, am told I look taller and not nearly as American, whatever that means. David Beckham, conversely, is more compact than expected, but also sexier, which evens it out. The first time I stood in a room with Queen Eleanor, I expected a similar revelation—albeit not about her level of sex appeal—but the surprise was that there was no surprise. She is one of the rare public figures who looks the same in the papers, on TV, and in your mind, as she does in the flesh: supreme, authoritative, every inch the icon that she is on the postage and the pound.

  Then again, maybe it’s unsurprising that I reacted that way, given that my first encounter with Eleanor was on her turf—Buckingham Palace being the ultimate home-field advantage. Before Nick’s party I hadn’t done anything more than whiz past Buck House in a cab, because I felt weird taking the pricey tour when I was suspected of dating someone whose birth had been announced on a placard in the courtyard. Suspected, but still not confirmed: Word from The Firm was that no personal gossip could take precedence over the dawn of the Navy career that represented the next phase of Nick’s fastidiously plotted life. I hadn’t honestly expected them to give us the green light the first time Nick asked, but that didn’t make it any easier to know that on a night when I’d loved to have celebrated with him, I’d have to settle for near at best.

  At least I’d have my parents, who’d jumped at the chance to fly over for the party. My mother would have brought lemon bars to a ritual human sacrifice if the Queen had invited her, but this gala legitimately tickled her fancy bone. Proving that Lacey takes after her, Mom promptly invested in a library of etiquette books, studying them and the potential guest list to the exclusion of everything except her trips to the Men’s Wearhouse Big and Tall section, to make absolutely sure Dad—who laughed at the price of the Burberry tux she’d been eyeing�
�had the right clothes.

  “Are you nervous? I’m nervous,” she tittered as our Mercedes sedan inched forward.

  “Don’t be nervous. You look beautiful, Mom,” I said.

  “Queen Nancy of Muscatina,” Dad joked. “Most fun shopping spree I’ve ever been dragged on.”

  “Oh, pish,” Mom said, but she was beaming.

  I had no doubt that a hefty percentage of people expected the King and Queen of Coucherator, Inc., to be tacky, vulgar Americans, but Mom looked sleek and elegant in her midnight blue gown with beaded bolero. Dad’s tux fit to suave perfection. And Lacey had outdone herself: Her red sweetheart-neckline gown, matching lip, and delicate finger waves gave her an Old Hollywood glamour-girl look, flashier than I’d expected but still somehow pitch-perfect. When our car finally turned into Buckingham Palace’s giant iron gates and crept toward the porte cochere, I felt an intense wave of affection and appreciation for what they were doing—putting themselves on display, up for judgment. All because of who Nick was to me.

  “Before we get out, I just…I don’t really know how to, properly, but I want to thank you guys,” I said, beating back tears. “For being here. For the flat. For these clothes. It’s beyond generous. I mean, when will we ever need these gowns again?”

  “Well, when will Dad ever need those dueling pistols?” Lacey cracked.

  “You never know. Let’s see how tonight goes,” Dad said.

  “You know what I mean!” I said. “We should’ve borrowed stuff somehow.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” Mom said, patting my knee. “What’s the point of inventing what Hammacher Schlemmer called ‘The World’s Foremost Seating-and-Cooling System’ if you can’t spoil yourselves with…well, the spoils?” She gave me a loving, and more serious, smile. “Besides, you needed the best tonight.”

  Impulsively, I grabbed her hand. “I love you,” I said. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

  “You can stop biting your nails,” was her reply, though she squeezed me back.

  Our car ground to a halt, the door swinging open as if by magic, and I caught myself hanging back as if I were about to trespass. Buckingham Palace is so symbolic that you almost forget it’s a real place with plumbing and heating, linen closets and washing machines, and the occasional creaky floorboard. It felt like a transgression somehow to step inside and solve some of its mysteries. The magnitude of my luck hit me then—followed by my sister’s hand, nudging me forward. I felt eyes on us as we climbed out, and mentally blessed Lacey’s hairdresser for my romantic, low, loose bun, and the Harrods tailors for making sure my dress wouldn’t need a public hoiking. My gut roiled, but my exterior, at least, looked the part I needed to play.

  We were ushered directly into the Grand Entrance, a sunken rectangular room that appeared to be constructed entirely of cream marble, columns, and gold trim. Some of the statues that usually live there had been replaced for the bash with festive topiaries, including a giant one of an archer drawing his bow.

  “That’s in honor of Saint Nicholas,” Clive said as he materialized next to me, dashing in his tux, and an endearing nick near his ear from his efforts at a close shave. I hugged him, relieved to see a friendly face that might depressurize this occasion.

  “Where’s your other half?” I asked, craning my neck. Clive’s dalliance with Gemma Sands had, as Nick had predicted, proven so short-lived that I never met her, and he’d rebounded with another glossy girl from an upmarket family. Philippa Huntington-Jones made up for her lack of personality with a vintage Aston Martin that she let him drive around London. The two of them looked like a Cartier ad in it.

  “Philippa is coming with her parents.” He cringed slightly. “I’m trying to wriggle out of that one, to tell you the truth. The other day she asked about our family land holdings.”

  “Speaking of family,” I said, “have you met my parents?”

  “Delighted,” Clive said, shaking Dad’s hand and then kissing my mother’s. “You are as stunning as your daughters.”

  “Hey, thanks,” Dad said. “I try my best.”

