The Royal We

by Heather Cocks

  “I was thinking about it,” I said. “It sounds relaxing.”

  “It won’t be,” he said. “But I think you can handle it. You don’t need another calm weekend reading some big fat book.”

  “How about a civilized game of croquet?”

  Freddie grinned. “Not unless you think strip croquet is civilized.”

  “Depends on who’s stripping.”

  He tipped his scotch to me. “There’s the Bex I remember.”

  Chapter Five

  The time Nicholas and Rebecca spent apart was exquisite agony, Aurelia Maupassant proclaimed, before spending two and a half Bexicon pages glossing over my bikini period, Nick’s apparent dustup with Gaz, and a variety of other juicy transgressions she could’ve unearthed if she had wanted to confront reality. Instead, she claimed we were saintly hermits:

  They devoted their time to self-enrichment, firming up the deep strength of character with which they will lead this great nation into the future. While Nicholas bravely fought for our shores, Rebecca immersed herself in professional pursuits and charitable endeavours, and, as the consummate sportswoman, to perfecting her tennis game.

  “That ball was out, Bex. DRINK,” Gaz bellowed.

  “Too close to call,” Lacey said from a deck chair that was doubling as an umpire’s seat. “That means you both drink.”

  “What’s the score?” I asked.

  Lacey blinked. “Whoops. Six? Is that a thing in tennis?”

  Gaz invented Drunk Doubles years ago, because he said he wasn’t comfortable letting someone club a yellow missile at him unless he was off his head. The rules change a lot because no one ever quite remembers them, but it starts with guzzling something potent if you lose a point or a set, if you ace a serve, at deuce, and at match point. The longer it goes, the harder it gets to see the ball, much less hit it, so it devolves into ineptitude and arguments and offers of replacement dares. I had already played an entire game wearing Gaz’s trousers, my partner Joss served backward, and for the last two points, Cilla had worn socks on her hands. Freddie had been right; the weekend was not, perhaps, a bucolic PBS-style affair.

  We’d drawn up to the three-story ivy-covered manse late Friday night and woken in the morning to an actual rooster crowing and Bloody Marys on the peaceful terrace. Freddie’s warnings had seemed misplaced, until lunchtime came, and with it, a steady stream of thirsty guests. By the time we’d reached this late-afternoon stalemate at Drunk Doubles, there was an equally boozy game of lawn bowling down by the vegetable garden, suspicious smoke wafting from the tree house, and some convoluted gin-soaked swim relay. The estate teemed with the kind of young, preppy aristocrats who regularly retired to the country to escape the rigors of day jobs they bemoaned yet could never explain in specific terms. I vaguely knew a handful of them from Clive’s glossy party reports, but I wasn’t sure how they connected to Cilla, and she was too busy snogging Gaz on the court to ask.

  “I think we win by default,” Joss declared.

  “Hang on, you can’t punish a man for being in love,” Gaz shouted.

  “Love means nothing in tennis,” I said. “Literally, in fact.”

  As I reclaimed my pint from a peeling wooden bench, I spied Clive sitting by the pool, tapping away on his laptop and chatting to the dreaded Gemma Sands and Lady Bollocks—the former of whom I’d still never met and didn’t care to, and the latter of whom I was equally pleased to avoid. There were several single guys milling around whom Cilla had invited as a favor to those of us who were likewise uncoupled; one of them, appealingly, resembled Brad Pitt in his prime. He was playing a game of (non-strip) croquet with Freddie, and he was bracingly hot.

  “Now that is a view,” Lacey said, slinging an arm around my neck. “You want dibs?”

  “They’re all yours,” I said.

  “Well, yeah, I know you don’t want Freddie,” she said. “But that other guy might do nicely.” She grinned naughtily. “For either of us, if Freddie doesn’t get his act together.”

  “May the best Porter win,” I said with a smile.

  She pulled my ponytail. “Done. But we have to clean up first. You look like you were just electrocuted.”

