Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Callum
“So, today, you’re opening the newly refurbished wing of the British Museum,” Raymond says. It’s part of our morning briefing when he gives me the rundown of my itinerary for the day. “There’s going to be lots of priceless artifacts around, so it’s a hands-in-pockets occasion, okay?”
My expressive hand gestures are proving to be a problem.
Last week, in my first speech at a gala fundraiser, I knocked the microphone halfway through and the room echoed with the tortured wail of microphone feedback. The tech people had to come and reset it before I could continue.
Yesterday I went to a bake-off raising money for a mental health charity and managed to knock over the winning Victoria Sponge by gesturing far too enthusiastically, which triggered another round of creative headlines.
Prince Callum Cake-tastrophe
Bake-Off Blunder
Prince Callum’s ‘Destruction Derby’
The Daily Chronicle is now running a betting pool about how long it will be until someone is injured by my overenthusiastic hand gestures.
But so far, the palace doesn’t seem too worried about these types of headlines.
“It’s early days. The public is still getting used to you. And at least you’re occupying space in the papers that would otherwise go to profiling your relatives’ shady deeds.”
The shadow of my relatives’ betrayal hangs heavy over the monarchy. I barely see my grandmother. She appears to be running herself ragged, trying to fill in all the official engagements my uncles and cousins would normally have done.
It’s like she’s trying to personally atone for the behavior of her sons and grandchildren.
The papers continue to leak salacious details of what the investigations have so far uncovered. There’s not just a leak from inside Scotland Yard. It’s more like a torrent.
My Uncle Edwin and his children, Chloe and Frederick, all seemed to have been caught up in a scandal of bribing FIFA officials in an attempt to win Britain the rights to host the Football World Cup. Which, while illegal and immoral, at least had the right intentions to help the country.
But my Uncle Albert, former Prince of Wales, and my other uncle, James, have clearly sought to use their royal influence for personal gain.
It appears my relatives thought themselves above the law. They obviously haven’t read the Magna Carta closely enough.
So my assassinating Victoria Sponges is a very small infringement compared to my relatives, and it appears that palace communications officers are okay with those stories being the leading headlines.
Besides, those headlines give me the edge in the little competition I’ve got going with Oliver Hartwell. It’s a slightly disturbing contest where we compete over who has generated the most negative and ridiculous headline for the day.
Yes, that’s right. Since the Commonwealth banquet, I’ve been messaging the prime minister most days.
I have to pinch myself that Oliver Hartwell has been taking time from his day to check in with me. It’s normally late in the evenings when I’m guessing he’s finished doing everything on his to-do list for running the country. Or maybe I’m another thing on his to-do list.
Help the new Prince of Wales maintain his sanity as he tries to adjust to life in a new country and in the media spotlight.
“You simply need to cut a ribbon and then talk to everyone at morning tea. It shouldn’t be too taxing,” Raymond continues to brief me.
I nod. “Will Amelia or Nicholas be there?”
I often seem to be paired with Nicholas or Amelia for various engagements. I don’t know if it’s because after the swan debacle, palace officials don’t completely trust me by myself, but I’m not complaining. The royal engagements are far less daunting when I’ve got company.
“Princess Amelia will be there today too,” Raymond replies.
“Okay.” I tug the bottom of my shirt. “Right, let’s get this show on the road.”
“Good luck.” Raymond isn’t coming with me today, so I leave him and head down to where my driver will be waiting for me in the quadrangle, Buckingham Palace’s internal courtyard which enables us to get in and out of cars without the scrutiny of the press.
I’m dressed in chinos and a blue checkered button-down that’s been pressed within an inch of its life.
Herbert takes his role of dressing me very seriously—I simply put on whatever he gives me each morning.
I’m not sure who decides what outfit I should wear.
Maybe there’s a team of palace advisers sitting in an office somewhere, trying to decide what clothes are appropriate for what event.
Sometimes I just feel like an oversized puppet. Though I’m not too sure who the murky people pulling my strings actually are.
To distract myself from that thought, as soon as I’m in the car, I start to Google.
“Did you know they’ve found the remains of puppets in Egyptian tombs and they’re included in the writings from ancient Greece,” I say to Mateo, one of my security team sitting in the front seat of the car.
