Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LEXI
The small gathering of people, maybe forty, tops, in the entrance of the new respite wing of the children’s hospice issues a polite smattering of applause when Oliver congratulates the staff on the great work they do.
He’s standing at a lectern in front of a plain white wall that has a set of miniature curtains covering the commemorative plaque he’s here to unveil.
Off to the side are the CEO and the director of medical services, who’ve already made their speeches.
Oliver started strong, with a joke about being happy to be home from the US because at least he can get a good cup of tea, which got a genuine laugh, before moving on to the serious and emotional mission of the center.
We were given a tour when we arrived. I hung well back—it’s one thing to pretend to be someone’s girlfriend in situations where it doesn’t really matter, but dishonesty seems wrong in an environment like this.
It also gave me a chance to watch him doing the thing he was raised to do and see how much of a natural and genuine people person he is, how everyone instantly warms to him, and how he makes the kids laugh.
I’d always imagined this stuff was the royal equivalent of politicians kissing babies just for photo ops. But no, Oliver’s sincere interest and care for these people is written all over his face, and I doubt he’s that good an actor.
How did this man ever become a pariah to a large part of this country?
Why can’t people see he’s the most big-hearted, warm human they could ever wish to meet? Because that’s not what sells tabloids, I guess.
The reporters who beat this man up with their words might as well have been kicking a golden retriever puppy—a bouncy, happy, extra cute one—that makes the bed all warm and cozy purely by being on the other side of it.
Was it weird that we slept next to each other last night? Was it weird that I suggested it?
I just felt bad for him squishing himself onto that chaise, which must be uncomfortable.
And it wouldn’t have been right to kick him out of his own bed after he’d relaxed and loosened up enough to talk about how his mother was treated as badly by the press as he is now.
I will never understand how a woman who’s been through that can’t want to protect and defend her son from the same thing. How can she throw him to the wolves and tell him that he has to suck it up, like she did?
He was only a teenager when that all started, for God’s sake.
Anyway, for some reason I had the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time. I guess the jet lag must be dragging on longer than I expected.
“This new respite wing is a vital necessity for a lot of families,” Oliver tells the gathering.
“Children who are usually looked after at home can stay for up to two weeks to give their carers a much-needed break to recharge, spend time with other loved ones, and maybe even get away for a little while.”
It’s funny seeing him in a suit and tie. Not funny as in unattractive. Absolutely not. Is there anything hotter on a man than a tailored suit?
Well, yes. The blanket he wrapped around himself when he climbed off the chaise and onto the bed last night probably has the edge. Even in the dark I could make out the small patch of bare chest peeking out, and the muscular shape of his bare legs.
But still, the whole picture of his tall frame and square shoulders in the deep blue jacket, crisp white shirt, and tie with flying haggises on it that he wore to make the kids laugh is not easy to look away from.
“So it is my great honor as patron of the Saint Philomena Hospice to declare this unit officially open.”
He steps over to the mini curtains and pulls a cord at the side. The fabric parts, gliding back to reveal a plaque that reads The Prince Oliver Wing for Respite Care followed by today’s inauguration date.
Well, I wish someone had warned me it was being named after him, because my eyes involuntarily fill up and I’m in danger of having an embarrassing streak of mascara down both cheeks.
This is bad and wrong. Jesus, I’m a journalist. And I’m on an assignment. You can’t start getting emotional and feeling all squishy for your subject, or else objectivity goes out of the window.
Anyway, it’s not him I’m squishy for, it’s this whole situation. And who wouldn’t get emotional having spent the last couple of hours around sick children who are bright and happy and hopeful?
Not to mention the parents I met at the reception that followed the tour, who somehow find a way to soldier on and put a smile on their faces for the sake of their kids. And then there’s the tireless nursing staff who take care of everyone day after day after day.
You’d have to be a robot not to be moved by the occasion.
Oliver might worry about his existence being pointless, but right now it seems to me his work here is a gazillion times more significant than anything I’ve ever done. Real people’s lives are affected in a real way here, at a time when they’re in desperate need of help.
Phew.
I turn away and run my fingers under my eyes as I look out toward the sunny garden where a man is sitting on a bench.
Alongside him in a wheelchair is a girl who looks about twelve or so.
