15. “Something Just Like This” - The Chainsmokers Coldplay
“Something Just Like This” - The Chainsmokers + Coldplay
Most citizens accept governmental decisions with acquiescence.
My mother is not most citizens. She vehemently objected to Parliament’s announcement that the wedding will take place in four weeks, on the grounds that a month isn’t enough time to look at gowns, let alone have one designed.
Parliament does not have the same fear of my mother as I do, and so the date remains.
After the engagement announcement was made to the public, the outbursts, fires, and riots stopped. I think everyone was too stunned to remember what they’d been so mad about. Frankly, I’m surprised there hasn’t been an uproar protesting the marriage of the country’s most eligible bachelor.
The riots may have stopped, but the tension is still as thick as pudding.
Everyone is holding their breath, waiting to see what’s going to happen.
Waiting to see if Henry and I will actually tie the knot and be crowned.
They say you can feel it when you walk in and out of the small shops downtown, when you stop to fill your car with petrol, when eating lunch in a cafe.
Not that I do any of those things. Going out in public these days requires an entire security team, and I find myself missing the marvelous times Davies, Lane, and I spent together, just the three of us.
The whole entourage attracts more attention from the media and pedestrians than I want to receive in my entire lifetime, let alone an hour of shopping.
I’ll have to get used to it eventually, but for now I’m putting it in the box marked “problems for future Celia.”
The press is eating the whole thing up, and you’d think they could cut me some slack, considering I’ve just given them job security for the rest of their careers.
They’re desperate for any morsel of information Henry and I deign to throw them, and when we refuse, they make it up.
My favorite headline so far? Princess Celia Spotted Buying Pregnancy Test.
I’m praying Beck still avoids tabloids.
Finding a wedding dress is the least of my concerns.
If it were up to me, I’d wear something off-the-rack from David’s Bridal, although that would likely send my mother to an early grave, which seems unfair.
She’s been spending every minute of her days—and doubtlessly her nights, too—poring over the details of the event, unable to trust the crew of wedding planners hired by the Crown to do their job.
“I have been preparing for this since the moment you were born,” she told me at one point.
Unfortunately, it’s the truth. She and Henry’s mother, Olivia, were flatmates when they were at university.
While they weren’t all that close during the first semester, when the crown prince began paying more and more attention to Olivia, you can be sure the wheels started turning in my mother’s head.
Never one to let an opportunity slip through her fingers, she did everything in her power to ensure a lifelong friendship with the woman she hoped would one day become queen.
It worked. Her plans always do. She remained friends with Olivia even after William was crowned upon the death of his father, only two years into their marriage. Henry once told me it’s difficult, if not impossible, to form new friendships as a royal. It’s such an isolated and unrelatable role.
I am fond of Olivia. Disliking her would be like disliking a songbird.
She exudes a “Grace Kelly mixed with Michelle Obama” vibe, and she’s known around the world for her impeccable style.
She once confessed to me that the accolades really belong to her stylist, because she wears everything he chooses without question.
A month before the wedding, Olivia solves the dilemma of my wedding gown. “It was Helena’s,” she says as several maids remove the dress from its vacuum-sealed bag. “It will need altering, of course, but I know how much you love history and thought it might work.”
I want to squeeze her. It’s such a small, inconsequential thing. I couldn’t care less what I wear down the aisle, but this gesture almost undoes me.
The dress itself is incredibly gorgeous, in spite of its age.
While nothing like the Caroline Spencer gown I’d planned to marry Beck in, it shines in its own royal way.
It has long sleeves of lace, which continues over the bodice, a high collar, and a full skirt with a train that will require several page boys to carry it.
If I had doubts about being accepted into the royal family, Olivia eases them with her gentle welcome, ensuring I have at least one ally in the palace. It’s been over a decade since I spent any considerable time in her home, but she acts as though I was there just last week.
In truth, I’ve always envied Henry his mother, with her cheerful smile and offer of cookies whenever I visited.
I love my own mum dearly, but Rosalind’s demand for perfection extended even to my sleeping position—on your back to prevent wrinkles!
—and sometimes I just wanted to be a kid.
Through her friendship with Olivia, she secured a spot for her child as royal playmate long before I was even conceived.
When that child turned out to be a girl, she could practically hear the wedding bells ringing in St. John’s Cathedral.
I should feel grateful to my mother. I wouldn’t be equipped for the role I’m about to play had it not been for her careful preparation.
I spent the better part of my childhood learning French, Italian, German, Russian, and Mandarin and am still moderately fluent in all of them.
While other girls vegged out watching the latest Pretty Little Liars episode, I was learning how to exit a vehicle without showing too much skin.
Back then, hanging out with Henry was the Miralax to my bloated weeks, even if our time together was highlighted in red as part of the “ultimate mission” in the two-inch-thick spiral planner my mother kept for me.
Of course, her plans eventually fell through.
Not only did I not become engaged to Henry, but I stopped spending time with him altogether.
At fifteen, I had little control over my calendar and commitments, but even my mother couldn’t argue when they told her Prince Henry had more pressing obligations than our weekly afternoons together.
She floundered momentarily, but now she’s is back at the wheel, finally able to prepare for the wedding she’s envisioned in perfect detail since the day I was born.
One day, she walks in while I’m packing, frowning at the clipboard in her hand. “Which do you prefer for your bouquet, roses or lilies? Roses are classic, of course, but lilies signify elegance in a way a rose never could.”
For my ceremony with Beck, I was planning to carry white hydrangeas.