Mateo turns to give me a long look before he says, “No, I didn’t know that.”
As soon as the car pulls out of the palace gates, Mateo snaps his attention back to the window, craning his neck to examine the hordes of motorbikes and cars that immediately start to trail us.
He speaks into his wrist, and I know he’s discussing security arrangements for when I arrive at the museum.
The press is relentless in their pursuit of me. It’s like we’re in a car chase scene from one of those action movies. I keep expecting to see Vin Diesel or Jason Momoa hanging out one of the windows, aiming a gun at us.
My mother tried so hard to protect me from this life, and instead, I’ve landed smack bang in the middle of it, the number one quarry in the entire kingdom.
I find it slightly ironic that my family, who spend most of their lives being hunted by the press, go up to Balmoral estate to escape for the summer and spend their time hunting.
I’m sure there’s something Freudian in there.
When we pull up to the front of the British Museum, the press is already crowded on the front lawn. They scream at me as soon as I arrive.
“Prince Callum! Can you comment on the recent poll that found that seventy percent of the British people disapprove of the behavior of the royal family?”
“Prince Callum, we’ve got your former Little League coach saying you once ate the whole bag of cookies meant for the team. What do you have to say to that accusation?”
It was a misunderstanding, I want to say in reply to the second thing. I honestly thought he’d given them to me to eat. I was six!
But I bite my tongue. Raymond has been like a sadistic dentist with a jackhammer, drilling into me that I should never reply to the media. I should just treat them as annoying buzzing mosquitos and ignore them.
The only problem with that metaphor? Mosquitos are actually the most dangerous animals on the planet. They kill the most people annually.
There will be media at the opening, but they will be sanctioned members of the press so they won’t be up in my face. Instead, they will subtly observe and judge me from afar, counting the ways I screw up.
Please don’t let me screw up.
It’s a silent plea that is becoming quite familiar on my lips.
My security team ushers me through the horde of press to where the chairperson of the British Museum and various other important people are standing.
I greet them all, then sidle over to Amelia, who is at the edge of the crowd reading the display on Cleopatra.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I say.
“I keep running into you in the most unlikely places,” she deadpans back.
I feel a pulse of affection toward my younger sister. Anytime she or Nicholas is at one of these events with me, things instantly become more bearable. Partly because at least I know the scrutiny is being shared.
But Amelia is a less imposing presence than Nicholas. I often feel like Nicholas silently judges me for all my inadequacies, whereas Amelia is always upbeat and supportive in her own quiet way.
And she seems to be like me because she’s interested in lots of different things.
“So, what have you learned about Cleopatra?” I ask her.
“Do you know she wasn’t actually an Egyptian?”
“I think I do know that. She was Greek, wasn’t she?” When I was twelve, I went through a phase of being fascinated by Ancient Egypt, and for a few months, I read and watched everything I could find. Some of it stuck in my brain.
“There is still debate over her complete ancestry, but she was definitely descended from Ptolemy I Soter, one of Alexander the Great’s generals.
The Romans tried to portray her as a promiscuous seductress who used her beauty for political gain, but she was actually incredibly brilliant.
She was proficient in a dozen languages and was educated in mathematics, philosophy, and astronomy. ”
“She sounds like a very talented woman,” I say.
“Which makes it sad that history just remembers her for her sex appeal, doesn’t it?” Amelia asks wryly.
“Your Royal Highness.” A middle-aged woman with curly brown hair approaches us, interrupting my reply. “I’m Dr. Michelle Pérez, the lead curator of this exhibit. Would you and Princess Amelia like a tour?
“We would love that,” I say.
As Michelle shows us around, I keep my elbows pinned firmly to my sides at all times.
Michelle seems quite delighted at how much I already know and my interest when she discusses how they are using pigments found in archaeology to work out the colors the original temples were painted.
It’s funny how the weathered golden sandstone we associate with the famous temples is not the original color at all.
It’s a faded version of its former glory, like a black-and-white photo.
My part in the official ceremony requires me to simply cut a ribbon and smile, and I manage the scissors without any mishaps to myself or anyone around me, which I take as a total win.
Morning tea is served, and I drift over to where scones and drinks are being served by a museum worker with bright-red hair.