23. “Believer” - Imagine Dragons
“Believer” - Imagine Dragons
When you’ve made a complete fool of yourself, it takes a full bottle of chardonnay to forget—maybe less if you have something cheaper than the organic limited ten-bottle run I found in Henry’s wine cooler.
My lips are still chapped from his assault on them last night. Every time I expect him to respond a certain way, he does the opposite, which usually ends with me looking like an idiot.
My hangover this morning isn’t terrible, but I take Musa up on his offer of his yumma’s cure-all stew.
Fortunately, he has some already prepared in the fridge.
The savory mixture of vegetables, beef, and chicken tastes as if it took hours to prepare.
I devour every spoonful while telling myself this is the absolute last time a man ever drives me to drink.
I am the queen, for god’s sake. Time to start acting like it.
Maisie arrives promptly at nine o’clock, latte in her hand, face implacable. I’m beginning to think we might never get our friendship back. The only thing to hope for at this point is that she breaks up with Beck soon. Lord knows he’ll never do it.
Tundra greets her with an enthusiastic hug, by which I mean he football-tackles her, and she nearly ends up on the floor. I admit I take a certain a certain pleasure in the spectacle. After I pull him off her, he circles back to hump her leg. It seems everyone wants a piece of Maisie these days.
“Tundra,” I snap. “Down.”
He gives a few more thrusts before finally placing all four feet back on the floor and walking to his bed in the corner of the great room.
Maisie laughs. “He’s just excited to see me.”
“He does it to everyone,” I retort.
She blinks at my sharp tone. “Still, it’s nice to know he likes me.”
“He likes everyone.”
“Are we still talking about Tundra?” She’s more astute than I give her credit for.
“Of course,” I say, and head for the great room. As I pass the kitchen, Henry glances up from the breakfast he’s wolfing down. I wonder how much he’s heard.
Maisie sets the box on the dining table, and I have a sudden flashback to Henry pinning me on that very table last night.
“Let’s move over here.” I lead Maisie to a spot near the windows.
“There’s been a lot of buzz around your visit to the hospital,” she says after we settle ourselves on opposite ends of the sofa. “The people seem to be responding favorably. Even the media appears impressed, although there’s talk about it being a publicity stunt.”
I roll my eyes. I’m never going to be able to do anything that can’t be construed as that. “I’m glad something good came of it all.” I’m still furious it cost Davies his job.
“The press office is spinning it as best they can.”
“And the search for a new press secretary? Any luck?”
“We’ve been interviewing, but no one seems to be the right fit.”
The royal family’s image is in shambles, and I don’t know the first thing about how to fix it myself. And with this sudden surge of warmth toward me, now is the perfect time to act. I need someone who isn’t daunted by a challenge and understands how to best present themselves.
I need someone like Rosalind.
My mother may not have been successful in her bid for her daughter to marry the future king, but that wasn’t due to any failure on her part. I was the perfect candidate for princess by the time she was done with me.
If only she hadn’t stuck a knife in the back of our relationship when she told us of her scandalous affair. She’s nearly at the bottom of my list of people I’d like to talk to, right above Maisie and Beck.
But what other options do I have? If I can put aside my irritation with Maisie to continue doing my job, I can surely put aside my disdain for my mother’s choices if it means the betterment of our family.
I call her an hour later. It rings six times before she finally answers. It seems my propensity for misplacing phones is an inherited trait.
“Mum?” I force more warmth than I feel into my voice. “Can you meet me at the Atlantis? I need your help with something.”
“Of course. I’ll be right there.”
I shouldn’t be surprised by her quick acquiescence. She’s probably as close to rotting away in her hotel as I am. “Don’t forget your allergy meds,” I remind her before hanging up.
She arrives half an hour later, looking like she’s about to play a hotshot lawyer in one of those TV shows that value ruthlessness and grit. She glances around the great room, presumably for Tundra.
“He’s locked in my bedroom,” I say. “He likes to hump things.” I don’t think she would appreciate that as much as Maisie seemed to.
“Isn’t he fixed?” she asks, setting her handbag on the coffee table.
“He is. I don’t know why he does it.”
We each take a seat on the sofa Maisie and I vacated not long ago. “I have to say, I was surprised you called,” my mother says, her sharp eyes analyzing me.
I glance down at my lap, smoothing the fabric of my fuchsia dress. “Me too.” I meet her eyes again. “I’m not ready to forgive you for what you did. But I need help, and I think you’re the best candidate.”
She doesn’t even flinch. If there is anything one should know about Rosalind, it’s that she has nerves of steel. She gives one short, brisk nod as if she expected nothing less. “What’s the problem?”
“Have you been watching the news?”
Two hours later, my mother leaves, and I’m left holding a detailed plan for exactly how to get back into the good graces of the people of Wesbourne.
According to her, the monarchy has been way too aloof for centuries.
England overhauled how their royal family relates to the people decades ago, and she suggested we do the same.
“In today’s society, people want to see their queen up close and personal. ”
I grimaced at this. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.”
“Then get comfortable with being disliked. This is what our culture demands, and if you’re not prepared to give it to them, it won’t reflect well on you.”
“What do you mean by personal?” I asked.
“Many more public outings. Giving people a chance to meet you, shake your hand, that kind of thing. They should feel like you’re theirs.”
“My schedule is pretty full as it is.”
Mum nodded, her chin lifted. “It will have to become fuller.”
I’m pretty sure my mouth fell open at that point. “With what exactly?”
It was then that she brought out a paper and pen from that deep-bottomed bag of hers.
“You’re already doing the stately things.
Galas, ribbon cuttings for hospitals and galleries, launching ships,” she said.
“But we need to add more things for the commoners.” As though she could feel me bristle at the term, she added, “For lack of a better word.”
Her list grew with each new suggestion.
Visit the Soccer League Association.
View soft play areas for children with disabilities.
Observe displays in sports halls.
Have tea with citizens in retirement homes.
Watch young children in rough-and-tumble gymnastics.
Inspect civic centers.
Plant trees.
Lay wreaths on graves.
Visit schools and factories.
Walk around exhibitions.
Tour shipyards.
Admire paintings from local artists.
Unveil plaques.
Accept invitations to dedicate churches.
I have to admit, by the time she tore the three pages of ideas from her notebook, I was excited. Adding these things to my schedule will make me busier, but they actually sound like fun. She assured me that the more events I do like this, the more invitations will roll in.
I can only hope she’s right.