Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Oliver
Toby slaps down the morning papers on the briefing room table. “I think we could pass legislation mandating everyone in the country has to marry a goose, and we wouldn’t even generate a headline.”
He’s right.
The whole country is currently in an uproar.
The media doesn’t know which story to focus on, the salacious downfall of so many members of the royal family or the fact the new heir to the throne is an unknown American.
I stare at the headlines screaming about betrayal and treachery, interspersed by photos of a smiling Callum. The picture featured on the front page of The Corporate Times is the same one Rosalia shared at the cabinet meeting, where he looks every inch the all-American guy.
Now I’ve met him, I know the photo doesn’t do Callum Prescott justice. It doesn’t show how his hair flops perfectly over his forehead, how his eyes are such an unusual shade of green, reminding me of a peridot gemstone of perfect clarity.
But it wasn’t his looks that surprised me about Callum Prescott.
I’d expected…what? Cocky arrogance to go with his handsomeness. Smoothness and charm. Confidence combined with reserve.
Not a bumbling, affable guy who seems to trip over his own tongue.
The other thing that surprised me was how my body reacted to shaking Callum’s hand.
A frission of energy shot up my arm, and it felt like every cell in my body had tingled.
It was as if my body wanted to ensure I knew I was touching an attractive man.
But I’m not about to share that titbit with Toby now.
“What’s he like?” Toby asks.
I struggle to put my thoughts into words as I stand, gathering my folder of notes. I only met Callum for a few minutes. But he definitely left a lasting impression.
“Different,” I say finally.
Toby raises an eyebrow. “In what way?”
“Different from anything the monarchy has had before. And the Firm wants business as usual.”
Toby opens the door for me, and I lead the way out.
“Do they think the British public isn’t going to twig that they’ve subbed out a cardigan-wearing fifty-year-old quintessential British toff for a twenty-five-year-old Californian?
That no one will blink an eye that instead of the usual inbred pompous nobles, the royal assembly line has suddenly started churning out Ken dolls?
” Toby asks as he falls into step beside me.
“I think they’re hoping the introduction of Prince Callum will distract from the misdeeds of everyone else,” I say.
I think of Callum’s joke about circus acts, but it actually cuts close to the truth. The royal family are performers. The taxpayer funds them, so we think that entitles us to a front-row seat in the soap opera of their personal lives.
The tabloids rely on the royal family as clickbait. There’s been some pushback over the years when newspapers have been found to completely fabricate stories just to generate sales.
Although, currently, they needn’t invent stories. There are enough salacious details of the royal family’s misdeeds to fill countless newspapers.
The disgraced royals have been released on bail and sent to undisclosed locations around the country, and journalists are currently engaged in the biggest game of cat and mouse the country has ever seen, trying to track down their locations and get photos of the princes and princesses doing their own dishes and taking out the rubbish.
Which I have no doubt they are doing. The Queen assured me in our weekly meeting that all her family members caught up in the scandal will be living simple, austere lives as they await their day in court.
“The palace must be chomping at the bit to get Callum in front of the public and change the narrative,” Toby says.
“There’s apparently going to be a press conference introducing him today,” I reply as we step outside, where a car motorcade awaits us.
It seems ridiculous to be driven from Downing Street to Westminster, a distance of just over a thousand feet, but all our documents need to go by car for security reasons, and it’s not worth splitting my security detail.
Instead, Toby and I slot into the back of a black Jaguar.
I quickly scan the briefing notes for today’s session as the car glides around the corner and into the entrance of the Houses of Parliament.
As we pull up, a swarm of journalists and photographers wait to capture my arrival.
The car door opens, and Toby and I step out, the brisk London air greeting me. Flashbulbs flicker as I make my way up the steps, my security detail close behind. With a friendly nod to the guards, we enter the building and stride towards the chamber.
“See you later,” I say to Toby when we enter the Commons Chamber.
He heads towards the backbenches because, unusually for the chief of staff, Toby is also an elected MP.
It isn’t completely unprecedented, though, and when it came time to choose my right-hand man, I couldn’t imagine having anyone but my most loyal friend by my side.
I head towards the front benches, getting my usual blast of adrenaline from being inside the electric atmosphere of Parliament, where the vaulted ceilings echo with whispers as MPs settle onto the green leather benches.
As the Speaker of the House calls the session to order, a hush falls over the chamber.
The parliamentary session begins with prayers and oral questions, but then because it’s noon on a Wednesday, it’s Prime Minister’s Questions.
“We now come to Prime Minister’s Questions,” the speaker announces.
Harry Matheson stands. “Question one, Prime Minister.”
I’m on my feet to complete my usual introduction to Prime Minister’s Questions. The peculiar ritual that involves me listing my official engagements for the day before answering questions.
“Mr. Speaker, this morning I had meetings with ministerial colleagues and others in addition to my duties in this house. I shall have further such meetings later today.”
“Opposition leader, Harry Matheson.” The Speaker of the House calls for Harry.
Harry stands up, shooting me a smirk. Harry is the same age as me, and he’s the epitome of a Tory politician: handsome, aristocratic, privileged, and determined to do what he can to keep the class divisions in British society the same as they have always been.
He takes a few steps forward until he comes to the despatch box, the wooden chest identical to the one in front of me.
The despatch boxes were originally used to carry documents, but now they’re where the prime minister and opposition leader stand and eyeball each other.
Adrenaline flows through me as I wait for whatever direction Harry is going to attack me from today.
