Chapter 3 #2
“Do you have amnesia?” he said. “Eugene literally just introduced him to you. He’s the Duke of Exeter.”
“No, I know who he is.” And she did, that was the thing. Lauren had read a whole host of articles about this duke while assembling her wonky
family tree. She had learned all about his parents’ decision for him to not take on a life of royal duties after they were
subjected to nonstop hounding by the press throughout the course of their marriage and how his mother desperately wanted to
make sure their son lived a “normal” life. Which led to his decision to study in and then stay in New Zealand as a civilian,
how he took over a small sheep farm there and turned it into a huge business producing wool, his marriage to university-sweetheart-turned-tech-entrepreneur
Jessica Wu—who had left him two years ago for another tech billionaire. Lauren knew the full story, just not the part about
growing a giant beard, moving back to the UK, and storming through people’s unlocked office doors. “But why is he here?”
“Well, I shouldn’t be the one telling you this, but his return is probably going to be one of your responsibilities,” James
said, looking both smug and excited to be the messenger. “Right now, the world still thinks he is in New Zealand, but Her
Majesty has been worried about him since his divorce and, after hearing about the collapse of his business, and”—he lowered
his voice further—“his finances, she suggested it might be time to take on a role within the family. But for that to work, he’s going to need serious media training, a little image rehabilitation, which would, of course, would be up to our acting director of comms to spearhead.”
“How bad is his image?” Lauren asked.
“Oh, not good!” James said brightly. “His ex-wife, Jessica, became a billionaire after selling her AI startup, but none of
it ever entered the duke’s pockets because of the prenuptial agreement he was made to sign in order to protect the Crown.
So over the past two years he has borrowed obscene amounts of money from banks and investors to keep his own fledgling business
and investments from going under, and, you didn’t hear this from me, he’s basically on the verge of filing for bankruptcy.
So the Queen encouraged him to return, and he’s just moved into one of the BP apartments. His rent is a steal, I’ve heard.”
“He has to pay rent?!” Lauren said.
James looked shocked. “Of course he does,” he replied. “They’re not running a shelter here. So expect Eugene to come to you
with this very soon. I’d start sketching some plans now, if I were you. And act surprised when he tells you!”
Lauren sighed and wondered if the expired painkillers at the bottom of her purse would at least be somewhat effective. “Of
course,” she said. “Thanks for telling me.”
“Telling you what?” James laughed, heading down the hall. “Have fun planning your little press party!”
“Nooo!” Joy said, covering her mouth with her hand. “From the way you described him that day, you made him out to be Hagrid!”
Lauren was working on getting the childproof cap off of her Advil. “So yeah,” she said. “Not a bike messenger, not some rando, just the beloved nephew of the Queen.”
“Here, let me help,” Joy said, taking the bottle from her. “I feel like Theo picks up some new lurgy every week at school.
I could open these in my sleep.” She popped the lid and passed it back to Lauren. “So. Was he as handsome as the photos?”
“Unfortunately,” Lauren replied, and Joy squealed in delight. “What am I even going to do with him? If he’s going to become
a working royal, he’ll need an entire press plan and a host of engagements.”
“Didn’t you have to make some of the worst people look decent in DC? This will be a walk in the park,” Joy said. “I’ll tell
you what, though. He better not steal my thunder at the press conference tomorrow.”
Lauren swallowed two pills dry. “Are you ready for your big debut?
Joy scoffed. “I’m always ready. That mob doesn’t scare me. A lot of them knew me or knew of me back when I was at Scotland
Yard, they wouldn’t dare.”
“But they’ll mess with the American,” Lauren replied, saying the quiet part out loud.
“Oh, absolutely,” Joy said. “But you can handle them. You got this.”
It was so sincerely said that Lauren felt tears prick at the backs of her eyes. “Yeah, I do,” she said. “I really think this is a good idea. Seriously. The best.”
The shower at her new apartment building did have spectacular water pressure, as Lauren discovered on Friday morning.
It had taken her all of fifteen minutes to move herself and her one suitcase in on Thursday night after work, after a stop at John Lewis for sheets and some towels that were on sale.
As she was brushing her teeth at the shared bathroom sink that morning, a tall woman about her age with big, bouncy blond hair waltzed in wearing a slinky black dress that had a strange duality of looking both high fashion but also fast fashion.
