Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Callum
Later that afternoon, I’m in my room, trying to relax before the banquet by scrolling through my phone. But it turns out social media isn’t a fun place to hang out when you’re the biggest trending hashtag.
Although I do learn that my grandmother owns most of the swans in the UK, so the fact one of those swans chose to attack me is considered amusing by many people.
I also learn that the monarch is the only person in Britain who can eat a swan. A fact that Larenn and Joshua obviously didn’t know, given one day I will be the monarch and might decide to exact my revenge.
I’m doing a deep dive into the history of why the monarch owns a good proportion of the swans, along with all dolphins, whales, and sturgeon—apparently, it’s a tradition dating back to the twelfth century to protect these species from poachers—when there’s a discreet knock on the door.
“Come in,” I say.
It’s Herbert, holding a suit bag. “I’ve got your tuxedo for the state dinner, Your Royal Highness. It’s a white-tie event.”
“Oh, thank you.”
I take the bag from him and place it on the bed before unzipping it.
“Would you like me to help you put it on, sir?”
I stare down at the components of the tuxedo, completely baffled. Until now, I’ve waved off Herbert’s offers to help me dress, but I’m definitely going to need him for this one.
I raise my gaze to him. “If you don’t mind, that would be great.”
“Of course, sir.”
Herbert stands there patiently, watching me, and I realize he’s waiting for me to start stripping.
“Um…do you want to…I mean…?” Somehow, I’m blushing more than a tomato on a tanning bed.
Herbert regards me with his unwavering expression. “Sir, I can turn my back if you wish. But I have dressed many men, and I assure you there’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“So, you’re telling me you won’t flinch even if I have lizard scales under my shirt instead of skin?” I ask.
Herbert’s face remains expressionless. “I assure you that after thirty years in this job, nothing can shock me.”
I wish I had just a smidgen of Herbert’s unflappability. I’m pretty sure right now in my life, I’m flapping so much that even Larenn and Joshua and their feathered friends would be impressed.
Luckily, I have Herbert here because the last time I dressed up in a tux was for my senior prom, and that had been a simple tux, not this tailored monstrosity, with a shirt so pristine white it would put fresh snow to shame and a black cummerbund that makes me feel like a sausage overly stuffed into its casing.
“Did you know that the cummerbund actually originated in India? British military officers saw the Indian soldiers wearing them and started wearing them as an alternative to waistcoats,” I say as Herbert gives my cummerbund a tug to ensure it’s fastened correctly.
“No, I didn’t know that, sir,” Herbert says. “That’s very interesting.”
My eyes dart to his face. I have no idea whether he’s being honest or not. I’ve had loads of people tell me the random facts I share are interesting, but most of the time, there is a sarcastic lilt to their voices.
Just as Herbert is fastening my cufflinks, my phone beeps with a message.
Once Herbert has finished, I pick it up.
It’s Scott.
Oh god. I’ve been waiting for this. I guarantee the fact I got up close and personal with the bottom of a pond while escaping marauding swans will not have escaped his notice.
I tentatively open his message, bracing myself for the inevitable bird-related puns.
Which is why my forehead scrunches when I see his message.
He’s dead to me.
I blink. What?
I type my reply quickly.
Who is dead to you? Is this some kind of random murder mystery game where we’re supposed to work out the identity of the victim instead of the murderer?
Scott’s reply is almost instantaneous.
You haven’t seen the interview?
What interview??
He sends me a link to a TV clip.
My fingers numb, I click play.
It’s Cliff. Cliff sits looking relaxed in a chair as he faces Zander Charles, the legendary news presenter who is almost as well-known for his slick white hair and beard as he is for the celebrity interviews he conducts. He looks like a professional Santa Claus moonlighting as a talk show host.
“How long have you been friends with Callum Prescott?” Zander asks Cliff.
“About seven years. Since our freshman year of college.”
“And you know him well?”
“Oh, definitely.”
My chest rises and falls rapidly as I stare at the familiar smirk on Cliff’s handsome face.
“So, tell us about the Callum that you know,” Zander’s smooth tone invites confidence.
“Well, to be honest, he’s always been something of a joke in our group.”
I stagger back, my legs hitting the edge of my bed as I sink onto it, unable to tear my gaze away from the screen where Cliff, my supposed friend, talks to Zander Charles about me.
“Why has he been the joke?”
