Chapter 1 #4
Lauren had never rarely seen a man who wasn’t a groom choose to wear a waistcoat in real life.
Lauren was still standing, as was everyone else in the room. “May I ask?” she said, and this time every head in the room swiveled
viciously toward her. “What is the crisis, um, I mean situation, on hand here?”
Amelia seemed to finally notice her for the first time. “Lauren Morgan,” she said. “You’re here because you want the deputy
position, yes?”
“Yes,” Lauren said. “James here has been very kind so far—”
Eugene snorted in a way that wasn’t flattering to either himself or James.
“Great, yes, wonderful, James is a delight,” Amelia said, resting her hand on the desk. “So tell me, Lauren. Let’s say that
you come into work one morning and find out that one of the working royal family members—”
“By marriage,” Eugene interjected. “Royal by marriage.”
“—decided to place a highly offensive, some might even say racist vase in the middle of a dining table at a private luncheon honoring the significant contribution of nurses and healthcare
workers from the Caribbean nations to the National Health Service, and when asked about said vase, claimed that it had been
a wedding gift given to her many years ago by another royal. Not by marriage, this time,” Amelia added, giving Eugene a withering glance.
“Yikes,” Lauren said. “I assume the press . . . ?”
“Already have pictures taken by our very own in-house photographer that will be on all the front pages when they go to print
this evening, yes,” Amelia said. “Not one person working at that engagement noticed the glaring problem in the middle of the
room. Not one!
“I should also add that just one year ago this same individual was caught on CCTV telling a foreign shop assistant to ‘learn
proper English.’” She made finger quotes around the last three words.
“Oof. Who married this person, exactly?” Lauren asked. “They sound like a nightmare.”
“They’re certainly causing nightmares,” Amelia said. “So tell me, Lauren Morgan, formerly of the United States White House, how would you deal with this problem?”
The adrenaline burn inside Lauren was now a wildfire.
It had been so long since someone had required an answer, a solution, a plan from her.
She’d spent every day of the past month in her apartment, relating almost every tangible item to either Brian or Brooke, or them together, and that fire she’d always had for her job and life had been doused in depression and tears.
So many tears. (She’d go to her grave before she would ever tell anyone about the one afternoon when she drank an entire bottle of wine and ugly cried her way through a double feature of Barbie and The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.)
It had been so long since she had felt wanted or needed or even necessary.
And goddamnit, she was ready to work again.
“Okay,” Lauren said, automatically switching into her “work voice.” Brooke used to always tease her about that and— Wait a
minute, fuck Brooke. This was Lauren’s time to shine.
“First,” Lauren said, “get an official on-the-record statement out there before the press can write a word. ‘Buckingham Palace
does not tolerate racism in any shape or form . . . The person in question’—whoever it is—‘blah blah blah, is deeply sorry
and ashamed over the choice they made today and wants to express their sincere apologies for their action.’ Do not say ‘They apologize to whoever might have been offended,’ that’ll just make it worse. And then you put this individual on
lockdown. They’re taking time off from royal duties to reflect on their actions, to learn . . . you can say that. And then
they truly do need to go off and learn or this will be ten times worse the next time—because there will be a next time—they
do something like this.”
The office was starting to feel a little warm, and Lauren shrugged out of her blazer, grateful that she had also taken her
dark green blouse to the express dry cleaner before she had left DC. “Can I?” she asked James, gesturing toward the whiteboard
on his office wall, and he nodded. “Great, thanks,” she said, then grabbed a marker and wrote “STATEMENT” on the board before
circling it and drawing an arrow down.
“Next,” Lauren said. “Do you have high ranking royals on call or anything like that?”
Three pairs of eyes blinked at her.
“Well, get a senior royal, your most popular one, out there ASAP, and make sure it’s one who hasn’t done anything controversial for a while, if that’s possible.” Lauren wrote “UNPROBLEMATIC ROYAL” on the board, then drew an arrow to the right.
“Then have that royal carry out a private engagement at the British History Museum to meet with curators and researchers to
learn more about artwork and jewelry with ties to colonialism. She or he will then announce that the Palace will be working
with this team to remove offending pieces from the Royal Collection and educating staff and family members about these items.
And you get a crew of royal admirers lined up outside the museum entrance. I don’t care if you have to bus them in, just get
them there.” “HISTORY MUSEUM” went up on the board, followed by “FANS.”
