Chapter 1 #2
start feeling that way about Buckingham Palace? Could she see such a hallowed building as a revered institution that perhaps—
“Fuck’s sake,” the Uber driver fumed. “Bloody tourists.”
Lauren snapped out of her sentimental reverie.
As the full scope of the Palace came into view, it seemed both larger than life and more quaint in person than it had when she was sixteen years old and busy mourning Zayn Malik’s departure from One Direction.
She immediately pictured those iconic moments on its famous balcony in front of huge crowds—the big kiss after a royal wedding, waving to the people after a coronation.
Could she help orchestrate those moments? Could she really be a part of this?
As her car approached the building, Lauren waited for the crowds to part, for the iron gates to open up and allow her driver
to graciously pass through and coast up to the front door . . . but then she watched as the driver went right past them.
“Um, excuse me?” she said, bothered by the timidity in her own voice. She was always extremely aware of being an annoying
American whenever she visited a foreign country and took great pains to not be that person, but more often than not, it just made her a stranger not only in a strange country, but a stranger to herself, too.
The driver waved off her concern, hunching over the wheel as he navigated a little too closely around a group of schoolchildren. “I know where I’m going,” he snapped, then jabbed a finger toward the printout
of the map that Lauren was still holding on her lap. “You want the side entrance.”
Yes, of course she did. The side entrance. The discreet, members-only entrance that was probably only for the most important people, like the pope. And Beyoncé. Lauren
preened a little at that, smoothing her hands down her forest green pencil skirt that she had paid a lot of money to have
dry-cleaned in twenty-four hours, before picking at a thread in the hem. Damn. She wished she had seen that back at the hotel.
As she looked up, they were arriving at . . . well, a rather normal-looking side gate on the sidewalk with two bored-looking
security officers leaning against a patrol booth. They both glanced at her car with the same look that most people gave to
squirrels: not thrilled to see them but resigned nonetheless.
Lauren climbed out of the Prius, wincing a little as the heels pinched her feet.
She had planned to return the shoes once work in DC eased up a bit, but when her schedule suddenly became empty, she realized she didn’t want to leave her apartment.
And so the shoes continued to sit unworn in her closet until three days ago, when she found herself tossing things into her carry-on suitcase like she was the best friend character in a rom-com movie, flailing and frantic.
And now, standing in a new city in front of one of the world’s oldest institutions, Lauren wondered if this was just how it
would be from now on, if she would soon be entering her thirties trying on new jobs, new relationships, and new locations,
none of them ever fitting as well as the ones that had gotten away.
One of the security officers checked her ID and credentials, only giving her a passing glance as he made sure that she matched
her passport photo, then ushered her inside to another waiting area. Lauren smiled as she walked up to the tall security counter.
The man asked for her details, proof of address, the purpose of her visit, and then proceeded to hold up a battered-looking
webcam to take an extremely unflattering below-the-chin photo for her visitor’s pass. Lauren hung the small lanyard around
her neck and flipped the front side around so it wasn’t visible. One eye shut and her embarrassing full name printed on the ID were not part of the cool Palace entrance she had envisioned.
In front of her, two rows of glass security doors awaited, and beyond them a courtyard that led into the Palace itself. She
looked around and caught sight of a delivery cart filled with boxes addressed to the office of the Princess of Strathearn,
who, thanks to a Wikipedia deep dive, Lauren knew was fifty-two years old and currently the youngest of the working royals.
She casually sidled up to get a closer look at the fancy brand names on the address labels before a man popped his head into the room and gave her a quick look up and down. “You must be Bea—”
“Lauren Morgan,” she said brightly, offering her hand. “And you must be James.”
He shook her hand in a way that made Lauren think he’d be applying hand sanitizer as soon as he could. “James Colleran,” he
replied. “I’m the chief of staff to the principal private secretary to the Queen.” His glasses gave him a somewhat preppy,
boyish look, but because of his tweed suit and neatly parted brown hair, Lauren wasn’t sure whether he was in his thirties
or fifties.
