Chapter 8 #2
The Grand Reception Room of Windsor Castle is the definition of opulence.
The ceilings and walls drip with gilded moldings, interspersed with large oil paintings.
The thick red-and-gold curtains framing the tall windows are so heavy they look like they are designed to protect us from invading armies rather than just a draft.
My grandmother is waiting inside the Grand Reception Room, dressed in an elegant emerald dress and tiara, engaged in an intense discussion with Clive, her private secretary.
I give a small head bow to her, and when I straighten, I’ve got her full attention.
“Callum, lovely to see you,” she says.
“Hi, Gran.”
Even though the smile she gives me is warm, there is always something so untouchable about my grandmother. I’m not sure if it’s her natural personality or if years of being the sovereign created this barrier.
I can’t remember if she was like this when my grandfather was alive because he died just before my father, so I was too young to understand how the dynamic between Gran and him worked.
Based on my limited experience as a royal, I can see why you wouldn’t want to let people close to you. Too much potential for betrayal.
“I trust you are getting the guidance you need,” she says.
“I’m learning a lot,” I reply honestly. “Although I’m not particularly enamored with one species of bird that belongs to you.”
Her lips twitch. “I heard about that. Let me tell you, Callum, there’s one important thing I’ve learned in all my years as Queen.”
My breath hitches. Is she going to give me some advice to help me navigate these unchartered territories?
“What’s that?” I ask.
She leans in close and whispers, “Never trust birds.”
I give a startled laugh as I pull back.
“I learned that lesson processing insurance claims as well,” I say. We share a smile.
“Callum.” It’s the perfect British accent of my brother.
I turn to face him. “Hi, Nicholas.”
I’m startled every time I see Nicholas because he’s almost a clone of my father. The same dark hair, the same bright-blue eyes. The same lips that curl up into a charming smile. Nicholas’s tuxedo fits him like a second skin.
My parent’s marriage was over before my first birthday, and I spent so little time with my father before he died that I only have a handful of memories. Sometimes I don’t know which memories are real and which have come from watching videos and seeing photos.
But I do know that Nicholas is familiar in some deep-seated way I can’t really explain.
Nicholas arches an eyebrow now as he looks at me.
“I watched the interview your friend gave. What a wanker.”
Wanker is a very British insult, but it seems to fit Cliff perfectly.
“Ah, yeah. That’s an accurate summary,” I say.
“You’ll have to pick your friends more carefully from now on,” he says.
I try not to flinch. “I know.”
“Hello, brothers.” Amelia glides over to us, and I immediately smile. She’s dressed in a long light-blue dress and is wearing contacts instead of her usual glasses, so she blinks in a slightly startled way when she looks at me.
Amelia and Nicholas haven’t been working members of the royal family until now, but at least they’ve attended a lot more of these types of events than I have.
Amelia gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry about what your friend did.”
“Yeah, me too.”
I desperately want to change the subject, so I glance around the room. The Grand Reception Room is dominated by large chandeliers, with tiers of lights and crystal tassels cascading from the roof.
“Do you think chandeliers are just the historical equivalent of disco balls?” I ask.
Amelia stares at me while Nicholas smirks.
“American humor definitely takes some getting used to,” he says. He flicks a look at Amelia, but she frowns back at him.
Luckily my grandmother comes back over to us.
“The first guests will be arriving soon. We need to form a reception line,” she says. “As heir, Callum will be next to me.”
There’s a flicker of annoyance on Nicholas’s face before it’s back to neutral. He watched Cliff’s interview. Did he hear the bit where Cliff predicted I wouldn’t be in this job for long and he should be ready to take over?
Inheritance by birth order is a ridiculous thing when you think about it. Why is it that I, as the firstborn, am assumed to have more skills than my siblings?
Nicholas is poised and charming as he jokes with a courtier as we move into a line. It’s difficult to imagine him getting up close and personal with pondweed.
Amelia tugs the sleeve of her dress, and I realize she’s nervous too.
I try to catch her eye to give her an encouraging smile, but before I can, the first guests descend on us.
After that, it’s a dizzying array of faces and names.