  “I was just going to tell Bex that Nicholas is the patron saint of archers, hence the massive shrubbery up there.” Clive grinned. “He’s also the patron saint of repentant thieves, but that’s harder to capture in horticultural form.”

  “Our Nicholas is more of a patron saint of our couch these days,” Lacey said.

  Clive let out a surprised laugh. “Careful,” he warned. “You don’t know who’s listening.” Then he bit his lip. “Blast, Philippa’s spotted me. I’d best go put in my time so I can have a bit of fun the rest of the night.”

  He set off across the room, squeezing against the tide of guests that the palace’s red-coated, white-gloved footmen were ushering gently up the famous double staircase. The dark wood banister was cool and substantial under my shaking hand as we curved up and around to the second floor, through a series of beguiling reception rooms, every couch supported by a carved lion armrest and every throw pillow punched into a perfect hourglass. Still, there are tiny things that make buffed and burnished Buckingham less intimidating—the odd candle askew in its holder, the light odor of menthol, cords still dangling inelegantly from the marble lamps to the wall. It’s almost comforting. Some logistics, even royalty can’t circumvent.

  We were eventually deposited in the Picture Gallery, a dusty-rose rectangle of a room with an arched ceiling whose skylights, by day, toplight the original works by the Old Masters that hang side by side with portraits of royal ancestors.

  “Bex, the fire extinguishers are gold,” my mother breathed.

  The room swam with VIPs: foreign royalty in ornate baubles that distinguished themselves from the mere dignitaries, who in turn wore whatever medals and sashes they could to outdo us commoners. The motherly hand Mom laid on my arm on the Grand Staircase had gripped me tighter as we’d been led deeper and deeper into the palace, and I had five fat red finger marks on my bicep. I think she just had to squeeze me or squeal, and squealing was too unbecoming.

  “You could live here one day, Rebecca,” Mom said, subtly leaning over to fuss with my pendant. “Can you imagine?”

  “Please don’t,” I whispered to the statement as much as the fussing.

  She just shot me a knowing look and reached out with a curious finger to touch the diamond in my lavaliere.

  “That’s from Nick,” Lacey told her.

  Mom arched a brow excitedly. “I wondered,” she said. “Oh, Bex, when was this?”

  “Ages ago,” I said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  It actually did, to me at least. As a surprise for Nick, I’d had the diamond put on a shorter fine-filigree chain so that I could wear it out in the open, for the first time, the way we’d wanted to be but couldn’t—like a show of solidarity, a sign that even apart we were still together. But I couldn’t think of a less ideal place to say that out loud.

  Gaz to the rescue.

  “Not too shabby, eh?” he said, coming up and clapping a hand on Dad’s shoulder—which required him to reach up higher than was strictly dignified. “Quite tolerable, in fact.”

  “It’s no Chicago Yacht Club, but it’ll do,” Dad said, shaking Gaz’s hand. “Ever been to Chicago before?”

  “I’ve never even been here before, much less to America,” Gaz said.

  “You should see this place when it’s set up for a garden party,” Clive said, squeezing in between me and Lacey, and bringing with him that familiar air of enjoying his one-upmanship. “Stunning. There’s a giant vase out there that Napoleon commissioned to celebrate his assured victory at Waterloo.”

  “What a stupid short git,” Gaz said. “And I say that as someone who has a soft spot for stupid short gits.”

  “I like you,” Dad said to him. “You seem someone who’d know where they keep the beer at this thing.”

  Gaz brightened. “A gentleman after my own heart,” he said. “The bar is over where Nick’s face is melting.” He nodded toward the ice scul
ptures that flanked either side of a bar set against the silk-covered east wall. “I would be delighted to take you there.”

  “I’d better go, too,” Mom said. “I don’t know if I trust your father on his own here. He’s done none of the reading I assigned.”

  Gaz escorted them away with gallantry. Clive swiftly scooped three flutes of Champagne off a passing server’s tray, and he and Lacey and I made our way as gracefully as we could over to where Cilla and Joss had carved out a spot near a particularly famous Rembrandt.

  “Joss, that’s…what an interesting dress,” Lacey said, eyeballing the word dress scrawled up the skirt of Joss’s white gown.

  “Isn’t it?” Joss said. “I’ve got this really posh investor on the hook if I can do a whole line of them. Says he likes my whimsy. I’m thinking of calling it Soj, because it’s like Joss backwards, kind of, or maybe The Queen’s Bits, to stick it to my dad for—”

  “Soj,” we all said immediately, as Lacey choked on a slurp of Champagne.

  “A clear winner,” Clive added quickly, thumping Lacey on the back. “Though they’re both…so special.”

  “What’s the matter with Gaz?” Cilla asked, pointing across the room. Gaz was listening intently to my father, who was wearing what I recognized as his Pitch Face.

  “Nothing that isn’t already filed under ‘Being Gaz,’” Clive said.

  “He’s plainly wasting away,” Cilla said. “That girl has been starving him.”

  Gaz had lost about thirty pounds under the influence of his girlfriend, Penelope Six-Names—who’d redeemed her Oxford faux pas one night by helping Freddie avoid a fight between his latest fling and a weeping ex called Mauritius he’d hooked up with in Aruba (or was it a girl named Aruba he’d slept with in Mauritius? Freddie should come with CliffsNotes).

  “I think he looks really dapper,” Joss offered. “Very trim.”

  “He looked perfectly good just as he was before,” Cilla said irritably. “He’s a solicitor. He needs brain food, not some fitness model who feeds him leaves and berries.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And where is Tony?” I asked.