Epilogue
Callum
One Year Later
Oliver and I stand together in one of the most sacred sites in England: Westminster Abbey.
“Did you know Westminster Abbey is the resting place for more than thirty-three hundred people, including thirty kings and queens and also famous scientists such as Sir Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin,” I say to Oliver because having someone to share random knowledge with, who is actually interested in everything I say, is a novelty I don’t think I’ll ever stop marveling over.
Oliver offers me a grin. “Nothing like a few ghosts watching us get hitched.”
Because that’s why we’re at Westminster Abbey. To plan our wedding.
“And Westminster belongs to the sovereign, not the Church of England. So it’s not really an Abbey. It is officially in the category of ‘Royal Peculiar,’” I continue.
“Maybe ‘Royal Peculiar’ should be my new nickname for you,” Oliver suggests.
I laugh, and the soft sound of it echoes off the stone walls.
“I was kind of still gunning for turnip,” I say, and it’s Oliver’s turn to laugh.
It’s actually a good thing Westminster Abbey belongs to the sovereign rather than the Church of England because although the Church of England will now perform blessings for same-sex couples in their churches, they won’t conduct marriages.
There’s still a long way to go to achieve equality for all people regardless of their sexual orientation and gender, both here and in the Commonwealth. It’s definitely a cause I’m prepared to devote my life to.
Clive bustles over to us then, with Raymond by his side, along with the royal wedding planner, Janet.
“So, I’m thinking that Prince Callum should be the one at the altar, and Mr. Hartwell can walk down the aisle,” Clive says.
“You think that’s a better alternative than them both walking down the aisle?” Raymond asks.
The logistics of a gay wedding for the future king have definitely sent the palace courtiers into a tailspin.
“I was actually thinking maybe I should arrive by parachute,” Oliver says, his face deadpan.
“Um…I don’t think parachutes are one of the options,” Clive says with a trace of alarm. He’s not quite used to Oliver’s sense of humor yet.
The palace staff has never had to deal with someone like Oliver as the partner of a royal family member. Not that he isn’t cooperative. He just has strong opinions on some things, and his natural charisma means people defer to him without realizing they’re doing it.
There’s also the fact he has sky-high approval ratings. Oliver’s involvement in the royal family is credited by commentators as a big part of why the British public voted overwhelmingly in favor of keeping the monarchy in last year’s referendum.
“I’m joking about the parachute. I actually don’t care how I get to the altar as long as I make it here to marry Callum,” Oliver says definitively.
I flick a glance at him, his handsome face all stern and serious. He meets my eyes and gives me a tiny smile, just a small quirk of his upper lip and a deepening of his laughter lines, and I feel such a pulse of love for him that I have to look away.
“Now, for the flowers. There’s a tradition of myrtle in royal bouquets dating back to Queen Victoria. The flower symbolizes good luck and marriage,” Janet says.
Oliver’s shaking his head. “Unfortunately, I’m allergic to myrtle.”
“I guess we don’t want you sneezing your way through your vows,” I say.
“Definitely not,” Clive says.
Raymond, Clive, and Janet start a conversation about seating and wander off to inspect the pillars while I turn to face Oliver.
“So, you’re allergic to good luck? I don’t know if that bodes well for our marriage.”
He pulls me to him. “Our marriage doesn’t need luck.”
He kisses me, and I get lost in the amazingness that is kissing Oliver until we hear the clearing of a throat behind us.
I reluctantly pull myself away from Oliver to find Raymond standing there.
“Uh, you’re not actually supposed to kiss in Westminster Abbey,” he says.
“You’re not allowed to kiss in here?”
“No. The church is considered too sacred to kiss in. So you’ll have to wait until you’re outside on the front steps before you have your first official kiss after the ceremony.”
Oliver sneaks a look at me. “I think I’ll manage to restrain myself from kissing him until then. But it’ll be difficult.”
“Well, you are the most romantic man in the United Kingdom,” I remind him.
The fact that Oliver risked his life and then gave up politics to be with me has spawned a thousand headlines declaring him to be the most romantic man in Britain, which have all caused him to laugh loudly, then roll his eyes.
