Chapter 3
Three
By Thursday, the day before her first press briefing (and, presumably, the day before Eugene planned on gloating at her first
failure), Lauren was worn down. She’d spent the past week meticulously memorizing the royal family tree; finding a black dress
to hang in a garment bag on the back of her door, which really felt like a bad omen to Lauren, but hey, it hadn’t been her
idea; and reading through scads of articles, tabloid and otherwise, written by the royal correspondents and news reporters
attending the press conference.
“Demand is high,” Lauren had pointed out to Eugene when she passed him in the hallway Wednesday afternoon.
“Of course it is,” he replied without looking up from his phone. “Everyone loves going to the circus.”
“Ooh, not me, I’m afraid,” Harriet said. She had a way of sneaking up when you least expected her, Lauren had discovered.
“All of those clowns and the way they look at you as if they might be about to do something sinister, it’s actually really
quite terrifying.” She shook her head sadly. “Much prefer a bit of Cirque du Soleil.”
Eugene and Lauren had both politely smiled and then quickly gone their separate ways.
It wasn’t just navigating the Palace, though, that was exhausting. It was navigating London. At first Lauren had thought it
wouldn’t be too difficult since there was barely a language barrier, but everything had happened so fast that she hadn’t taken
time to think about the culture barrier. And as the October nights started to get colder and her soulless hotel room got lonelier,
Lauren found herself looking for familiarity wherever she could find it. She dropped way too much money at Whole Foods on
Kensington High Street because it looked just like the store back in DC, got coffee at Starbucks even though the little independent
spots scattered around London were probably far better, and even ordered her food from Uber Eats instead of the far more popular
Deliveroo service because the app reminded her of Postmates, which didn’t work in London.
But by midmorning, she perked up. She had scored her first major victory.
She had found a place to live. An actual apartment.
She had seen it online on Wednesday afternoon, and while she didn’t know a ton about London neighborhoods, a lifetime of watching
rom-coms had taught her that Notting Hill and Hampstead were where the magic happened. And this spot in a converted Victorian
town house, on a leafy side street near Hampstead tube station, looked perfect.
The rent was reasonable, the pictures were gorgeous—high ceilings, original moldings around built-in bookshelves, a little Juliet balcony, big windows that let in bright sunlight—and there were even a few pieces of furniture included by the landlord.
It was a studio with the tiniest kitchen space, but Lauren thought it looked so cozy.
She practically ran there after work, dodging the crowds of people who were presumably all going home to their own cozy apartments, and when she arrived, there were already four couples eagerly waiting outside to view the space at the same time.
Competition for rentals in London, she had been warned, was fierce—especially one that was available to move into immediately.
“Oh, hello,” the leasing agent said as she offered Lauren a card before she put her key in the building’s front door to let
everyone inside.
“I’ll take it,” Lauren said breathlessly, winded from having power walked across half of London.
The others all looked at her in surprise.
“Do—do you want to at least look at it first?”
Lauren shook her head, gasping for air. “It looks beautiful. I love it. I’ll take it right now.”
And it was beautiful. After the losing couples shuffled away, Lauren stood in the room and felt very proud of herself. A warm orange
glow from the leafy street’s tall lamps shone through the huge arched windows as she transferred a holding deposit from her
bank app before signing an initial lease agreement with a pen borrowed from the agent. Lauren added a little flourish to her
signature as she decided that this was a sign that everything was going to work out in London, that her press briefings would
be a spectacular success, that she would—
“I have to say, not everyone was open to the idea of a shared bathroom, but you young ones always seem game for anything!”
The leasing agent beamed at her.
Lauren paused. “I’m sorry, the what?”
“The shared bathroom,” the woman said with a smile. “It’s only with the neighbor next door and the door is right outside your
own door. You’ll both have your own keys for it. Some of these old buildings have been converted weirdly, but you’ll get used
to it.”
Lauren sighed. Nothing is perfect, I guess, she thought to herself, before looking down at the still-drying signature on her lease, then back at the apartment. It really
was beautiful. “That’s okay, I can make it work!” Which, Lauren realized, was quickly becoming the theme of her new life in
London.
Back at work the following day, she tried to convince James to let them use any room other than the one he had reserved for
the press conference, which had walls that looked like they belonged in a detention center and absolutely no space for a podium.
