Chapter 7 #2
Back when my biggest problem was my failure to get a second date. Now, my biggest problem is protecting my family’s thousand-year legacy and the institution of the British monarchy.
Shit. I really hope I prove better at this task than I am at securing second dates.
“How are you?” Scott repeats the question he’s asked constantly in messages over the past few days.
“I’m okay.”
“Holy shit, Callum. I can’t believe this is happening to you,” Cliff says.
“Yeah, me neither,” I say.
Cliff shakes his head. “I mean, you told me at that party how your dad was a prince, and you were in line to the throne, but I thought it was just a strange Callum fantasy.” Cliff’s drawling voice normally has a mocking edge, but today it’s just straight-up astonished.
I shift uncomfortably. I’d told Cliff I was in the succession line to the throne at a New Year’s Eve party when I’d had a few too many Sunset Strip cocktails.
Scott had been off with his girlfriend, Natasha, and I’d seen Cliff’s gaze surveying the party like he was evaluating who would be better entertainment than me.
I’d met Scott and Cliff during my freshman year of college, but Cliff has always been more Scott’s friend than mine.
I don’t know what it is about him, but I’ve always had this deep urge to impress him.
It became even more desperate that night when I thought he was about to ditch me at a party where I didn’t know anyone else.
Cliff is extremely good-looking, with auburn hair and large gray eyes, but unlike me, he has the smoothness and charm to match his good looks.
So, I’d blurted out. “Did I ever tell you I’m eleventh in line to the British throne?”
And that had kept his attention on me for the next hour as I talked through my memories of visiting my father in Britain.
“You didn’t actually believe me?” I say now. “But you asked all those questions about my family.”
“I just thought it was amusing to see how far you’d take your delusion.”
Scott snorts. “I’d say he’s taking it quite far now. So, how is everything going over there, anyway?”
“It’s going okay, I guess.” I take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “It’s still just completely surreal. I wake up every morning, and there’s this moment when I’m like, ‘How on earth did this happen?’”
“It happened because your relatives decided to sell their influence to the highest bidder,” Cliff helpfully supplies.
“Trust me. I know that,” I say.
“I guess the bonus is you’ll get to know your dad’s family better, right?” Scott asks softly. Scott was the main person I turned to for support when my mother died when I was a junior in college.
“Yes, that’s definitely a bonus,” I say, my chest growing tight. I’ve been feeling my mom’s loss more acutely over the last week. There have been many times in the last few years when I’ve wished she was still alive, but never more than now when I could really use her guidance.
“Have you seen your brother or sister yet?” Scott asks.
I scrub my hand through my hair. “Yeah, I saw them yesterday.”
“And they’re supportive of you?” Scott says.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s a shock to the system for them too. But at least they’re English. For me, it’s like I’ve been transported to this alien land where everyone knows the culture and I’m desperately trying to learn it,” I continue.
“I guess the British are pretty alien when you think about it,” Cliff says.
“I’ve got my first charity gig today. And the whole world will be watching.” Nausea rises in my stomach as I say the words, and my few sips of coffee threaten to reappear.
“Just relax and be yourself,” Scott says.
“But maybe not too much,” Cliff adds.
My first public engagement as Prince of Wales has been a matter of fierce debate among palace staff. I doubt even the UN argues about the solution for climate change with the same intensity.
Unfortunately, the sudden withdrawal of all the senior members of the royal family has left a lot of charities without their patrons. My grandmother is trying her best to plug the gaps, but the laws of physics make it impossible for one person to be in two places at once.
Which is why they need me to step up as soon as possible.
The palace staff decided eventually that the best option was a low-key event, which is why I’m currently heading to the Sooty Bottom Wildlife Reserve in Kent.
“You don’t have to give a speech, they’re just going to give you a tour of the center, and then you’ll have afternoon tea,” Raymond briefs me as we drive through the Kent countryside.
I can’t help staring out the window in fascination. The rolling countryside of England is so different from California. Everything is so green and fresh. It’s like the grass here is on steroids.
One day, I will be the king of this country. I will join an unbroken chain of my ancestors as rulers of this ancient land.
Yeah, I still haven’t quite wrapped my head around that.
Raymond’s voice wrenches me back to the present.