Lauren wasn’t sure which it was. She had a pair of heels slung over one finger, and with her free hand, she leaned toward the mirror and began pulling her false eyelashes off.
“Una,” she said to Lauren, who had paused mid-brush to stare at her.
“Lauren,” she replied. “I’m the new—”
“I guessed,” Una replied, widening her eyes even more as she successfully tugged one lash off. “These buggers. I’ve got to
start getting extensions again.” She glanced at Lauren in the mirror as she went to work on the other eye. “You work?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Lauren said, trying to make a joke.
Una just shrugged. “Depends what you count as work, babe.”
“Um, yes, I do. At Buckingham Palace, actually.”
“Ooh, fancy,” Una said in a tone that implied it wasn’t that fancy at all. “I slept with one of the royal guards once. You
know, the ones tourists are always trying to make smile. He fainted during a parade one day and quit right after. Poor boy
went viral. Wonder what ever happened to him.”
Lauren just stared at Una. “Wow,” she finally said, since that seemed to be the most polite and truthful response.
“I know, right?” Una tossed her lashes into the trash and grabbed a pack of makeup wipes. “Fuck it, I’ll wash my face later.
Gotta go to bed and get some beauty rest.” She waggled perfectly manicured fingers at Lauren as she left the bathroom. “Good
luck at the Palace, neighbor. Try not to go viral.”
It wasn’t the worst piece of advice Lauren had gotten so far. She just hadn’t expected it to come from the walking Sephora that was her new bathroom mate.
Lauren was still feeling unnerved as she jumped on the tube to make the thirty-minute journey to work, using her brand-new
Oyster card that she kept referring to as her SmarTrip card. Old habits died hard, and Lauren was feeling the struggle.
At least her outfit was on point: an Aritzia pantsuit she’d bought last weekend, paired with a J.Crew wool overcoat to brave
the colder weather.
“What, no blueberry muffins today? A case of Pop-Tarts?” Eugene said when he saw her, but she ignored him in favor of shrugging
out of her coat and flinging it on her desk before heading outside of the main Palace building to the haunted room James had
reserved for her in the Queen’s Gallery. It was pitch-black until she found the switches on the wall, and she was relieved
to see that both chandeliers were in perfect working order and the two buckets that had been positioned to catch rain were
bone-dry. According to her weather app, at least, no rain was expected that day.
She spent the next two hours supervising a few maintenance workers as they set up a small podium, a microphone, and speakers,
her arms crossed in front of her as she paced back and forth, checking her phone every fifteen seconds for . . . well, she
wasn’t quite sure. At this point, she was ready for anything from a last-minute abdication to a zombie outbreak.
She was expecting twenty-five reporters, and she had done some intense research on all of them, staying up until 2:00 a.m. reading their articles on her phone because the Wi-Fi in her apartment had yet to be connected.
They were from Britain’s top broadcasters, the sleaziest of tabloid newspapers, and the few publications that were firmly anti-monarchy.
She’d kept the list varied, not wanting to be accused of liberalism, conservatism, or favoritism, despite the fact that Eugene said that, privately, the Palace preferred to only work with outlets that were favorable to the monarchy.
One thing she hadn’t considered, though, was that in her quest to find the perfect room for the press briefing, she had sacrificed
size for style, so as reporters, photographers, and broadcast journalists and producers filed into the space, haphazardly
printed badges around their necks and bemused smirks on their faces, Lauren realized that it was going to be a packed house.
“Better crowded than empty,” Joy whispered as she sidled up next to Lauren.
“Yes, you’re right,” Lauren muttered, glancing at her press list and trying to match the names with faces. One by one they
trickled into the room until all six rows of chairs were full, a few latecomers standing off to the side.
The butterflies in Lauren’s stomach spontaneously doubled.
“How many of these have you done before?” Joy asked her.
“Participated in? Hundreds.”
“And run?”
Lauren swallowed.
“Forget it,” Joy said. “Forget Eugene standing in the back there—oh, you hadn’t seen him. I’m sorry, my bad. But forget all
of them. You’re the one in charge here. And if you need, just throw it to me and I’ll charm the absolute hell out of everyone.”
“Lauren,” James said quietly, gesturing toward the riser, and Lauren nodded and gathered up her notecards as she stepped toward
the podium.
No time for nerves anymore.