“I’m the man most in love in the kingdom. I’m not sure if that means I can claim to be the most romantic,” Oliver says matter-of-factly as if he hasn’t just said the most romantic thing ever, proving the journalists’ point.
“So, apparently, my frown during the Vice Chancellor’s address at London University provides evidence of my opposition to the government’s education policy,” Oliver says that evening as he slouches on the couch in Clarence House, scrolling through his phone.
He’s wearing his glasses, and he absentmindedly rubs the stubble of his jaw with one hand.
He’s so sexy that I have to exercise all my self-control not to slide down the couch to touch him.
When Oliver resigned as prime minister, he was left homeless, so it made sense for us to move into Clarence House, the traditional residence of the Prince of Wales.
Waking up every day with Oliver is my favorite thing ever.
Oliver has seamlessly slotted into doing official engagements on behalf of the royal family.
But it’s spawned a whole new game in the British media: How to tell what Oliver Hartwell is really thinking about a political issue even though he’s not allowed to say anything.
It involves analyzing every micro-expression that crosses his face.
“What’s my best headline for today?” I ask lazily.
Oliver and I still play the game of checking out who has generated the most outrageous headline.
“Well, there is one from The Daily Chronicle about you attending the netball game, Prince Callum Demonstrates his Interest in Balls.”
“That’s almost clever,” I say.
Oliver continues to scroll through the news on his phone with a neutral expression when suddenly his eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh shit.” He straightens up on the couch.
“What is it?”
His dark eyes fly to mine. “My mother has just done a surprise interview with Jeremy Atkinson.”
“About what?”
“I’m guessing it’s not going to be about her crochet hobby.”
Oliver’s mother has remained uncharacteristically quiet on the subject of our relationship and engagement. But now she’s obviously sold her story to the most notorious interviewer in the UK, who tries to turn everything into a scandal.
“Hey, don’t forget my own sister conspired to murder me, so I’m always going to win the worst-behaving relative contest.” I manage to say the words lightheartedly, but Amelia’s betrayal still cuts me deep.
Her trial and sentencing just emphasized the fact there are now more royal family members inside prison than out.
“I’m not sure if it’s an award either of us wants to win,” Oliver says.
I shuffle over to him, and he immediately reaches out an arm to draw me close, brushing a lock of hair off my forehead.
“Do you want to watch it?” I ask softly.
He takes a deep breath. “Sure, let’s see what wonderful insights my dearly beloved mother is ready to offer the nation.”
He clicks play and the video comes to life.
Jeremy Atkinson’s voice rings out of the phone. “So, with us today is Jenny Hartwell, mother of the former prime minister, who is soon to marry the Prince of Wales.
“Now, Jenny, I know you are estranged from your son, but I’m interested to know what your reaction was when you heard the news of the upcoming royal wedding?”
“I laughed,” she says.
“You laughed?”
“Yep, I laughed. I thought he’d risen above his station by becoming the prime minister, but now he’s found a way to become the bloody king of England!”
“Prince Consort,” Jeremy corrects.
“I don’t care what the label is. He’s going to wear a crown, innit? And he’s got that position for life now. He doesn’t have to worry about getting elected every five years. You can always trust my Ollie to fall on his feet.”
“I actually fell in love, Mother, which is not quite the same thing,” Oliver says as he switches the clip off.
“You don’t think falling in love with me is falling on your feet?” I ask.
Oliver’s dark eyes find mine. “It’s more like being swept off my feet.”
“Because I’m like the tide, salty and unpredictable?”
“Because you are like a force of nature, unspeakably beautiful and impossible to resist.”
I roll my eyes. “This is what I get for falling in love with a politician—smooth sound bites.”
He laughs at me.
“Swept off my feet or falling on my feet. Either way, I’m yours,” he says.
And he’s kissing me, and I sink into the kiss, relishing the feeling of his hands sliding under my shirt, the feel of Oliver’s body against mine.
Because, oh my god, getting to this point in our relationship was incredibly hard. But it appears to be ending like all fairy tales involving a prince and their one true love, with an amazing happily-ever-after.