  * * *

  Cocktail hour coincided with one of England’s more cinematic summer twilights, scented by a blooming, exuberant garden growing up around the old stone terrace where we congregated. Movers were coming to the house in three days to clear out the antiques worth keeping—Cilla’s brother-in-law bought it furnished—and the rest of the gabled building and its picturesque patio would be demolished and built into something bigger and more modern and probably uglier. I wondered if Cilla’s sister had even seen it; to me, its cracks and chips gave this old place character.

  I didn’t get to luxuriate in any of it, though, because Lady Bollocks marched right up to me as soon as I walked through the terrace doors. I’d hoped to summon enough sorcery to escape her entirely, but the sight of her so inflamed—angular brows, squinting eyes, sequined minidress shooshing as she stomped toward me—against such an august backdrop was so amusing that my nerves abandoned me.

  “That isn’t awful,” she greeted me, flicking a finger at my slim-fitting patterned dress. “Which can only mean you didn’t pick it out yourself.”

  “Oh, buzz off, Bea,” I said. “If that’s all you have to say, then go back to ignoring me.”

  Bea took a sharp bite out of her martini olive. “Someone had to pick Nick in the divorce.”

  “Most people had the strength of character to choose both,” sassed Lacey from her perch on the low stone wall of the terrace, where she was nursing a bottle of something orange-flavored called Hooch.

  “Frankly, I’m beginning to see why Nick should have picked you, having been forced to endure all the other nitwits coming after him lately,” Bea said.

  “I’m sorry my breakup has been so difficult for you,” I said. “How’s your sister?”

  “Fucking great,” said a raven-haired girl who uncoiled herself from a chair near Lacey.

  I peered closer at her. “Pudge?”

  “I go by Larchmont Kent now,” she said. She was groomed to within an inch of her life, with luxurious long hair, and wore a slouchy white romper that was insanely ugly in that annoying way where it also looked fabulous. She appeared to be sans underwear.

  “She’s modeling,” Bea said, prickly pride masking a bit of concern. “Discovered by a scout who was in rehab with her at the Priory last time. She just did Japanese Vogue.”

  “Fashion is redemption,” Ex-Pudge said dreamily. “No judgment. Just an embrace.”

  Bea squinted at her. “Are you high now?”

  “If you mean high on serenity, then yes,” she said patiently. “I was meditating. I may need to find the koi pond.”

  “There’s a koi pond?” I asked Bea, looking at her sister’s retreating figure.

  “Focus.” Bea snapped her fingers in front of my face. “I will only say this once, so listen well. You are far less irritating than Nick’s other options, so I need you to get back together.”

  “Oh! Well, if that’s what you want,” I said.

  “It is,” Bea said, missing my sarcasm. “You were good for him. He was so much lighter with you. If only you’d met last year, it would have been considerably easier for everyone.”

  “Yeah, Bex really blew it for you,” Lacey said.

  “Your face need not be part of this, so feel free to shut it,” Bea said haughtily.

  “Bea, I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” I said, trying to mean it. “But Nick and I have moved on.”

  Bea arched her crazy-arched brow, which I hadn’t imagined was possible. “Are you quite sure?” she said.

  I would have thrown up my hands with frustration, except I didn’t want to spill my Pimm’s Cup. “I sent him back a box of his sweaters. It’s over.”

  “Oh, please, that’s absurd. He probably never even got them.” She poked me in the sternum. “I saw you dribbling over the e
ye candy this afternoon, and my advice is that you do not touch. Nick will be ready soon enough.”

  “What? Like a pan of brownies?” Lacey asked. “It’s not 1925. She’s not going to twiddle her thumbs and wait patiently while Nick is off playing solider and sleeping around.”

  “I’m not suggesting she take up needlepoint,” Bea countered. “I’m merely saying that timing is everything.”

  “And our timing was terrible,” I pointed out.

  “Once,” Bea said airily. “Maybe not forever.”

  “Stop fucking with my head, Bea.”

  “I am fixing your head,” she said. “And before you decide to listen to your sister on this topic, may I remind you which of us has known Nick since—hang on, is that Duddy Fitzherbert? He cheated me out of the most beautiful filly at Tattersalls. I have words for him.”