An oxygen tank is attached to the chair, and the girl has a red patterned scarf wrapped around her head, and a fluffy blanket with polar bears on it over her legs.
The pair are leaning toward a large yellow flower and smiling.
The girl points at it and giggles. Maybe there’s a bee or a ladybug or something crawling around in there.
This place, and Oliver’s contribution to it, spurs me on all the more to hope that when I get out in the field I can do something to raise awareness of kids in other parts of the world who’re suffering in war zones.
The applause dies down behind me, and Oliver’s voice stands out from the low chatter as he says thank you over and over again to people.
“Let’s go back to the car.” Cole appears by my side. “Dane will wait for the boss.”
I nod and follow him along a hallway and out of a back door where the black SUV is parked.
Right as I hop into the back, my phone pings.
BECCA
Soooo??? I can’t believe you didn’t text me yesterday. How did sharing the room go?
Oh, fuck. I got so wrapped up in the whole bog thing and all the fuss about it yesterday and then was busy this morning getting ready and traveling here, I totally forgot to update her.
Which probably makes this the longest Becca and I have gone without texting since the day we bonded over the broken espresso machine at work and walked to the local coffee shop together.
ME
Fine. The first night he slept on the chaise.
But last night he…didn’t.
BECCA
Whaaat???
YOU SLEPT WITH HIM???
ME
Oh God, no. We accidentally shared the bed.
BECCA
Just trying to remember if I’ve ever accidentally shared a bed with a member of British royalty.
Hang on.
Oh, no. I haven’t.
Because how the fuck does that happen?!
ME
I was interviewing him. And the room was cold. And I felt bad for him being on the chaise.
BECCA
And there she goes…straight down the slippery slope to Cocksville.
ME
Never going to happen.
BECCA
So you’re going to “just share a bed with him” every night now? And you’re suddenly so innocent that you really think Prince Stiffy won’t come a-knockin’?
ME
We’re not sharing a bed every night.
BECCA
Yes, you are. Now that you’ve done it once, how do you walk that back? How do you kick him back to the chaise?
Okay, that’s a fair point. That I hadn’t considered.
BECCA
Shit, gotta go. Julian’s texted asking why there’s nothing on socials yet about how Finnish people drink more coffee than any other nationality.
ME
Wow. Didn’t know he even knew how to find our socials.
BECCA
Someone from upstairs must have complained. Gotta run. DO NOT BANG THE PRINCE.
I won’t. I can’t. It would shred what little professional reputation I have to tatters.
But I wouldn’t do it anyway.
So everything’s fine.
I look out of the SUV at the hospice.
“No sign of Oliver?” I ask Cole.
“Dane says he got caught up talking.”
Given what Oliver said about hating small talk, I imagine that’s the last thing he’d want.
“I’ll go rescue him. Tell him he’s needed for something urgent.” I open the door and hop out, shutting it as Cole says something about it being better if I wait in the vehicle.
As I walk back up the path to the entrance, I catch the sound of laughter to the left. Laughter that sounds very much like Oliver’s.
And there he is, over in the garden, crouched in front of the man and the girl in the wheelchair.
All three are having a good giggle.
Dane’s standing a discreet distance away.
“Absolute pleasure to meet you both,” Oliver says as he gets to his feet and offers his hand to the man.
The man stands and takes it, shaking it with earnest gratitude.
“Thank you so much, sir,” he says. “This means the world to us. You have absolutely no idea.”
The man swipes at his face with the back of his hand, obviously wiping away a tear, and Oliver squeezes his shoulder. I wish he weren’t facing away from me and I could see his expression.
“And you, young lady,” Oliver holds his hand out to the girl, who shakes it. “You make sure this one here behaves.” He points at the man. “Don’t let him feed them.”
The girl giggles and nods.
Oliver waves back at them as he heads down a path that leads to another gate to the street. “Someone will be in touch with all the plans.”
Dane catches up to his side and they head together toward the SUV.
What was that all about? Don’t let him feed them?
Would Oliver tell me if I asked him?
Maybe not.
Once he and Dane are out of sight, I head over to the man and the girl, who are now in a full-blown hug, tears trickling down their smiling faces.
