Chapter 7 #2
The first couple weeks of December had her feeling especially lonely as the holiday decorations continued to go up around London, and her walks home from the tube at night became festooned with lights that reflected off the rain-soaked streets.
Even the Palace was fully dressed up—including three fifteen-foot trees in the grand Marble Hall, covered in twinkling lights, mini embroidered crowns, and velvet state carriage ornaments.
The decorations didn’t quite reach the comms office, of course, but Harriet had put a tiny tinsel tree in the shared kitchen, which honestly felt sadder than if no one had done anything at all.
Lauren, having learned her lesson from the ill-fated Thanksgiving decor fiasco, didn’t buy anything for her apartment. She
ran into Una either on her way out or coming home from several Christmas parties, including one Saturday night when she was
dressed as a scantily clad Mrs. Claus. “Gotta go and sit on Santa’s lap!” Una laughed as she gave herself one last spritz
of Baccarat Rouge 540, then sprayed one in Lauren’s direction for good measure. “You staying in tonight? Again? Want to come?”
“I actually have plans for once,” Lauren said. “I’m meeting my friend at the South Bank Christmas market and then we’re going
to dinner.”
“Christmas market,” Una repeated, checking her teeth for any lipstick marks. “My mum loves those.” She smiled in the mirror and shook her butt. “Okay, wish me luck!”
“Good luck!” Lauren said. “Wait, for what?”
But Una had already scooted away.
Lauren was not far behind her, her coat and hat and scarf firmly in place.
Winter in London was a mixture of freezing cold outside yet boiling hot on the tube.
Lauren pulled her knitted hat a little lower on her forehead as she stepped out, the chill cutting through her coat and heavy layers as she walked a few minutes.
She was just turning the corner toward the market when her phone started buzzing insistently, Joy’s smiling photo flashing
up on the screen.
“Oh no,” Lauren said when she answered.
“Oh yes, unfortunately,” Joy said with a sigh. “I have to cancel on you. I’m so sorry. Theo was supposed to go to a sleepover
at his friend’s house tonight but instead he has a double ear infection. He does nothing halfway, this kid.” Joy almost sounded
a little proud about that. “We just got back from the doctor’s, and he’s got a fever, which means I’m staying home.”
“Theo!” Lauren groaned. “I’m sorry. That can’t be fun.”
“It’s nothing but paracetamol and Roblox for us tonight,” Joy said. “I’m so sorry!”
Lauren looked down the street at the crowds of people already walking through the market, nearly everyone coupled up or walking
in small groups. “I just got here.”
“See, it was meant to be. Go have some mulled wine for me.”
“Okay,” Lauren said. “Go do . . . whatever Roblox does for me, too.”
“Will do!” Joy said, and then, “Oh, Theo, darling, let’s not—” before disconnecting abruptly.
Lauren took a deep breath and put her hands in her pockets. Everything in her body wanted her to turn around right then and
go home, put on cozy sweats, order in food, and watch Netflix, just like she had been doing most nights since she had landed
in London.
But apparently her feet had different ideas and carried her toward the market instead.
Lauren felt so conspicuous at first, the only single in a crowd of couples and families.
But then she saw a scarf that she knew her mom would love and started chatting with a stall owner who designed delicate gold jewelry and had lived in California for a year as an exchange student.
Lauren bought Joy a pair of earrings and went on to get the mulled wine she had promised herself, and by the time she had the warm paper cup and her first ever mince pie in hand, she realized that while she was alone, she didn’t feel lonely anymore.
Maybe London, with its drizzle-softened edges and comforting weight of history in every little street, was starting to feel a little bit like home, and the thought warmed Lauren up more than the mulled wine ever could.
The morning of Christmas Eve finally arrived, cold and crisp with a sky the color of the icy blue topaz that was firmly embedded
in the Queen’s crown. Lauren had Rent the Runway’d her outfits for the two-night trip to Balmoral. She had never been to an
actual castle before, which had basically been her dream as a five-year-old obsessed with Sleeping Beauty, and she had wondered
if her younger self would be proud of her for achieving that goal. This job definitely had its perks.
And then she was told about the helicopter.