I’m a fighter. I’ve had to be. A skinny gay kid raised by elderly grandparents on a council estate, with no siblings or close friends for support, unlike the groups of other kids who roamed in packs. No one was going to come to my defense. I had to learn how to defend myself.
Now I do so with my intellect and wit rather than my fists, but it’s a similar thrill to besting an opponent, to delivering that knock-out blow.
“Mr. Speaker, I want to acknowledge the unprecedented times we are in,” Harry says.
“The Conservative Party supported the legislation introduced by the government to remove ten members of the royal family from their place in the succession line to the throne. But while this government might be happy to trudge along with the status quo and reinforcement of privilege, perhaps it’s worth examining whether the status quo is what the people deserve.
“So, I’m interested to know what the prime minister feels regarding the rights of the British people to determine whether the monarchy has a place in the future of the United Kingdom.”
I take a sharp breath.
Fuck, he’s taking a gamble.
A Conservative leader hinting the monarchy should come to an end?
If Harry’s trying to get some of his share of the newspaper headlines, he’s probably just succeeded.
Harry doesn’t do anything on a whim. I know that. If he’s prepared to ask this question, he must have substantial evidence indicating the tide of public opinion will be to abolish the monarchy.
I loathe the Conservative leader with every fiber in my body, but you don’t rise to the top of the cesspool of the Conservatives without having highly developed political instincts. So for that, he has my grudging respect.
I’m on my feet, ready to answer him immediately, my folder resting on my despatch box, the microphone ready to amplify my words throughout the chamber.
“Mr. Speaker, excuse me if I find it hard to stomach being lectured on privilege by a man who was at Eton while I was on the free school meals at a state school in Ilford.
“The Conservative Party has proven time and time again that their concern about inequality is just a political football to kick around when they’re in the mood, which they abandon for tax cuts for the wealthy when they get into power.
“Does it reek of privilege that members of the royal family, people who are vastly wealthier than ninety-nine percent of Britain, are accused of trying to gain more wealth by illegal means? Yes, of course, it does. It is reprehensible behavior that this government condemns.”
I pause to eyeball all the members on the opposing bench.
“But as my nan used to say, you don’t throw the baby out with the bath water.
We still have a queen who has dedicated her life to our country and whose behavior is above reproach.
We also have a new heir to the throne who”—my words, which have been flowing freely until this point, now abandon me as I try to come up with some way to describe Callum Prescott—“appears committed to continuing his grandmother’s legacy.
And let’s not forget the economic benefits the monarchy brings to this country.
It is far too premature and completely irresponsible to be calling for the end of the monarchy.
But we have a unitary parliamentary democracy.
I shall always follow the will of the people. ”
I sit back down on the bench, accompanied by rousing applause from the Labour MPs and the usual jeers from the Conservatives.
I’m breathing hard.
I won’t be cornered into a position where the Conservatives can outmaneuver me on this one.
It’s on my mind when the parliamentary sitting is adjourned, and I find Toby waiting in the corridor for me.
“Fucking Harry Matheson,” he growls as we march through the corridors of Westminster. “What the hell kind of game is he playing?”
My own dislike of Harry is nothing compared to Toby, who has a history with him that goes back to before either of them entered politics.
“We need to step up our polling on the monarchy. I want to see every little dip and rise for what the public is thinking. We’re not letting the Conservatives outfox us on this,” I say as we stride down the corridor.
“Consider it done,” Toby says.
We walk into my Commons Chamber office, where two of my assistants are huddled over a phone next to the tall windows overlooking Westminster Square.
Anton quickly straightens.
“Press conference introducing Prince Callum,” he says, shoving the phone at me.
I stare at the footage.
The Queen is at a podium, speaking in her prim and proper voice that is almost as familiar to me as my own nan’s voice was.
“As my heir, Callum now assumes the Scottish titles: Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Island, and Prince and Great Steward of Scotland. Along with the English title of the Duke of Cornwall, I’m also proud to announce him as Prince of Wales, Tywysog Cymru.
I know he will serve the people he represents well.
We will have an investiture ceremony for the Prince of Wales on August the eighteenth.
And now, I invite my grandson, Prince Callum, onto the stage. ”
Callum looks startled as he steps up to replace Queen Katharine at the podium. Forget deer in headlights. He looks like a deer facing an entire squad of hunters armed with ten thousand-watt spotlights.
Which isn’t actually a bad metaphor for the British press, come to think of it.
He looks around the room, then stares at a piece of paper in his hands, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“I…um…” He clears his throat. “I never expected to be speaking to you as the Prince of Wales, as the heir to the throne. But I’m completely honored and humbled to accept the titles my grandmother, Queen Katharine, has bestowed on me.
“I am proud of my British heritage, and I promise to faithfully serve the people of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth to the best of my abilities.”
Is the best of his abilities going to be good enough?
I’m fairly sure I’m not the only one asking that question right now.
“I look forward to spending more time with the people of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth and getting to know each other as I learn to serve you in whatever way possible.”
Callum looks up from his notes and gives the audience a smile. It’s a happy smile, tinged with relief, but there’s a touch of innocence there too.
Overall, it’s sweeter than a honey sandwich.
It stirs a weird feeling inside me. It’s something I can’t quite name as I stand there in the prime minister’s office, transfixed by a smile on the future king’s face.
Blinking to reorientate myself, I turn to Toby.
There’s something anticipatory in Toby’s grin as he watches the footage of Callum walking off the stage.
“They’re going to eat him alive,” he says.