Chapter 3 #4
A few minutes later, Oscar replied. “Wonderful, thrilled to hear of it. The Goring Hotel Monday at 1:00 p.m.? You can text
me at this number if it’s easier.”
Lauren quickly typed the number he provided into her phone then texted: “1pm is great. See you then.”
At 1:01 p.m. on Monday, Lauren felt like she had made a mistake.
Yes, she was meeting with a member of the British press for the first time in her new role. Yes, she had read as many of Oscar’s
articles as she could to prepare for it.
And sadly, yes, this was the first time she had been out with a man since she had broken up with Brian.
She knew that her posh restaurant meeting with Oscar wasn’t an actual date, but still, she felt out of sorts, like she was
trying to sing along to a song that she hadn’t heard in years. Brian hadn’t liked fancy restaurants, had always preferred
dive bars, roadside diners, the McDonald’s value menu. At first Lauren had loved that about him, the Ivy League guy who was
rising through the ranks at the White House and yet still preferred places with pleather booths and sticky tables. But over
time it began to annoy her, the way he used his privilege to coast through places where others could often get stuck. He had
never had to eat off a dollar menu because his dad left and that was all his mom could afford before she got her next paycheck.
Lauren had. She never forgot.
And Brian could never remember.
“So,” Oscar said as he shuffled his chair closer to the table.
Lauren snapped herself out of her thoughts and sat up a bit straighter.
The Dining Room at the Goring Hotel felt classy and intimate, with tall draped windows, high-backed dining chairs with wooden arms, and heavily starched linen tablecloths.
For someone who had eaten many dull Pret A Manger lunches since arriving in London, Lauren felt her stomach growl as she glanced at the refined menu.
“Thanks so much for meeting with me,” Oscar said.
Goddamnit, Joy was right, he was cute. Lauren gave herself three seconds to inwardly swoon over his floppy dark hair, sharp nose, and eyelashes that almost
looked like they had been AI generated. Why did men always get the good lashes? It seemed very unfair.
His shirt and suit were neatly cut and fitted to him in a way that made Lauren think he probably had a tailor and definitely
worked out. Did he have family money? she wondered. Many of the reporters she had seen at the briefing were a bit rumpled
and wrinkled, more concerned with landing the story than how they looked, but Oscar seemed different.
“I sort of felt like I was shouting at you during the press conference, so it’s nice to be able to talk properly here.”
“Well, you had to shout to be heard over Adam from the Dispatch,” Lauren said, spreading her napkin in her lap and very grateful that she had chosen to rewear her wide-legged pants that
day. Joy had given her a thumbs-up when she had arrived at the office, which Lauren took as a huge seal of approval, given
Joy’s exemplary fashion sense.
“Adam,” Oscar chuckled. “He’s what you’d expect from that place, but I wouldn’t worry much about his type.”
“I’m not worried,” Lauren replied. “I can handle difficult characters.”
“Good to know,” Oscar said, then placed his own napkin in his lap before steepling his hands together and looking at Lauren
over the table. “So how’s the job going so far, Bearnas?”
She dropped her butter knife, creating a clatter that she barely heard over the ringing in her ears. “Excuse me?”
The soft smile on his face now seemed sharper. “That is your name, right? Bearnas Lauren Morgan? Or did I get it wrong?”
She had been so, so stupid.
“Okay,” she said. “What do you want?”
Oscar blinked. “What do I want?”
“You asked me here under the pretense of talking about future engagements, of getting to know the comms team, and this is
how you start the conversation? Acting like James Bond because you found out my full name? I’m sure the Pulitzer already has
your name on it.”
Oscar only looked more amused, which was infuriating. “So I take it you don’t like to go by Bearnas, then?”
Lauren pulled her napkin to the side, ready to stand up, but Oscar reached across the table before she could leave. “Okay,
okay. I’m sorry, I got too clever for my own good. Lauren.”
“You know, Oscar,” she said as she placed her napkin back in her lap, “Adam might be a loudmouth jerk, but at least he wears it openly.”
Oscar held up his hands as if pleading for mercy. “Point taken. I just thought it was interesting that you don’t go by your
full name.”
“I mean, would you?” Lauren shot back. “My father followed a tradition. The firstborn girl was named after the father’s mother,
and it was both my and my grandma’s bad luck that we got saddled with that name.” She reached for a roll, stabbing her knife
into a pat of perfectly salted butter. Anger always made her hungry. “Anyway, why do you care?”
“Honestly? It sort of makes me wonder what else you might not be talking about.”
Lauren rolled her eyes and bit into the bread. This lunch was already going downhill, but she was definitely going to eat
her weight in warm sourdough to make up for it.
“So how did you get a working visa in a matter of days? Did the Palace get you fast-tracked?” Oscar asked, not reaching for a roll until Lauren had set her butter knife down.
