Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Callum
The relief on my grandmother’s face causes a glow of happiness inside me.
I will do anything I can right now to make her feel better.
I will stand on my head and recite Much Ado About Nothing, which I know is her favorite Shakespeare play.
I will organize a flash mob of corgis performing a choreographed dance to her favorite Diana Ross tune.
Because she deserves so much more than what she is having to cope with right now.
But the option that started spinning in my mind in the car is one I need to put out there before we move forward.
“I can step aside if you want, if you think that would help. If you think Nicholas will be more palatable as the heir,” I offer. “I know the fact I’m not English might make everything more difficult.”
I haven’t spent much time in the UK, but I can imagine my Californian accent might not be what people expect from the Prince of Wales.
My grandmother seems to carefully consider my words before she shakes her head. “No. I don’t want more turmoil in the succession line. Besides, I’m not sure if Nicholas’s temperament is suited to being king.”
And she thinks mine is? I’m happy with her confidence in me, even if I don’t quite share it.
I think of what I know about my younger half-brother.
He’s twenty-two and has just graduated from Oxford.
He’s been through the top British schools and is the archetype of a polo-playing, privileged upper-class aristocrat.
He definitely looks and sounds more like a prince than me.
The last time I saw him, he was in California for some boys’ weekend.
He was severely hungover when we met for brunch, and I got the feeling his life revolves around partying with young European glitterati at various exotic locations around the world.
“I will need Nicholas and Amelia to step up, though, as second and third in line to the throne, as we have a lot of royal engagements we now need to fill. There’s a limit on what Amelia will be able to do as she’s so focused on her studies.”
While I don’t know either of my half-siblings well, I have a soft spot for Amelia.
She’s the definition of nerdy chic. Our relationship currently consists of sending each other funny memes.
I guess the upside of this whole thing is I will get to know my half-siblings better.
Given my parents divorced when I was less than a year old, and I grew up on the other side of the Atlantic, it’s understandable that they are pretty much strangers to me.
A palace courtier comes into the room. “Your Majesty, the prime minister is here.”
“Thank you, Clive. You may let him in,” my grandmother says.
I run a hand through my hair.
“I’m not sure if I’m up to meeting the prime minister right now,” I say.
“It’s just an informal meeting. We’re going to be working closely with the government going forward, and I thought it would be good for you to meet him. Oliver’s a good man. Slightly too serious, but they always are in their first term.”
The weight of history is in her voice. She’s seen many, many prime ministers, after all.
The noise of the opening door swings my attention away from my grandmother to where Oliver Hartwell is entering the room.
He’s dressed in a dark suit that emphasizes his extremely good looks. Dark hair, chiseled cheekbones, a defined jaw that always seems to have just a hint of stubble. It’s like he’s so manly that his facial hair grows back the moment he shaves it off.
He looks every inch a prime minister, someone in complete control, as he strolls across the carpet toward us.
He bows to my grandmother. “Your Majesty.”
Then he turns toward me and gives a cursory nod. “Your Royal Highness.”
I stick out my hand because it seems ridiculous to have Oliver Hartwell bowing to me and the sooner we move past that, the better.
Oliver reaches out and takes my hand in his.
And my world tilts off its axis.
I mean, my world is already off its axis right now. I feel like I’m in a whole other galaxy than the one I usually inhabit, but having Oliver’s warm, dry palm pressing against mine makes it tilt even more, the room momentarily swirling around me.
My stomach swirls in unison.
What the hell? I’ve never had this physical reaction to someone before.
Prime minister-induced vertigo. Is that a thing?
Oliver’s eyebrows pull together. His eyes flick down to where our hands are joined, like there’s something he can’t quite figure out either.
My whole body is trembling like I’ve just been electrocuted. Or had one too many espressos.
I open my mouth and a whole lot of inane babble falls out. “It’s so nice to meet you, Prime Minister. I think it’s amazing what you’ve done for LGBTQ+ representation in politics. I mean, it’s so seriously cool that the youth of today have someone like you to look up to.”
Awesome. Fanboy gushing. That’s a great way to start a working relationship with one of the most powerful men in the world. Next, I’ll be asking for his autograph.
“Uh…thanks,” Oliver says, withdrawing his hand quickly from mine. Which is fair enough because it hasn’t been scientifically proven that being a babbling idiot isn’t contagious.
I immediately feel the absence of Oliver’s hand.
“It’s nice to meet you too,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.