“Mum, I don’t care, honestly. Why not let the wedding planners handle it? We’ve still got so much sorting to do.” I gesture around the library. There are a million items to go through before the movers come to pack things up.
As if planning the wedding of the century isn’t enough, we’re also in the process of packing up three decades’ worth of belongings and memories before relocating to our personal apartments at the palace.
Much of the furniture and artwork belong to the estate, having been in the family for more than a century, and will pass to the next Duke of Whitmere.
Still, we have enough personal possessions to fill several moving vans.
“I think we’ll do both,” she says, stepping over an open box on the floor. Before I can say anything else, she pulls out her phone to place a call, probably to one of the wedding planners with the update on the flowers.
I sigh and reach for my father’s box of cigars on the mantel.
What would he make of all this? Of course, if he were still alive, things would be more complicated.
It’s not like he could have married Henry.
Maybe Parliament would have ordered a duel between my father and the king, swords drawn as though they were Manet and Duranty.
Bea walks into the room, eyes glued to her phone. She has made herself scarce since our argument, presumably still enraged that I put my country before her budding relationship, which was destined for failure before it ever started. I clear my throat to let her know the enemy is present.
She looks up in surprise, and disdain colors her features. “I hope you’re enjoying destroying our lives.” She brushes past me to grab the photo albums from the shelf. “Thanks to you, these photos are the only thing I’ll have to remind me of Dad.”
I let her go in silence. It won’t help to remind her that this estate is not only my childhood home too, but the one I planned to share with Beck and our future children. She may be in love with Henry, but I’m giving up the man I was going to build a life with.
What exactly does she think I’m gaining from this arrangement?
My new suite in the palace is like something out of a fairy tale.
The whole apartment consists of a private sitting room; a lavish bedroom with a gilded bed; an enormous bathroom featuring both a soaker tub and glass-walled shower; and a closet and dressing room that are nearly the size of my entire bedroom at Maison de Lierre.
Everything is tastefully decorated in cream and gold, but I feel like Catherine being removed to Thrushcross Grange and longing only for the simplicity and memories of Wuthering Heights.
When we were packing, I smuggled my dad’s cigars into the cartons of things destined for my suite.
The familiar box brings that nauseating twinge of sadness and impending doom you get when you’re five days into your holiday and you want nothing more than to bury your face in your own pillow in your own bed and suck in the familiar scent, but you’ve still got another week at the seashore.
So you do your best to enjoy it, even though you know the ache will come back with more and more frequency until you’re finally back home.
Except I’ll never be home again.
Wesbourne Palace could have come straight from the pages of a picture book: spiky turrets puncturing the cloud cover, windows upon windows grinning like teeth in the stone walls, and an overall stateliness that shouts “Important people reside here!” It’s Hogwarts on steroids, with less magic and higher expectations.
A dozen of those expectations are marching through my door right now.
Leading them is Maisie, who accepted my offer (aka plea) to officially become my private secretary before the words even left my mouth.
I thought it would be comforting to have someone familiar beside me, but looking at her now, I wonder what she’s done with the girl I worked with at the Society.
She’s in black pumps, her hair styled into a low chignon, and she’s ditched the grandma cardigan she always used to wear for a chic, tailored day dress.
Behind her follows an entourage of expressionless staff members, all carrying what upon closer inspection appear to be magical props to turn the ugly duckling into a beautiful swan.
Maisie begins the introductions. “This is Cynthia. She’s going to work her magic on your brows. Stefano will add extensions to your hair. Liz will do your nails, and Kerry is in charge of waxing.”
My nutritionist will measure me, chart my weight daily, and craft a diet plan to “shave off the rounded edges.” Royals can’t show softness, after all, in spirit or body.
I also have a personal trainer, a posture consultant, an etiquette specialist, a wardrobe stylist, a publicity manager, and a language tutor to help keep me fluent.
And finally, there’s my personal maid, Daphne, who will do things for me that I’m suddenly incapable of doing myself, like removing my clothes from their hangers and flipping down the coverlet before I crawl into bed.
Over the next two hours, I’m analyzed, dissected, and clucked at. Everyone wants a turn at me, and given our tight time frame, they have to share. Someone pinches the underside of my arm—gauging fat content, no doubt—my hair is tugged from its loose ponytail, and icy fingers lift my chin higher.
I snatch at their fleeting directives and stuff them away in my memory, hoping at least a few will do as they’re told and stay put.
Never hold champagne in my right hand so it’s always dry for greetings.
Always smile, even when I think no one is looking. Someone is always watching.
Never remove my coat in public. It’s unladylike.
Always hold my bag in my left hand to leave the right free for waving.
Never speak to the press, and if I absolutely have to, say as little as possible. Words are so easily manipulated.
Always use a clutch bag to cover my decolletage when exiting a vehicle. The king doesn’t want to see my cleavage in his breakfast newspaper. (Nor do I want him to, but that’s irrelevant.)
Never look down when walking, but keep my chin in line with the floor.
Always, always, always remember that appearances matter. Make it impossible for the press to find fault with me. They’ll do it anyway—they always do—but I should give them a run for their money.
Over the next few days, I’m buffed, straightened, fluffed, painted, plucked, and squeezed to within an inch of my existence.
I’ve practiced French, German, and Mandarin until my brain is swollen.
My daily workouts leave me weak, trembling, and craving cookie dough—which is strictly off limits.
The binders of information I’m supposed to memorize threaten to break the desk they’re perched on.
I’m not sure I’ll recognize myself a year from now.