“Then, whichever reporter is going to give you the biggest headache—”
“All of them,” Amelia muttered.
“—contact them right now and give them an early heads up because, and tell them this, they’re so important. Spread out exclusive
details for each of the other outlets as well. That’ll move the story on and lessen the impact of whatever they’re about to
print; it could even change the direction of all the articles tomorrow.”
“And you truly think that offering up a statement on a visit that hasn’t even been announced or planned yet will keep the
wolves at bay?” Eugene smirked at her and crossed his arms.
So many men had looked at Lauren like that over her entire career. It never got less annoying.
“And as for your office,” Lauren continued, turning to look directly at Eugene, “you do not say a word. Not one word. It can only touch you
if you open the door and let it in, so you keep those wolves out, okay?”
Lauren paused, dry-erase pen still clutched in her hand.
She felt hot, like she had just gone for a jog on a cold day, her cheeks flushed.
“Anyway,” she said. “That’s what I would do.
And yes,” she said to Eugene, looking him in the eyes.
“It will work because flattery works on everyone, especially those who think it won’t. Nice tie, by the way.”
Eugene glanced down and patted the red-and-blue-striped silk tie. “Oh, thank you.” He beamed.
“See?” Lauren grinned.
There was silence in the room for a few seconds, and then Amelia smiled so wide that Lauren could see her back molars. “Well,
then,” she said. “You’re obviously hired.”
“I’m what?” Lauren repeated.
“You’re hired.”
“You’re hiring me as deputy?” Lauren said.
“Well, sort of,” Amelia said. “Technically you would be acting director of comms until they find my replacement. I’m leaving
today.”
“What?!” Eugene cried.
“Amelia, let’s—!” James interrupted.
“No, that’s it, I told you, I officially quit. I resign, I’m going out in a blaze of glory, whatever you want to say. But
I am done and I think that you”—she gestured toward James and Eugene—“will be in excellent hands.”
“My hands?” Lauren said. She was starting to feel like a parrot, repeating everything that Amelia was saying to her. “Wait, I
wasn’t even interviewing for that position. You’re supposed to be in that position!”
“Yes, exactly!” Eugene said, and even though he was agreeing with her, Lauren couldn’t help but be a little offended.
Amelia just held up her hands. “I’m sure all of you will work it out and come to an agreement. Lauren, it was a pleasure meeting you. I wish you well.”
Lauren was pretty sure that was the oral equivalent of signing off an email with “Best.” It did not bode well.
“Oh!” Amelia said as she started to leave the room. “Make sure you ask them about the diversity czar they’ve just taken on.”
She laughed to herself as she disappeared around the corner, leaving a good amount of emotional chaos in her wake.
Lauren turned back to look at James and Eugene. “What exactly just happened here?”
“Amelia happened,” Eugene said.
“And you’ve been hired,” James added. Lauren didn’t think it was possible for him to look more pinched, but apparently she
had been wrong about that. If he wasn’t careful, he would hurt himself. “Wonderful.”
“Back up a minute. Who or what is a diversity czar?” Lauren asked.
James placed his hands on his desk and sighed. “When something like this happened last year we announced plans to hire a ‘diversity
czar’ to help with our diversity, equity, and inclusion efforts both inside and outside the Palace.” He didn’t make finger
quotes around the phrase, but Eugene did.
“You do realize that things involving czars tend to not end well, right?” Lauren said. “Revolutions, false identities, families
murdered in basements, animated films, the whole thing.”
“Well, after nearly a year of searching, we’ve found just the person for the position,” James said. “Lady Cordelia Aspinal
will be joining us after spending several years living and working in Tanzania in East Africa; her father, Lord Aspinal, owns
a gold-producing mine there.”
“A white aristocrat with hands stained by blood money,” Lauren said. “That’s the lane you’re choosing?”
James’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Perhaps.”
“Yeah, you might want to rethink that choice,” Lauren said. She sat back down in her chair, trying to think through the events
of the last sixty seconds. “I can’t even start tomorrow. I only packed a carry-on. I still have leftover takeout in my refrigerator
back in DC! I’m supposed to check out of my hotel by noon!”
“We can take care of that,” James said, and when Lauren looked at him, she saw a man who, if she didn’t accept the job, was