“It’s select media only inside, so no one will ask you awkward questions. You just need to show up, smile, and demonstrate to the British public that the royal family is still serving the country.”
I nod. “I think I can handle that.”
Easy words to say, but as we drive into the parking lot for the wildlife reserve, my stomach is a pit of queasiness.
“Shit,” Raymond says.
I follow his gaze, and my nausea increases. I wholeheartedly agree with his assessment.
It might be select media only inside the reserve, but it appears every outlet without an invite, from the BBC to Bob’s Backyard Blog, has decided to converge in the parking lot.
Raymond’s on his wrist mic, talking to my security team in the car behind ours, and when our car lurches to a halt, several men in crisp suits jump out and barge their way through the media scrum to reach our Range Rover.
It feels like a bad tactical move because it tips the media off as to which car I’m in, and suddenly everyone rushes toward our car, yelling questions.
“Prince Callum, how are you feeling?
“Your Royal Highness, do you really think an American can be king of England?”
“Is there anything you want to say to people calling for the abolishment of the monarchy?”
This is madness. Utter madness. How can this be my life now?
Raymond turns to look at me.
“You ready?” he asks.
The honest answer to that is a definite no. I feel about as ready as a first-time bungee jumper with vertigo.
But I think of my grandmother and the promise I made to her, and I offer a stiff nod.
I don’t know by what magic Raymond communicates my agreement to the security team, but suddenly one of them opens the door, and I’m propelled into the media maelstrom.
The flashes of cameras are blinding and the noise of reporters yelling questions deafens me, but I plaster a polite smile as my security team clears a path for me.
Two members of my security team are pressed against me. Normally I’d expect to know the name of the people I’m so close to, but this doesn’t seem like the right time for extended introductions.
Once we’ve made it safely through the door, my security team peels away from me, leaving me blinking and bewildered.
“Your Royal Highness.” A bespectacled woman with long silver hair comes forward, giving an awkward curtsey. “I’m Jessica Boris, president of the Sooty Bottom Wildlife Reserve. It’s an honor to have you here with us today.”
“The honor is all mine,” I reply as I extend my hand and she shakes it.
There’s the clicking of cameras, and I glance up to see about a dozen photographers snapping away frantically on the far side of the room.
At least these invited media have better manners than the ones outside and keep a respectful distance as Jessica introduces me to her other team members.
I shake everyone’s hands. Thankfully British good manners mean no one comments on my sweaty palms.
“Would you like to go on a tour of our reserve?” Jessica asks once she’s finished the introductions.
“I would love that,” I reply.
I let out a deep breath as I follow Jessica out the door with a handful of photographers following at a respectful distance. I can handle this. I can follow Jessica around the reserve and ask some questions. It’s totally within my skill set.
My legs still feel wobbly as we head out on the stone path.
“So, how long have you been open?” I ask.
Jessica tells me the history of the wildlife reserve and how it started with taking in injured birds. I find myself so engaged with her story that I forget to be nervous, and our conversation flows naturally.
She points out red deer grazing happily in a field and a pond with otters diving in and out.
We reach the next enclosure, consisting of muddy grass, a cluster of tall reeds, and a small pond.
“There’s a pair of swans in here. Larenn has been with us since she was a signet.
Unfortunately, her damaged wing means we’ve never been able to reintroduce her into the wild.
We put Joshua, a swan that was found injured by the side of the road, in here a month ago.
Larenn can be quite picky about her companions, but it seems to be going well so far. ”
We both peer into the enclosure, but there is not a swan to be seen.
“Oh, there’s Larenn,” Jessica says finally, pointing to the edge of the pond where a white swan sits among the reeds.
Jessica makes some clucking sounds with her tongue, and Larenn stands and lumbers in our direction like a drunk. Swans are infinitely more graceful on water than they are on land.
“Did you know that Greek philosophers believed the singing ability of a swan increases when they are close to death? That’s where the phrase ‘swan-song’ comes from,” I say.
“No, I didn’t realize that.” Jessica seems genuinely interested in my random fact, which is a better reaction than I get from most people.
Larenn waddles over to the fence.
“Larenn’s really friendly. You can feed her by hand if you want,” Jessica says.
I flick a glance at Raymond.
“You feeding the wildlife would make a great photo opportunity,” he says.