Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Two weeks pass, and in that time, Mum manages to squeeze seven public appearances out of me.
It’s now the end of August. As reluctant as I am to admit it, most of the events I attend aren’t terrible.
I am asked to pick out a name for the Household Cavalry’s new drum horse, visit the opening of a new exhibit at my friend Patrick’s Museum of Curiosities, and help Mum present the winners of Wimbledon their trophies.
It’s a Wednesday. Angela is off, and Art and I have a rare day alone together. He’s decided today’s the perfect opportunity to whisk me to a mystery location for a date. I’m eager and curious about what he has planned.
“Are you going to talk to them this week, Alice? You’re running out of time before the school term begins,” Art reminds me for the nth time.
“I know.” I chew on my lip. I’ve been dragging my feet about confronting Mum and Papa. “It’s just that things have been going well, and Papa is finally acting normal around me.”
“You’re afraid to upset the balance.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Could it be that being a working royal is beginning to grow on you?”
“Maybe? I don’t know.” I stare at my hands, folded on my lap. “All I can say is that right now, I don’t hate it.”
I had it in my head that each appearance I made would involve making speeches in front of hundreds of people and posing for photographs for the press, but as I’ve come to find out, that’s not it at all. Most of my appearances have been low-key, without much press, save the palace photographer.
The people I speak to are usually families with children who live in the local village or community. They’re easy to talk to, like when I’m speaking to Angela or Art. I don’t have to put on an act and pretend to be Princess Alice. I can just be me.
“I’m so confused. If you were me, Art, what would you do?”
“It’s not really my place to say anything.”
“Art,” I whine. “I thought we were past this. I’m asking you as a friend for advice. Please tell me what you think I should do.”
“Do you really want to know what I think?” He chuckles.
“Yes,” I huff.
“If I were you, I’d finish off your public appearances for this week, then take the weekend and have a long, hard think, weighing out all the pros and cons.
Make next week your deadline for how you want your schedule to look during the school year.
It’ll just get more difficult the longer you put everything off. ”
Yet again, Art’s right. The longer I postpone speaking to my parents, the bigger the proverbial elephant in the room becomes.
“Does that help?” He glances back at me.
“Yes. It does. Thanks.”
Art turns down a busy road. One side of the street contains railroad tracks, and the other side is lined with three-story, red-bricked buildings.
Working his magic, he squeezes past a double-decker bus and parks in a spot under a billboard advertising a storage unit.
It looks like we’re in a residential area.
“Where are we?”
“Queenstown Road on the edge of Battersea.”
“Interesting location for a date. What do you have planned?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
Frustratingly, his tone gives nothing away. He steps out his car door and jogs around the vehicle to open mine. It’s noisy. All I can hear is the sound of cars honking and trains passing over the tracks, their wheels letting out a high-pitched squeak. He points to a shop that says Corner Café.
“We’re getting coffee?”
“Nope, our destination is the first floor of the building.”
We enter a side alley, squeeze past the shop’s rubbish bins, and ascend two flights of narrow steps. Removing a set of keys from his pocket, Art inserts them into the first door on the right and unlocks it. The moment the door opens, a flash of orange darts past us.
“Darn it. There goes Peppermint.” He groans. “Wait inside, Ali, I’ll be right back.” He doesn’t wait for an answer as he rushes down the hall.
I enter the room. My pulse beats with a steady staccato drum.
I’m in Art’s domain. He’s brought me to his flat.
He’s always joked about living in a tiny place and he wasn’t kidding.
Everything in this room is compact and minimal.
A single bed occupies the space under a small window.
On top of the covers, a black-and-white cat is curled up tightly, asleep. I smile—that must be Cinnamon.
As I turn my gaze to the wall on the right, I see the kitchen setup.
There’s a miniature refrigerator, a microwave, a sink, and a half-sized oven.
The only cabinet is stark white. Tucked into the space under the sink is a rolling cart that contains a few dishes and utensils.
I’m guessing that must be Art’s dining table too, because aside from a wardrobe, all the other furniture in the flat belongs to the cats.
There’s an oversized cat tree, two scratching posts, feeding bowls, and a litter box.