“James,” she said, the moment she spotted him on her way through the maze of corridors that led to the office. They stopped
near the grand staircase just before the comms office entrance, right next to the space heater, which was on full blast. (Lauren
hoped that these tiny things dotted around the offices were not going to be their primary source of heat in the coldest winter
months.) “Please. There has to be another of the, what, eight hundred rooms in this building—”
“Seven hundred seventy-five, actually,” James replied.
“I knew that. Can we please use one of the other 774 instead? The room you picked is giving interrogation room. It doesn’t
look very”—Lauren waved her arm around to indicate the room’s dire state—“Palace-y.”
“Palace-y,” James repeated. “That’s the word our acting head of comms has chosen to describe Buckingham Palace.”
Lauren could feel a tension headache starting to bloom behind her eyes.
“What I’m trying to say,” she replied, “is that photographers and, maybe in the future, TV cameras will be at these conferences. This is the first time you’re letting the press show this side of the Palace.
People beyond just us will see it. And when these people think of Buckingham Palace, they want to see splendor and tapestries and gilded walls. ”
“Perhaps they should just go to Disneyland, then,” James said.
“Isn’t there a room with at least one chandelier?” Lauren protested. “A big window maybe? Some drapes?”
“Fine,” James finally said. “I’ll see if you can use the screening room in the Queen’s Gallery.”
Lauren quickly Googled it on her phone. No windows or velvet draperies, but it did have chandeliers and pillars. “Perfect!”
she said.
Eugene peeked over at her shoulder. “Indeed,” he said. “A cursed room for a cursed conference.”
“A cursed—what?” Lauren asked. “Wait, are you messing with me, Eugene? James, is this room cursed?”
“Best not to speak of it,” Eugene said as he disappeared around the corner. “Wouldn’t want to upset the spirit of the chained
monk.”
Lauren turned to James. “The chained what-now? Did you just give me a haunted room?”
“Ignore him,” James said. “That monk is harmless. The room’s biggest problem is that the roof has been leaking. Better hope
it doesn’t rain.”
“Yes, because it never rains here.” Lauren sighed.
“I would say focus on handling the press instead of the weather forecast,” James said. “Rain is the least of your problems
for tomorrow.”
Lauren was about to Google “Buckingham Palace ghosts real?” when Eugene suddenly reappeared alongside a tall man dressed in what she could immediately tell was a very expensive bespoke suit.
His hair was expertly cut, his face clean-shaven, shoes polished, a jawline that could cut glass, and, oh my God, this Hemsworth brother of a man was the bearded Yeti who had blown into her office with his bike and bagel—
“Lauren,” Eugene said, “I’d like to introduce you to the Duke of Exeter. As I’m sure you’re well aware, we’ve been fortunate
to have His Highness return to our shores after a long stint in New Zealand.”
Lauren did some quick math, picturing her Post-it tree. The Duke of Exeter was the Queen’s nephew.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.
“It’s, uh . . . ” Lauren was absolutely not well aware of this, but she quickly paused the mini-heart attack she was having and remembered to curtsy. “It’s a pleasure
to meet you, Your Highness.”
“Lauren Morgan is our new acting director of communications,” James said. “She comes straight from the White House, so we
have very high expectations.”
That was news to Lauren. Both James and Eugene often seemed like they didn’t expect her to know how to tie her own shoes.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” the duke said. “For the very first time, of course.” He gave her a small smile that clearly said
he remembered everything about their first encounter, and Lauren felt a brief urge to either punch him or make out with him,
she wasn’t sure which.
“Likewise,” she replied. “I hope my role here at the Palace can serve your family and the institution, um, well, Your Highness.”
Eugene blanched as the duke just looked amused. “Please, call me Jasper,” he replied. “Eugene, we better get going, but—”
“Of course, of course.” Eugene started making his way up the staircase, but when his back was turned, the duke leaned down
to Lauren with a smile.
“Let me know if you’d like any more help with your family tree,” he whispered.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Lauren said. “But I think I can take it from here.”
“Of course,” he said, that handsome, slightly smug smile still on his face, then jogged up the stairs two at a time.
“James!” Lauren hissed as soon as he was out of sight. “What’s he doing here?”