He glances at my grandmother, who watches us with a small crease between her eyebrows.
Is she now questioning her earlier assertion that I’m the right person for the future of the monarchy? I wouldn’t really blame her.
“Oliver and I meet once a week for me to go through the government papers and be briefed on the legislation that needs to be signed into law,” she tells me.
I nod. It’s a little-known fact of the British constitutional monarchy that the Queen has the final sign-off on all laws. The paper I did on the history of European monarchies as part of my unfinished master’s now seems increasingly valuable.
“We’ve already drafted the legislation to remove your family members caught up in the scandal from the succession line,” Oliver says. “We’re going to introduce it simultaneously in the House of Lords and the Commons Chamber. We anticipate it will pass with no obstruction within a few days.”
I’m so distracted by the authoritative way he speaks that I’m a few seconds too late with my reply.
“Okay.” And what a scintillating reply it is. Oliver must really be admiring my intellectual prowess right now.
“The press offices for all the palaces are working around the clock to manage this situation,” my grandmother says to Oliver.
“The general consensus is we need to get Prince Callum in front of the public as soon as possible. We must show the British public that the royal family will continue our duties uninterrupted.”
“The show must go on,” I say without thinking.
My grandmother turns to me, a questioning look on her face.
“Isn’t that what they say in show business?” I ask. “That the show must go on? And I guess I’m one of the new feature acts, right? Hopefully, I’m not expected to do any trapeze stunts because heights terrify me. I’m willing to give fire breathing a go though.”
My grandmother has a neutral expression as I rattle on, but then, she’s used to my flights of fancy. She also does about two hundred public engagements a year. She would have had to deal with many other bumbling idiots before. There must be more of us out there.
Although Oliver’s looking at me like I’ve just provided more evidence for my earlier idiot diagnosis.
The silence extends for an excruciating moment before Oliver breaks it. “What about a clown? What’s your stance on doing clownish acts?”
I nod enthusiastically. “That definitely feels like it’s within my skill set. I think I’d really rock the red-nose look.”
“I agree,” he says, one side of his top lip twitching upward and the lines around his eyes deepening slightly. I stare at him in wonder. Is there a chance I’ve amused Oliver Hartwell? Surely not. Oliver is notorious for being very, very serious.
“Callum’s going to have some media training,” Gran says, in what must be the most obvious point in the universe.
“That’s always a good idea.” Oliver manages to keep a straight face, which is a tribute to his advanced diplomatic skills. No wonder he’s ended up the prime minister.
He glances at Gran. “As you know, you have the government’s complete support during this crisis. Anything you need from us, just let us know.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I appreciate that.”
He turns to leave. “It was nice to meet you, Prince Callum. I’m sure we’ll see more of each other in the future.”
“I’m sure we will.”
Two days ago, I talked a lady through an insurance claim because her children flooded her basement trying to set up an inflatable pool indoors. Now I have a future that involves spending time with the British prime minister.
I take a deep breath, trying to gulp enough oxygen to banish my lightheaded feeling as Oliver leaves the room.
I don’t know if there is enough oxygen in the world to help me cope with my new reality.
“We’ve got a meeting with the chief communication officers from Buckingham Palace, Kensington Palace, and Clarence House soon.
We need to discuss logistics going forward,” Gran says.
“We’ll be renovating Clarence House for you, but for the moment, we’ve placed you in one of the Buckingham Palace apartments. Why don’t you go freshen up?”
“Okay,” I say.
I bow again to her as I leave, and she smiles at me, but her smile is creaky around the edges.
I have another flash of anger toward my relatives, along with an overwhelming crush of responsibility. My grandmother has done nothing but serve her country faithfully her entire life. She doesn’t deserve to see everything she has worked for fall apart.
I will do anything I can to get Gran smiling properly again.
Raymond is waiting for me outside. As I follow him through the hallways again, my phone beeps with a message.
It’s from Scott, with a link to the front page of the American Daily.
British Monarchy Shock! Scandal Engulfs the Royal Family, Forcing Senior Royals to Resign
The New Heir to the Throne is American!
Underneath the headline is an old photo taken when I was a teenager standing next to my grandmother. I have no idea where they dredged it up from. My hair is too long and I’m squinting into the sun. I look like an aged hippie who has spent far too much time sampling recreational drugs.
Scott’s accompanied the link with a message.
Um…either you have some previously unrecognized and highly evolved Photoshop and media manipulation skills, or you really are the heir to the British throne. Either way, congratulations!