“Hi, there,” I say when they release each other. “I’m Lexi, I’m—” I’m about to say working with Prince Oliver, but if they see any photos from the bog treasure hunt, they’ll see me described as his girlfriend. “I’m with Prince Oliver.”
“Wow, that was fast.” The girl’s eyes are wide, their deep brown a stark contrast to her pale skin. And her Scottish accent is adorable.
“He must ha’ folk everywhere,” the man says with a laugh before blowing his nose. “I’m Andrew.” He offers me his hand, then pulls it back and looks at it. “Och, sorry. You dunnae want tae shake hands with a man who just blew his schnoz.”
“Ew, Dad.” The girl screws up her face. “You’re disgusting.”
“And my cheeky daughter ’ere is Kirsty.”
“Delighted to meet you both,” I tell them. “I wanted to ask about the plans the prince was making with you. I wondered—”
“I’ve wanted tae see a real polar bear my whole life,” Kirsty says.
“Well, she’s seen ’em in a zoo.” Andrew wraps his arm around the girl’s shoulders.
“Not the same as seeing ’em where they really live,” she says.
“Any fact you wantae know aboot a polar bear, you ask her,” Andrew says. “She knows everything. Been obsessed with ’em since she were five.”
“Okay.” I think for a moment. “How much do they weigh?”
“Ha! The exact same question Prince Oliver asked,” Andrew says.
For a fraction of a second, my brain tells me that’s another example of how in tune Oliver and I are. Then my logic says that question is pretty much the first easy one anyone would think of that the kid probably knows the answer to.
“Males can be up tae one thousand seven hundred pounds,” Kirsty says with pride. “Which is aboot seven hundred and seventy kilos.”
“You know, I”—Andrew pauses to swallow and sniff—“I cannae believe Prince Oliver would send us to Canada for Kirsty to see ’em in the wild.”
“Wow.” My wonder is real. As is that flutter in my chest. “So that’s what the plans are? To fly you to northern Canada to visit the polar bears?”
Kirsty nods so hard her headscarf shifts, revealing a flash of baldness. She quickly pulls it back into place. “I’ve never been more excited aboot anything in ma life.”
Now it’s my turn to swallow and sniff.
If Oliver’s worried about not making an impact on anything and his existence being worthless, he’s bonkers. This center is only one example of something that might never have raised enough money to even exist if his name hadn’t been at the top of the patrons list.
And now, at a time when he’s worried about making his own living, he’s paying for a polar bear-watching trip to Canada for two complete strangers.
I blow out a short breath and try to gather myself.
“I’m absolutely certain the prince will be delighted to hear that. There’ll be nothing he wants more than for you to enjoy yourselves and have the time of your life.”
My face instantly heats as I realize the clumsiness of those last four words.
“Dunno where we’d be withoot Saint Philomena’s,” Andrew says. “Not since we lost Kirsty’s mam a couple o’ years back.”
Oh dear God. How much suffering can a family endure?
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say to them both. “And while he knows nothing can ever make up for something like that, I know for certain that Prince Oliver hopes the trip will put a smile on your faces.”
“Already has.” Andrew rubs his daughter’s back, and she looks up at him with a smile big enough to light up the whole of the Canadian tundra.
“Someone will be in touch to get all your details.” I start to move away. “It was an absolute pleasure to meet you.”
“Tell him thank you again,” Kirsty calls as I head back toward the SUV.
There’s just time to wipe my eyes and my nose before I’m back at the vehicle where Dane is standing outside the rear door.
He opens it for me.
“Ah,” Oliver says from the back seat. “Wondered where you’d got to.”
I climb in next to him and he holds up his phone to face me. “Sofia texted. She hates the shirt I was planning to wear for the wedding.”
Is this, right here, the dichotomy of Oliver’s life?
The frippery of outfit choices for being on public display on the one hand, and trying to do real good for real people on the other?
I’ve been here for only two days and I’m absolutely drained by it.
Do these people earn their place in society after all?
I lean back against the seat with a sigh. “Sure. Let’s go back to the castle and talk about the right clothes to wear for a royal wedding.”
That’s now top of the list of sentences I never thought I’d say. But the way my life’s going lately, I don’t doubt it’ll be knocked off the top spot soon.