At least being American gives me an excuse not to recognize any of the movers and shakers of the Commonwealth and British societies as they’re introduced to me.
I finally spot a figure I do recognize bowing to my grandmother.
Oliver Hartwell.
He’s by himself, unlike nearly all the other politicians tonight who have brought their partners.
Oliver’s divorce made almost as many headlines as his election did.
I guess it’s not surprising he’s turning up stag.
It wouldn’t be easy to invite the guy you’ve been chatting with on a dating app to a first date at the Commonwealth Heads of Government banquet.
I guess the same principle applies to me now. How do you date when you’re the heir to the throne, when every potential date knows that if the relationship progresses, they will become the queen consort?
Let’s face it, it wasn’t like I had much success before that extra pressure.
“Your Royal Highness.” Oliver has finished greeting my grandmother and moved along to nod his head at me.
I wonder how much of Oliver’s success as prime minister comes down to his incredible voice. Smooth and deep, with a hint of humor, like he’s secretly amused by some aspect of life the rest of us can’t quite grasp.
I’d vote for him just to have an excuse to listen to him speak. Although even as I think that, Clive’s lecture about the royal family not voting intrudes like an unwanted pop-up ad.
I shake hands with Oliver, and while I don’t have the same dizziness as the first time I shook his hand, it’s still an unsettling experience to touch him. His grasp is firm, his palm warm.
“Prime Minister,” I say. I’m not sure I manage to keep my confusion off my face because he gives me a curious look.
But I don’t have time to analyze my reaction to Oliver Hartwell because the prime minister of Canada, Jeffrey Ference, and his wife, Elizabeth, are waiting for me to greet them next.
“Nice to meet you, Your Royal Highness,” Jeffrey says.
“It’s so nice to meet you too,” I say. “It’s nice to hear some people who sound like me.”
“I’m not sure many Canadians want to hear that they sound like Americans,” Jeffrey says.
Oh shit. I was trying to find some commonality, and instead, I might have started a diplomatic incident.
Elizabeth gives her husband an eye-roll. “Ignore my husband’s sense of humor, Your Royal Highness. How are you finding England?”
“It’s very different from California,” I say honestly.
“I can imagine,” she replies with a smile.
I continue to smile and greet wave after wave of people as they enter the Reception Room. The faces and names all blur together.
Finally, after what seems like hours, the flow of guests dries up. The Grand Reception Room is filled to the brink with people chatting.
Raymond sidles up to me. “Now it’s time for you to circulate the room.”
I stare at the ocean of people, all these world leaders, the cleverest and smartest from their countries.
Cliff’s voice comes into my head with sneering derision. Callum has always been the joke among our friendship group.
“I…ah…I’ve just got to use the restroom first,” I say.
Once in the restroom, I lock myself in a stall with shaking hands.
I put the toilet seat down and sit, trying to pull myself together.
I’m okay. I managed the reception line with no issues. I didn’t embarrass myself. I can get through the rest of this evening with no mishaps.
The restroom door opens, and I hear two men make their way to the sinks.
“What do you think of the new Prince of Wales?” one asks. His British accent is so sharp, he could use it to cut glass.
“Well, his handshake was incredibly enthusiastic,” the other says. “And he looks the part.”
“Unfortunately, you can dress a pig in a wig, but it doesn’t change the fact it’s a pig.”
“You’re not a fan of our new heir then?”
There’s a mocking laugh. “Have you listened to him speak or watched the footage with the swan? He’s a vapid, airheaded American. He’s the worst thing that could happen to the monarchy and the Commonwealth.”
There’s a rustling noise and then the noise of a tap being turned on. Unfortunately, I can still hear their conversation over the running water.
“You don’t think the Commonwealth countries will embrace King Callum as their Head of State?”
“I’d wage a bet that republicanism will be the fastest-catching disease in the world once Callum is the king.”
“What other disease do you expect an American to spread but republicanism?” the other chortles.
The faucets switch off, and there’s the brief sound of the hand-drying machine before the door thumps shut.
I’m suddenly aware that I’m clenching my fist so tightly that my fingernails are digging into the flesh of my palm.
I take a deep breath, but it’s shaky when I exhale.
I can’t handle this.