I’m struck by the fact that this is more of the cats’ flat than Art’s.
He hasn’t managed to put any personal touches in here.
It’s like a room in a youth hostel—sterile and almost depressing.
There’s no art on the wall. Nor are there any photos anywhere, at least that I can see.
If he were to add a plant, a photo of his cats, even a calendar, it would bring a little life and color to the place.
I wonder why he hasn’t made an effort to do the flat up.
“Sorry about that,” Art grumbles, coming back in and setting the large feline down.
“This one is an escape artist. If we’d taken him to the escape room, he would’ve figured it out in less than a minute.
” He runs a hand through his hair. “So, um . . . it’s not much, but this is my flat.
For our date this afternoon, I thought it might be fun if we did a little baking. ”
“Art, I’d love that. Except do you have the room for it?
” Peppermint walks straight up to me and is immediately interested in my shoelace.
I lower my hand to allow him to sniff it.
“I mean, I saw the rolling cart, but you don’t seem to have any extra counter space .
. . or chairs . . . and, er, do you even have a loo in here? ”
Art cackles with laughter. “Everything is put away so the cats don’t get into any extra mischief when I’m not home. They’re circus artists. And yes, there’s a loo. It’s through here.” He points to the door directly off the entryway. “You just can’t open it and the front door at the same time.”
Crossing the room, Art reaches under his bed and pulls out a folding table and an ironing board.
Next, he opens his wardrobe. Inside, it’s organized in a way that would make Marie Kondo, the queen of maximizing small spaces, proud.
He’s managed to fit clothing, shoes, a computer, a vacuum, and two stools inside.
“I’m impressed.”
“Thanks.” He pops open the table and ironing board. “This should give us more than enough counter space. The only downside is that we’ll have to make do with my hot plate. I don’t have a stovetop.”
“You make your omelets and waffles on a hot plate?”
“No, they’re made on my waffle iron. But I can make them on the hot plate if need be.”
Art removes his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt.
Fire fills my belly as I see his bare arms. We wash our hands in the sink, and he offers me an apron.
I’ve dreamt often about seeing him in the kitchen, and now, my dream is finally becoming a reality.
I’ll have to try hard to keep myself in check around him.
“If it’s all right with you, I thought we could have a picnic indoors. We’ll make some finger sandwiches, mini quiche, Scotch eggs, pigs in a blanket, sausage rolls, scones, potato salad, and either cookies or custard tarts. What do you think?”
The way Art is moving around the kitchen organizing supplies could not be more attractive. It’s hard to focus on what he’s saying. “Um, could you repeat that?”
He rattles off a gluttony of picnic foods.
“Those sound lovely, but that’s an awful lot of food. Do we have the time to make all that?”
“We wouldn’t if I hadn’t gotten a head start on some of it.” Art chuckles. “I made most of the doughs this morning. Whatever we don’t eat, I’ll save and have for dinner or lunch tomorrow.”
“Okay, then, where do we start?”
“Well, I obviously would be one of the first contestants voted off The British Baking Championship. Actually, I doubt they’d even let me into the kitchen,” I joke.
I’ve long since given up being useful. I’m slow and everything I cut ends up being awkward sizes.
Instead, I’ve settled for being on cat-sitting duty, keeping the felines out of the kitchen as I watch Art in his element.
He moves around with the grace of a prima ballerina.
He can be preparing five or six different things at once.
I have no idea how he’s able to keep track of exactly what he’s doing.
It’s one of the most attractive things I’ve ever seen.
“You aren’t hopeless, Ali. Baking just takes some practice.” I watch as he takes a brush and glazes some type of sauce over the quiche. “I’m just lucky my nan taught me so much.”
“Art, I’m curious, why do you live in a flat with such a tiny kitchen? If it were me, I would’ve wanted a place with at least two ovens and a massive island.”
“I would love to have a place with a large kitchen, but flats like that come with a hefty price tag. When I initially moved to the city, I was on a new hire’s salary and it didn’t go very far, especially since I wanted to live on my own. This flat was the best I could afford.”
“What about after you received your promotion and became my protection officer?”