3. Christmas and Catamarans
CHRISTMAS AND CATAMARANS
LARS
“ W e will do the boat parade, won’t we?” Jack asked. “Both boats?”
Mother thought a moment about how to respond.
Christian answered, “We could do it.”
“I don’t want to,” I said. “I am not orchestrating this on top of all else, Jack. It’s competitive. I will help with your dinghy but not the catamaran.”
Jack clapped and hugged me. Tomas rolled his eyes, annoyed.
“I am not helping,” he groaned.
“Papa, why are you so mean?”
“I do not like Christmas,” he answered.
I wasn’t massively obsessed with Jul, but I didn’t feel the need to yuck the kid’s yum. She was only little for so long.
“Jacqueline!” A girl waved at my niece.
“Oh, it’s Katie!” Jack bounded off, hugging the girl.
“See, she’s made a friend,” Tomas said. “She doesn’t need my help.”
I disagreed, but saying that wouldn’t improve matters.
“We will hire someone to put the lights on the boat,” Mother said. “That is all. We shall if it pleases her, and she won’t whine.”
“That’s cheating,” I scoffed.
“Everyone does it.”
“Well, I will be helping her, and we will do it alone,” I protested. “You can do whatever you want with the catamaran, but Jack and I will do it independently. Thanks.”
“Well, suit yourself. Don’t be upset when she loses and gripes about it,” Tomas said.
“It’s for fun. The point is fun,” I protested. “This is a core memory sort of thing, right?”
“What is a core memory?” Christian asked. “Is that a Norwegian thing?”
The disdain laced in his words annoyed me.
I set my jaw. “No. I don’t have a word in Norsk for it. My stepmother says it. These are formative things—things you remember happily from childhood.”
Mother rolled her eyes. “Sanne would say that. Sentimental Americans.”
Mother was born in France but was half-Norwegian. When she and my father divorced, she turned her tiara back in moved back to Paris. Mother didn’t like Norway—before or after marrying a prince. Christian rarely hid his loathing of my country. To him, Norway was bland and cold.
“I’m going to get another drink,” I said.
I needed a break, and my parents had only been here an hour. I waded back to the bar to grab something.
“Can I get a gimlet?” I asked.
The bartender cocked his head. “We only have rum drinks and beer.”
I tried not to be rude, but I loathed rum. This was the part of this event I despised. They were so pretentious not to serve gin? Who did that?
“Fine, a beer,” I saw a friend’s daughter arguing with someone.
It was Rosalind Ferguson, the daughter of the Duke of Lauderdale—Lord Winston Ferguson—and his wife, the Duchess of Lauderdale—Lady Lucy Ferguson. Known to everyone as “Rose”, Rosalind was the youngest of five—a much younger sister to two of my closest competitors. In the Melges 24 Class, I’d compete against her big brothers, Mac and Niall.
The bothersome man pressed towards her—invading her space. Her body language was closed, but he wasn’t backing off. The barkeep handed me my beer, and I sped off, trying not to be obvious but concerned for Rosalind. She looked near tears. I tried flying under the radar but listened.
“Rosalind, you never listen to the truth. I never slept with Martine. I never slept with her, I tell you! We didn’t so much as kiss! It was a flirtation. I regret it and?—”
“I don’t care. It’s a hard boundary. I told you?—”
“You realise you aren’t the only woman in town? I am giving you a second chance.”
“We are not together. I don’t want your chance,” she turned to leave, but he grabbed her arm forcefully.
The hair stood up on my neck, and I approached, thinking fast about what I could say.
“Is there a problem here?” I inserted myself.
Rose stared, confused at my appearance.
“Sorry, mate, is it any of your business?”
“Let her go,” I said, voice firm.
“And you are?”
“None of your goddamn business,” I said.
“This is Prince Lars of Norway,” Rose said as the man released her arm.
He gave me a look of pure hatred. “We’re having a bloody conversation here.”
“I can see that, but this is where you leave, mate,” I growled. “She doesn’t want to talk.”
“It’s private?—”
He wouldn’t respect her boundaries or anything I said in her defence. So, as much as I hated feeling like a knuckle-dragging prick, I said the only thing I knew he’d respect.
“Well, she’s my girlfriend, mate, so I’d appreciate if you backed the fuck off.”
A look of befuddlement crossed Rose’s face, and then a slight smile took over. “Yes, it’s early days, but Lars and I are… dating.”
“And how did you two meet?”
“He’s my brother’s friend. You know that. You two have competed before, I am sure.”
Fuckboy glared. “Well, fine. I didn’t know you were… involved. But know, I still love you.”
“We’re done here,” I said, voice low. “So, now is where you leave, mate.”
The man sulked off. He didn’t respect her, but he respected a man who claimed the prize he’d lost. I loathed men like that. It was such a shitty way to treat women. It angered me to my core. I hated that I’d played the card but didn’t regret ensuring Rose was safe.