“It’s really nice to meet you,” she said. “Thank you so much for having me here today; it’s such an honor to be at Buckingham
Palace.”
James paused just long enough before speaking that Lauren wondered if it would be up to her to fill the awkward silence. The
courtyard beyond the security office was quiet, and she was very aware of how loud her voice sounded. She had gotten used
to speaking up at work, to make sure that she could always be heard over both the din of reporters at press briefings and
the interruptions of some of her younger, cockier colleagues. If she looked, there were probably a few cough drops at the
bottom of her purse. She used to buy them in bulk.
She was about to open her mouth when James finally replied.
“Yes, well, thank you for coming.” His smile was somewhat friendly. “Especially on such short notice, of course. I trust your
flight was comfortable?”
She had been in economy in the middle seat, the person behind her grabbed at her headrest every time he stood up to use the
bathroom, and somewhere on her plane was a toddler with a cough that could only be described as “tuberculosis adjacent.”
“Oh, it was great, thank you,” she said. “Piece of cake.”
James’s right eyebrow twitched just a little. “Well, excellent,” he said. “I assume you got the briefing notes about the position that we sent you?”
Lauren patted her bag, gesturing toward the iPad inside. “Right here,” she said. “Thank you so much for sending them.”
James held open the rather unassuming door on the other side of the courtyard for her. This was it, she thought. She was about
to walk into Buckingham Palace. Hours of Netflix binges had given her a vague idea of what was coming: antique furniture,
sweeping staircases, ornate silk rugs, bitchy courtiers, and, of course, the grand artwork.
So she was more than a little disappointed to be greeted by what looked like the service area at the back of a hotel: exposed
pipework, battered walls, staff running back and forth, and zero art. In fact, the only thing on the walls were ugly plastic
bumpers to stop carts and trolleys from causing further damage. It was a hive of important activity, but, as she caught sight
of a vending machine filled with chips and chocolate bars and a sticky-looking bank ATM, it felt far from regal. The Crown it was not. This must be a special shortcut to get to the royal offices, she thought, like when the Secret Service would
take the president out of restaurants through the kitchen.
James began moving down the corridor at a much faster clip, and Lauren hustled to keep up with him, her strides matching his
just like she had taught herself to do back at the White House. She weaved in and around those racing past—cleaners, kitchen
staff pushing carts full of produce, gruff-looking men with deliveries, laborers carrying toolboxes.
“Of course, we’re still interviewing for the position,” James said, gesturing to her to keep following him. “We have a few
candidates in the running, but we prefer to do interviews in-person. It may be a bit old-fashioned—”
“Oh no, it’s wonderful,” Lauren said, waving away his concern with her hand, and was glad she had managed to get a last-minute appointment for a gel manicure.
“Honestly, if I don’t have to do a Zoom call ever again in my life, I’ll be very happy.
” That was a lie. Lauren would have killed to see a bunch of professional faces in a grid from the comfort of her own home.
“Plus it’s nice to actually see where I could be working, get a feel for the office, meet people face-to-face. ”
“—but we find that sometimes the old ways are the best ways,” James finally finished, leveling her with a cool gaze.
“Of course,” she replied. “Why mess with tradition?”
“Exactly.” James glanced at his phone, then stopped in front of an office and poked his head in the doorway. “Keep us updated
no matter what,” he said to someone Lauren couldn’t see. “This is a priority.”
“Absolutely,” a voice said.
“I apologize, we’re just dealing with a little . . . situation at the moment,” James said, continuing down the hall as he
glanced at his phone again.
Lauren’s ears pricked up. The word situation could mean a lot of things, especially in a thousand-plus-year-old institution. It could mean a toilet was blocked in the
East Wing or it could mean someone was abdicating the throne and absconding to Europe with their divorced lover. “Of course,”
was all she said, though. “I understand. I imagine working with such a wide variety of, um, personalities means you have to stay on your toes at all times.”
James put his hand on a doorknob and paused before looking at her. “You truly have no idea,” he said, opening the door and
ushering her in.