  She swept off.

  “She apparently has words for everyone today,” I said to Lacey. “I wonder if she showed up with a list.”

  “Do not let her get to you,” Lacey told me. “Nick hasn’t given you any indication that he is coming back.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “And you will regret wasting time on a faint hope.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re not getting any younger.”

  “Now who’s acting like it’s 1925?” I retorted.

  “I just don’t want you to get sucked into Bea’s magical thinking,” Lacey said.

  “I doubt Bea’s engaged in magical anything in her entire life,” I said. “And I don’t want to spend the rest of mine talking about how I almost ended up with Nick. Can we move on?”

  “Sure,” Lacey said, gesturing with her bottle of Hooch. “Freddie’s over there with Penelope Six-Names. What’s that about? He can’t be into her.”

  “Here’s a challenge,” I said. “Let’s see if we can avoid talking about Wales boys altogether.”

  Lacey glared at me. “I’m not sure if you’re less fun with Nick, or without him,” she said, and walked away, leaving me with plenty of people staring but nobody who wanted to talk.

  In that moment I decided I might hate country house parties.

  Suddenly, a gong rang out; I turned to see Gaz standing near the French doors, beating a giant golden disc hanging from a wooden frame with a carved Chinese dragon across the top.

  “Dinner is served,” he announced.

  “You’ll make a great butler someday,” I teased. He responded by bopping me on the arm with the velvet-covered mallet.

  The dining room had a mahogany sideboard that functioned as a hot-food buffet, and a massive table in the middle of the room covered with cold dishes. I grabbed a plate and fell in line behind Clive, who was juggling his with a white wine spritzer. There are a lot of reasons Clive never turned my crank enough to be the love of my life, and one of them is that he likes white wine spritzers.

  “That looked like a fun scene outside,” he said.

  I stabbed some roast beef like it had insulted me. “The next person who says N…um, Steve’s name gets a fork through the neck.”

  “Watch out, Clive. She’s always been a danger to others,” Freddie said, cutting in behind me. “Who are half of these people, anyway?”

  “How it is possible you don’t know?” Clive asked as we carried our plates to the bottom of the house’s sweeping, chipped wood staircase and sat down to eat. “I’d have assumed you’d slept with at least that many.”

  “A gentleman never kisses and tells,” Freddie said. “Certainly not to a reporter.”

  Clive waved his glass. “This entire party is off the record.”

  “Nothing is ever really off the record,” Freddie said. “I’m actually surprised you’re free today, Clive, what with so many important galas to cover, like Lord Whatsit’s Charity Pet Statue Auction.”

  “Reporters need to keep their feet on the ground,” Clive said, missing the insult. “I am massaging my sources. Speaking of…”

  He nodded at a fetching brunette giving him the eye from across the foyer. Clive and Davinia were still together, as far as I knew, but she was in London, and clearly no handsome, ambitious party reporter—or at least not this handsome, ambitious party reporter—worked a room with total chastity.

  “That’s Hilly Heath-Hedwig’s niece,” he told us. “She’ll have loads to say about that divorce.”

  As he left, Freddie made a gagging face. “I prefer his brothers,” he confided. “They might be clods, but they’re also very straightforward.”

  “Clive is lovely,” I said, before I caught myself.

  “Point proven.”

  “Why are you here on your own?” I asked. “Santa too busy in her workshop?”

  “Making toys for other boys,” he said. “If you must know, I’m currently single.”

  “Are you ill?” I gasped, feeling his forehead.

  “Cute,” he smirked, swatting me away. “No, I’ve just been thinking about something you said a while back. It is rather juvenile, selecting my girlfriends specifically to annoy Father. So I’m taking a break.” He nudged my empty plate. “Which we are supposed to do, too, from each other. At dinner parties it’s customary to change conversation partners between courses.”

  “Please, let’s not,” I said, pointing to the couple behind us on the landing, who were alternately fighting and feeding each other cornichons. “I can’t jump into that.”

  Through the wide archway into the family room, I spied Lacey leaning against a mantel, twirling her hair and chatting up none other than British Brad Pitt.

