Chapter 17
Seventeen
The first morning of the state visit, the power went out on Lauren’s floor of her building.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she screamed, looking at her wet hair and the lifeless hair dryer in her hand. “Today?! Really?”
Una popped her head into the bathroom a minute later. “The power’s gone,” she said.
“You think!? I have—the banquet and— Gah!” Lauren gestured toward her hair. “I have to look presentable at the very least.”
“Well, I know just the person who can help—” Una started to say, but Lauren held up her hand.
“First, does this person work in a job where they’re required to wear pantyhose every single day at work?”
Una paused. “I don’t even think they wear pants that often, really.”
“Then thank you very much, but I can figure this out.”
Una looked at her with some doubt. “Are you sure about that?”
“Not really, but that’s what I have to tell myself, otherwise I’m going to start screaming.”
“Fair play,” Una said. “I’ll manifest good things for you. And your hair.”
Lauren went back to her room, her hair dripping all over her robe, and thought fast. She had prepared for every single emergency
related to the state banquet: extra cars for staff on backup in case one of them had engine troubles, a bag filled with everything
from Tylenol to Imodium A-D, and she had even arranged for a coffee cart to be in the media room instead of just the usual
pots of tea—because a room full of under-caffeinated journalists for six hours was a far greater crisis than a fire alarm
going off.
But the power going out at home was not something that had been on her bingo card.
Not wanting to waste any time, she grabbed her phone.
“Hey, boomer.” Violet’s dry tone came through loud and clear.
“Violet, once again, you and I were born in the same decade.” Focus, Lauren, she thought to herself.
“Well, you’re the one who’s calling me. Even my grandmother texts.”
“It’s an emergency, texting would take too long,” Lauren replied. “The power’s out at my building, can I come to yours and
get ready?”
“Sure,” Violet said, and Lauren could practically hear her shrugging. “We have power.”
“Sounds like heaven,” Lauren said. “Give me the address, please!”
She knew Violet also lived in Hampstead, but Lauren didn’t quite expect her to be in this part of Hampstead, right by the heath, in one of the most beautiful houses on the street. The window boxes were filled with
lush hydrangeas, the front door was a glossy obsidian black, and even the brass door knocker and house numbers were completely
untarnished.
“Does she squat here?” Lauren wondered out loud, and before she could even knock, Violet opened the front door.
She had AirPods in but pulled one out and said, “Sorry, editing,” before holding the door open for Lauren, who was now fairly certain that she was on a prank show because there was absolutely no way that this was where Violet lived.
“How long have you lived—?” she started to ask.
“My whole life,” Violet said, then rolled her eyes. “It’s my parents’ house. So annoying.”
“Yeaaaaah,” Lauren said, pretty sure that she was looking at an original Basquiat on the wall in front of her. “So annoying.
Really.”
The guest bathroom she followed Violet to was as lush as a five-star spa, with stacks of fluffy white towels and even a mini-fridge
filled with bottled still and sparkling waters. “I can’t believe you live like this!” Lauren said, raising her voice over
the sound of her hair dryer.
“What?” Violet yelled back.
“Nothing!”
After she’d dried and styled her hair, she pulled on a navy midi dress from Reformation and a cropped blazer. Lauren looked
at herself in Violet’s full-length mirror. Not terrible, she thought to herself, then did a little pose for an imaginary photo
before dropping her arms down to her sides and sighing at her reflection. She had imagined this night as sort of a victory
dance, proving once and for all that she belonged in London, at the Palace, that she could triumph over adversity and show
everyone that Lauren Morgan was back! But the truth was, it was weird and sad and lonely standing all alone in one of Violet’s
many marble-covered guest bathrooms, and she didn’t feel triumphant at all.
She just wanted the state visit to be over. And everything to go back to normal. Or whatever version of normal she’d gotten used to before her life imploded thanks to her dad.
“Do you want to share an Uber?” Lauren asked Violet when she went downstairs. “We all have to be at BP five hours before the
banquet starts, remember.”
“Well, I was just going to use my parents’ driver,” Violet replied, as blasé as ever. She herself was wearing a black cotton
dress and looked a little like she was dressed up for her family’s Christmas card photo. Lauren knew that she hated it.
“Your parents’ driver,” Lauren repeated slowly.
“Yeah, he takes me to work every morning. George is pretty chill.”
