Prologue
SACKVILLE HOUSE, WILTSHIRE
Jams,
Bash and I have had a conversation about you.
I talked at length, from the chaise, while Bash made the small affirming noises he makes when he agrees with everything I am saying but cannot say so on the record.
The subject we agonised over was your love life, on which we are uniquely qualified to comment, as Bash and I are currently HAVING quite torrid ones with our respective partners whilst yours remains purely theoretical.
So I have taken liberties. I have drafted you a profile that would actually find you a proper partner. One that would make you stand out in the current meat market of Raya.
Now you must allow me to help you find your own connubial bliss, for Bash and I do not wish to see you as the fifth wheel in our friend group for the rest of your days.
The British Monarchy, after all, depends rather heavily on your ability to procreate.
Or, given that your procreative energies have thus far been directed exclusively at men, to at least secure a co-parent who can help keep your laboratory-conceived heirs from ending up on the front page of the Mail.
? ? ?
JAMS, 27. LONDON. 6‘3”. (I have been generous, Jams. Reveal truth as you will.)
About me:
I am the King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of fourteen other realms, the precise number of which fluctuates without my consent, depending on prevailing republican sentiment.
I am also Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith, Supreme Governor of the Church of England, and Sovereign of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, plus assorted lesser titles available for review on request.
I am brown-haired. I have a rower’s body. I photograph serious. I am not; I can tell a mean limerick. I have the face of an Englishman: see the fiver, the tenner, the twenty, and the fifty for reference.
What I am offering:
A man who will love you carefully and completely. Who will write you letters by hand. Who will, on the two evenings per year his diary permits, cook you a profoundly mediocre carbonara.
Also: Kensington Palace (lovely, home ground), Buckingham Palace (working accommodation, draughty), Windsor (weekends, weddings, funerals), Balmoral (August, midges), Sandringham (Christmas, mandatory), and the Royal Lodge for whenever you need to escape the rest of them.
A tiara of your choosing from the vault, on the understanding that several are entailed and one is technically a hat with a few sapphires stuck on.
Dominion over an unreasonable number of horses, an even more unreasonable number of sheep, and a herd of cows at Windsor. I also own every unmarked mute swan in open water in England and Wales, a constitutional responsibility I did not seek, but cannot decline.
What I am asking for:
A kind person with their own teeth, who can survive a courtship conducted under the spotlight glare of an ever-present security detail, a Private Secretary, and royal a entourage, on whose approval the whole relationship effectively turns.
Specifically I require someone with:
A willingness to be taught how to wave, by a woman whose entire job is teaching people how to wave.
The capacity to stand still beside a car for the precise number of seconds required for someone else to open the door, without looking either impatient or put out.
Sufficient stamina to remain standing for ninety minutes in a hat.
A preternatural ability to suppress one’s yawn throughout an interminable number of back to back church services.
What the role involves:
Wearing tiaras at state occasions without knocking them off.
Smiling benignly at children offering you damp posies.
Learning the order of precedence for the hereditary peerage.
Accepting that two billion people will form public opinions about your hair.
Catching me when I press my forehead against yours at the end of a very long day.
The United Kingdom comes with me. So do the other fourteen realms. They are heavier on my shoulders than they look.
Languages: English, French, indifferent Welsh, ceremonial Latin.
Drinks: Fluently.
Smokes: Funerals only.
Pets: Thirty-eight corgis. Non-negotiable.
Children: The country will require some for continuity of the monarchy.
Politics: Cannot say.
Religion: See above re: Defender of the Faith.
Looking for: Any reason at all to stay in.
? ? ?
There. I have done the hard part. You need only log in and activate the profile.
Jams, I am serious. Your Order of the Bedchamber Sex Rota is impeccable.
I have nothing but respect for the institution you have built.
But not one of them has ever made you breakfast, and you are getting too old to keep mistaking a good servicing of His Royal Hardness for the actual, soul-feeding companionship of a life partner.
Pick someone. Or let someone pick you. We are running out of decades in which I will be prepared to vet candidates without recourse to the Cardonan secret service. With whom I am no longer formally permitted to consort, but who, I assure you, remember me fondly.
All my love,
Vidal