  “I might have wanted to jump into that, but it looks like I’m too late,” I added.

  Freddie looked guilty. “I believe I led that lamb to the slaughter.”

  I smacked him in the arm. “Are you saying you pimped out my sister?”

  “I merely hinted—in the form of an explicit statement—that he’d do well to talk to Lacey because she’s very nice and very available.”

  “So am I!” I protested.

  “Yes, but you’re not on my scent,” he said. “As part of this new leaf I’ve turned over, I also considered that since it’s inevitable that we’ll get drunk and stupid, I should make sure Lacey is otherwise occupied.”

  My phone buzzed in my purse, which was a surprise. Almost everyone I knew was at this party. But the ID indicated an unknown caller.

  “Miss Porter, this is Barnes,” the voice on the other end said, sounding a lot more relaxed than the Barnes I knew. “I have the Prince of Wales on the line for you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Very funny, Gaz, but Barnes sounds more like he’s been impaled on a spike.”

  At that very moment, I saw Gaz scurry across the hallway, demonstrably not on the phone. Freddie’s eyes bugged out and my stomach sank.

  “When you’re through being hoisted on that petard, Miss Porter, kindly loan it to me so I may resume a more familiar demeanor,” Barnes said. “Please hold for the Prince of Wales.”

  Richard, I mouthed at Freddie. He looked utterly nonplussed, and I’m sure so did I.

  “Miss Porter, I trust you’re well this evening.” Richard’s voice was as chilly as ever.

  “Fuck you and your Volvo, Damian. Go park it up your girlfriend’s massive backside!” shrieked the girl behind us on the landing, storming upstairs in a tornado of tears.

  “Yes, Your Highness, having a nice quiet night,” I said, biting my lip and shaking my head. Next to me, Freddie mimed hanging himself.

  “I wanted to speak to you about Paint Britain,” he said. “It’s been mentioned to me that several London museums are helping to grow the program, and as an artist myself, I should like to offer my patronage. Congratulations.”

  I almost pitched forward off the stairs. Freddie steadied me with his hand. “Sir, that’s amazing, everyone will be so fuc—er, fantastically thrilled,” I said, tripping over my tongue and its more purple tendencies. “Thank you, Your Highness, your generosity and—”

  “Let’s not pro
long this any longer than necessary,” Prince Dick said, and rang off.

  I stared at the phone in my hand, then up at Freddie, dazed. “I thought you were joking the other day about discussing philanthropic ventures.”

  “I was,” Freddie said, surprised.

  “Then tell me how Paint Britain just got itself a patronage from your father.” I couldn’t even blink. “Did Nick, or…are you sure you…”

  “It wasn’t me,” he said. “And Knickers is out to sea. Father must’ve just thought it was a cracking idea. It’s a bloody miracle.”

  Joy shot through me. In that moment, I decided I might love country house parties.

  Freddie gave me a wait right there gesture and ran off, then returned holding a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. “Do not go into the kitchen. Gaz is weeping over a fallen soufflé and the noises he’s making will curdle your soul,” he said. “Come with me. We’re celebrating. Did I see a tree house?”

  We swigged from the bottle and toasted our way outside. Inky night had dropped like a cloak, but still the tree house loomed large, wrapped fully around the massive oak like something right out of Swiss Family Robinson. Through the dark, I spied the outline of a homemade bridge high up in the foliage, accessible by ladder, stretched between the fort’s roof and another tree. I made a beeline for it.

  “I doubt it ever even crossed Prince Dick’s mind to get his bothersome sons a tree fort,” Freddie said, following me as I scrambled up the ladder. “My future sprog shall definitely have one. Lucky old Galahad, Murgatroyd, and Bob.”

  I reached the top and found myself on a wooden platform at the mouth of the bridge, which was made largely of rope, old planks, netting, and probably a dash of chewing gum and hope.

  “Are you sure this isn’t going to kill us?” Freddie asked warily.

  I tested the bridge with my foot; it swayed a bit, but seemed sturdy. I darted halfway across and gave Freddie the thumbs-up.