Our wedding day is a blur of small moments, snapshots I try to imprint in my brain to remember forever.
The cheering crowd as I ride with Nicholas in a gilded carriage through the streets of London toward Westminster Abbey. Walking up the crimson carpet. Shaking hands with dignitaries before walking past the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior and up the aisle to the altar.
Then I’m standing at the altar, and the music starts that means Oliver is walking down the aisle toward me.
My stomach churns with nerves. Nicholas is waiting next to me, and he turns to watch Oliver.
There were many debates about which of us would walk up the aisle, but the palace officials were adamant that as the Prince of Wales, I should be standing at the altar.
Oliver was all good with either option. The only stumbling block was who would walk him up the aisle.
Which was where my grandmother stepped in.
I know I’m not supposed to look, but I can’t resist a peek back at where my handsome fiancé is walking up the aisle on the arm of his queen and soon-to-be grandmother-in-law, past a choir singing radiantly.
I feel slightly lightheaded when I see him because, suddenly, the cameras don’t matter, the audience of millions doesn’t matter, and even the presence of my grandmother, the Queen, doesn’t matter.
All that matters is that Oliver is walking up the aisle toward me, and we are about to join our lives together forever.
He reaches the altar, and I can look at him properly now, just as he can look at me.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I know,” he whispers back.
And I grin at him, and he smiles in return, and being on the receiving end of Oliver’s smile causes my heart to pound.
My mother’s words echo in my head. You don’t have to change; you just need to find someone who loves you exactly how you are.
What an absolutely extraordinary miracle that the person who loves me exactly as I am turned out to be Oliver Hartwell.
My heart continues to tap out a happy rhythm as the ceremony begins.
The vows themselves are ancient ones, dating back to the eleventh century.
“I, Oliver Arthur, take thee, Callum Philip, to be my wedded husband.” His deep voice rasps with emotion as he repeats the celebrant’s words.
“To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part.”
It’s my turn to repeat the words, and I say them in the clearest voice I’ve ever used in public speaking, without a single stumble or moment of hesitation.
Because I have never been so certain about something as I am about the words coming out of my mouth right now.
Then it’s the ring exchange. I press the ring onto Oliver’s hand, aiming for a smooth motion, but it snags on his knuckle, so I have to force it the rest of the way onto his finger. I glance up to find his eyes glinting with amusement.
Oliver, of course, manages to slide my ring on smoothly while saying the words.
“With this ring, I thee wed. With my body, I thee honor, and all my worldly goods with thee I share.”
Then it’s time for the celebrant to bind our hands together.
Oliver’s hand is warm under mine, and he meets my gaze and gives me one of his lopsided smiles, and I can’t help wondering if he’s remembering the facts about handfasting I shared with him last night, how it dates back to Celtic traditions in Ireland from nine thousand years ago and is where the phrase ‘tying the knot’ comes from.
Yes, I may have become slightly obsessed with the history of wedding rituals over the past few months.
The celebrant does his last summary, then pronounces us wedded husbands.
My breath leaves me.
I’m the future king, and I’m married to the most amazing man in the UK, potentially the world.
Yup, when I spilled wine on Emily during our date, it’s fair to say this wasn’t a potential future I envisioned.
But now, Oliver and I turn to face that future together, walking down the aisle with our hands joined.
As we stand on the front step with the public cheering and waving flags, it feels like the whole crowd shares our happiness. It makes me realize that while there are lots of small moments of magic, some moments of magic and beauty are so large you have to share them with the whole world.
Oliver turns to me. “Are you ready for our first kiss as husbands?”
“I’m always ready to kiss you,” I reply.
As Oliver’s warm lips meet mine, I can’t help thinking of all the royal couples who have stood on this spot throughout history. We are joining a long list of my ancestors.
Although it’s hard to believe I’m not setting a record for how much joy can be found inside one person right now.
Oliver deepens our kiss as the bells of Westminster Abbey ring out in triumph, playing the same tune of celebration they have done for centuries.
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