Though Lauren had been on a helicopter a few times in the past thanks to her six years at the White House, the tiny helicopter
in front of her in a windy field in Glasgow looked . . . well . . . not like the huge twin-engine VH-60s they used in DC.
But with snowfall in Aberdeenshire and the surrounding areas of Scotland hitting record levels overnight, much of the nation’s train networks, and even local runways, were no longer options.
The Queen and her family members, who would usually travel up by royal train or plane, turned to a fleet of choppers instead to do the job.
For Lauren, Harriet, and James, who had made it as far as Glasgow by commercial flight from London, the rest of the journey, they were instructed, would continue from a small field nearby.
“Is this how I’m going to die?” she yelled at Harriet as they clambered into the tiny cockpit, her colleague’s “Grim Reaper”
nickname suddenly coming to mind. The family members used a much larger helicopter, but this little one was clearly reserved
for less important members of the travel party.
“It’s perfectly safe!” Harriet yelled, grinning at her as they buckled up their seats and put on their headsets.
Opposite them in his seat, a very quiet James closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross.
Despite the adverse weather, the forty-minute flight was like one big postcard, with sweeping views across the vast stretches
of rolling Highland hills and glens, all blanketed in pristine white snow. It was a total pinch-me moment, Lauren thought
to herself, until the fairy-tale-like silhouette of Balmoral Castle—complete with its gray granite turrets, steeply pitched
roofs, and battlements—came into view and she saw what was waiting for them on the estate. She immediately wished they could
turn around and go back to London.
Outside the gates, and standing alongside the press, were about thirty protesters, waving banners and placards. As their small
helicopter came in closer to a landing space, the group quickly whipped themselves into a frenzy, shaking their fists and
waving their banners.
“Not surprised to see that lot,” James said through the headset, pointing down at them. “They’re here every Christmas, yelling at the Queen and the royals about using the royal train, or choppers and ‘gas-guzzling’ Range Rovers,” he explained, making quote signs with his fingers.
Lauren tried to imagine the royal family traveling any other way: lining up at the airport gate to board a budget commercial
flight, waiting for the car rental shuttle at the airport, or even hailing a cab. “Are they dangerous?”
“Oh no,” James said as they began exiting the helicopter. “They just like to yell and make signs.” And indeed, as they got
closer, Lauren could see someone holding a sign lettered in red that seemed to drip blood. “cut carbon, not ribbons!” it read, along with a drawing of a very sad-looking planet wearing a Band-Aid. “planet before privilege!” read another.
“I guess you’re right,” Lauren said. “Not dangerous.”
“Probably best to speak with the press at the front,” James added. “A run-of-the-mill protest doesn’t need to become a story,
especially if they’re briefed why there was a last-minute change of transport.”
Holding her hair back with one hand so it would stop whapping her in the face, she strode across the long, frosty lawn toward
the gates. She could see Oscar in the distance, who seemed to be giving commentary for a TV camera. And one by one she clocked
all the other royal reporters, counting them to make sure they had all arrived, and then she turned and saw a man holding
a giant sign whose face was both new and oddly familiar. Lauren swept some loose bangs off her forehead and squinted a little.
Oh my God.
Lauren immediately felt her heart and stomach and every other internal organ drop out of her body. The Christmas photo, the
man in the Santa hat, holding an infant Lauren up to the camera and smiling. He was older and shorter than she remembered
him, but she did remember him.
Even after twenty years, she would still know her dad’s face anywhere.
And apparently, he would still know hers.
She could see his brows knit together, peering toward her with a look somewhere between disbelief and confusion, and Lauren
immediately let go of her hair so it could hide her face again, turning back toward her job and away from him.
“Lauren!” she heard him yell, and goddamnit, everyone looked around. “Lauren!”
Oscar walked over.
“They know you?” he asked with an amused smile. “Are you a comrade in arms? Did you used to throw paint on people who wore
fur?”
“They probably just know me from press coverage,” she said, practically shoving Oscar toward the gates and away from the protesters,
who, even though they were small in numbers, seemed especially vitriolic now that they were all eye to eye. Even the sad little
earth picture seemed menacing all of a sudden.
“Lauren!” the voice yelled again, but she pretended not to hear it, moving away from her dad’s voice, just like he had moved
away from hers all those years ago.