Cliff snorts. “He’s just a really weird guy. He gets obsessed with random things and won’t talk about anything else, boring everyone to death about a particular topic, and then the next time you talk to him, he’ll be obsessed with something else.”
Nausea has set up camp in my stomach. It might have even pitched a tent and lit a fire in there. And the marshmallows being roasted taste a lot like betrayal.
“How do you think he’ll do as the Prince of Wales?” Zander asks.
Cliff laughs derisively. “Callum has the attention span of a gnat. He changed majors five times in college. He never sticks at anything.”
“So you don’t think he’ll last long in the role?”
“No, I don’t. I hope his brother is ready. Something will come along to distract Callum, and he’ll chase that instead.”
I swallow. Hard.
“Did you know he’s the son of Prince Michael?” Zander asks.
“Yes. He used to brag about his family all the time. He’d use the fact he’s in the succession line for the royal family to gain attention.”
A flash of anger bolts through me to mix with my hurt. That’s unfair. I did not do that.
“Have you talked to him since he learned he’s now heir to the throne?”
Cliff’s smirk grows bigger. “I talked to him yesterday. He said the British were like an alien race.”
I let out a groan that sounds like a noise a squirrel would make if you stepped on it and drop my phone into my lap. I place my hands on my head, trying to take some deep breaths.
My phone vibrates against my thigh, the noise piercing my skull.
It’s Scott again.
Did you watch it???
I try to swallow my hurt, but the lump is too thick in my throat. It’s like I’m trying to swallow a cactus.
Yeah, I watched it.
I’m sorry he did that.
What can I say to Scott now? I can’t cuss Cliff out like I normally would because what happens if someone hacks our messenger chat? What happens if Scott decides to talk to the media too?
The truth coils into a cold, hard ball in my stomach.
I can’t trust anyone.
“Are you ready for your jacket, sir?” I’d forgotten Herbert was standing right there.
He must have heard the whole recording, but his face remains stoic.
He probably has seen and heard it all in this job.
Friends betraying a royal, selling their story to the media, it’s been done so many times before that it’s a cliché.
Herbert’s professionalism helps me regain my equilibrium.
I have a job to do. I have to represent the monarchy, help my grandmother in her mission to move the public’s attention away from my family’s scandal. Nothing is more important than that.
I stand and let Herbert slip the perfectly tailored suit jacket onto my shoulders.
The Commonwealth banquet is held at Windsor Castle, a fifty-minute drive from Buckingham Palace.
I’m numb all the way to the dinner.
Raymond tries to talk me through a Who’s Who of the dignitaries I’ll be meeting tonight, but I barely hear him.
Instead, I stare out at the soaked streets of West London, the raindrops on the window reflecting a distorted world back at me.
I thought Cliff was my friend.
It’s such a simple, childlike hurt. I thought someone was my friend, and they’re not.
It’s a sucker punch to the gut, a stab of betrayal right in the heart.
I like Cliff. I’ve always liked Cliff. It turns out he doesn’t like me in return.
What I thought was friendship was just tolerance of my presence because he likes Scott.
Trying to distract myself, I tune back into Raymond.
“Her Majesty is the current head of the Commonwealth, but that title will not automatically go to the British monarch after she passes. So you need to demonstrate to these leaders that you will be a capable person to lead the Commonwealth.”
Great. A job interview. Just what I feel like. I, an insurance call center operator from California, will have to make small talk with the prime ministers and presidents of the Commonwealth countries while trying to convince them I should lead them.
Will the leaders have seen Cliff’s interview? It feels ludicrous to assume that important people are remotely interested in me, but the unease gnaws at me like a persistent rodent. It’s horrible knowing the whole world can view my humiliation.
Some people will feel sorry for me.
Others will mock me.
I tug the sleeves of my tuxedo, my cufflinks cold under my touch.
Windsor Castle looms ahead of us, dominating from its position on the hill.
What did William the Conqueror think when he first gazed at his newly completed castle in the eleventh century?
Did he have any idea it would still be standing, inhabited by his descendants, this many centuries later?
With the duration of the royal houses of England until that point, the longevity of his lineage wouldn’t have seemed possible.
But thinking about the longevity of William the Conqueror’s lineage as monarchs only leads me to the inevitable question, the one occupying the media right now.
Will I be the end of it?
My stomach clenches.
The car pulls around to the state apartments, and Raymond and I get out, accompanied by my royal protection officers.