Lauren bowed her head for a minute before regrouping. “That would be lovely,” she said, and wondered if Violet’s parents would
be open to adopting a twenty-eight-year-old woman from America.
Lauren had attended state banquets at the White House before, back when she had a lot less responsibility and therefore a
lot more fun, but seeing one at Buckingham Palace really took the event to an entirely new level.
Set in Buckingham Palace’s ballroom, its walls adorned with grand portraits of historical figures and ornate tapestries, the dinner was a level of regal she didn’t know existed.
At the center of the room was a network of connected dining tables for 160 guests, all covered with pristine white linens and glittering silverware and crystalware.
Lauren had sent Violet in the day before to capture some of the meticulous planning and polishing that went into each of the place settings—including video clips of household staff putting out huge floral arrangements and using rulers to ensure that every piece of polished silver cutlery was precisely aligned and spaced.
It took a military-style operation to achieve this level of perfection.
Before the president, the First Gentleman, the Queen, and members of the royal family processed into the room, the rest of
the presidential team arrived at the dinner alongside the other guests. Lauren felt like a rabbit in the crosshairs, tense
and ready for anything. She stood and smiled in the distance as people greeted one another, the entire American team looking,
well, like they had been styled and polished within an inch of their lives: trousers pressed, shirts starched, and dresses
worth more than a month of her Palace salary.
Violet wrinkled her nose when members of the White House comms team arrived in the pressroom nearby. “Are they all wearing
the same perfume?” she whispered to Lauren. “What’s that smell?”
Lauren sighed. “Drybar,” she said wistfully.
Since no photographers were allowed inside the actual dinner, the impromptu pressroom, which was really just one of the smaller
rooms near the ballroom, quickly filled with at least forty accredited reporters, international correspondents, and other
Palace and White House aides who didn’t have seats in the dinner. Lauren couldn’t help but feel nostalgic seeing her fellow
Americans get so excited about being in a palace. She had felt that same way once before, so intrigued by all the mystique
shrouded behind ornate gates, leafy gardens, and stone walls.
And now they were about to learn what she had also discovered: Stone walls and old wiring equaled terrible internet service.
“Why are these upload speeds so bad?” someone asked.
“It keeps bumping me off the Wi-Fi.”
“It’s just a little slow,” Lauren said to a new White House correspondent she hadn’t met before. “And there’s a lot of people
using it.”
“By the time I get this footage out, it’ll be time for the next state banquet,” he muttered in response.
“Oh, c’mon, man,” a voice said, and Lauren looked over to see Oscar typing furiously on his laptop. “Just do what the rest
of us do: Upload from the Starbucks down the road.”
“Great,” the reporter said, turning back to his laptop with a groan, and Oscar caught Lauren’s eye and smiled.
“Is that true?” she mouthed.
“No,” he mouthed back, making a face as if to say, Who would actually believe that?
Lauren sent him a quick text: “Please do not antagonize the Americans.”
“But it’s so fun,” he replied.
She sent back three angry-face emojis.
“Are we going to get a live stream of the dinner?” a member of the American team asked Lauren. She didn’t recognize her, but
to be honest, none of them looked familiar. Turnover was high, with most people getting promoted or going to different teams
and administrations. DC was nothing if not a highly ambitious town, and just watching them work behind the scenes made something
inside Lauren start to twitch. She had that ambition once, that desire to always be doing more, going further, working harder
and smarter. The money had been good and the perks were fun, but at the end of the day, Lauren had loved how the job had made
her feel.
It had made her feel like herself.
And standing in the pressroom, Lauren realized that it had been a very long time since she had felt that way.
“Sorry, what?” Lauren said.
“A live stream? Of the event? Should I talk to someone else about it?”
“No, you should talk to me. I’m Lauren Morgan, I’m the head of communications. Unfortunately we’re having some issues with the screen here, but a lot of people here are watching the arrivals feed through the Sky News app until our own is working for the dinner itself.”
“I have to download an app?”
Lauren pointed at a laminated QR code that had just been taped to the table. “This will take you there,” she said. “We have
a member of the IT team coming as soon as possible.”
A minute later, Harriet pulled her aside. “Do we actually have someone coming?” she asked. “No one’s answering my emails.”
“Supposedly,” Lauren whispered nervously.