“Surely your ‘sources’ already know that,” she said. “I have dual citizenship. My dad’s Scottish.”
“Interesting,” Oscar replied.
“Not really,” Lauren said. “What’s your plan here? Are you writing a story about me?”
“Well, now that you mention it,” Oscar said, “that doesn’t sound terrible.” He smirked a little. “Thanks for the good idea.”
“No comment,” Lauren shot back. “On anything to do with me.”
“I’m only joking. My editor says you’re not that interesting, but I don’t agree. Anyway, I just thought that it’d be good
for you and me to go to lunch, get to know each other better as reporter and Palace comms director. Mutually beneficial, as
they say.”
Lauren adjusted her napkin in her lap and tried not to think about anything that could be seen as mutually beneficial. “So this lunch is purely transactional, no story involved.”
“No story. As long as you don’t do anything newsworthy, that is.” He smiled at her again across the table.
“And just to clarify further,” Lauren continued, “your paper is paying for this lunch, yes?”
“Yes,” Oscar replied before adding on, “within reason,” but Lauren was already flagging down their waiter.
“Do you eat oysters?” she asked Oscar, then continued before he could answer. “Do you have one of those seafood tower things?”
she asked the waiter. “Great, we’d love one. And a glass of champagne as well.” She adjusted her napkin in her lap as the
waiter disappeared to place her order. “Just so you know, I’m also getting steak.”
Oscar’s look was half fear and half admiration. “And if I told you I’m allergic to shellfish?”
“Then you’d have a great last meal.” Lauren smiled at him. “So. What do you want to know?”
After nearly two hours, a lot of questions about her time at the White House (six years, she was ready for a fresh start and
a new adventure), where she went to college (Sarah Lawrence 4 lyfe, baby!), what she hoped to accomplish during her tenure
at the Palace, if she planned on bringing democracy to the monarchy (Lauren was somewhat sure that Oscar was kidding with
that last question), two more glasses of champagne, and an absolutely incredible amount of protein consumed, Lauren made her
way back to the Palace on foot. Oscar had offered to share his taxi, but she waved him off. She needed the fresh air and the
exercise, she had said.
But also, she didn’t want to find herself in the back seat of a car with him. Two hours of looking at his face, his broad
shoulders, the Windsor knot of his tie had made her not trust herself.
Fresh air. Exercise. Maybe a coffee. Yes. That was what she needed.
Her work phone vibrated as she walked, and Lauren dug it out of her purse, glancing at the text. “Hi. Adam from Dispatch,”
it read. “Is it true that the Queen has been taken ill and is canceling next week’s engagements?”
Lauren scoffed and started typing. Eugene had sent a memo that morning that the Queen’s private physician had visited due to seasonal allergies, and while it had seemed like an overshare in the moment, she was grateful for it now.
“Off the record, it’s allergies, Adam,” she texted back.
“It’s not like she has pneumonia. HMQ’s work continues as usual. ”
Sixteen minutes later, her phone started to buzz again, this time with a breaking news alert. Followed by another. And then
another.
The Palace Refutes Claims that the Queen Has Pneumonia!
Doctor Visits Queen amid PNEUMONIA Fears
Does the Queen Have Pneumonia? What You Need to Know
Lauren felt a chill go through her body.
By the time she got back to her desk, James was already waiting for her.
“I think I messed up,” Lauren said, tossing her purse onto her desk. “Okay? I know I screwed up.”
“Oh, you’re saying this to me?” James said with exaggerated naivete. “You should save those excuses because Eugene is—”
Eugene suddenly burst into the room, and Lauren knew it was bad because his waistcoat was only half buttoned. “Did you talk
about Her Majesty and pneumonia in the same sentence?!”
“It was sarcasm! And it was supposed to be off the record!” Lauren cried. “It was stupid, I was just responding off the cuff
to a reporter who messaged me—”
“There is no such thing as sarcasm in this job!” Eugene cried. “You put it in writing to some arsehat at the Daily Dispatch, who now gets to have his ‘exclusive’ and that’s all that matters! Half this country is about to think that the Queen could
be on her deathbed right now, thanks to you.”
“But she’s not!” Lauren paused. “Wait, is she?”
Eugene balled his hands into fists and bit his knuckle.
All their phones went off again, and Lauren opened her laptop as James became even more pale, which Lauren had not thought
was possible until that moment. “Oh dear.”
Eugene looked at his phone, then at James. “Well, it’s been a good run, old chap.”
Lauren clicked on the message. “Who is the Lord Chamberlain?” she asked.
“Only the most senior official in the royal household,” James said tightly. “He oversees every royal ceremony, all protocol,
and, unfortunately for you, the entire operation of BP’s staff and administration.”
Lauren glanced at the message again.
SEE ME IMMEDIATELY.
Fuck.