Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Callum
I’m on my way to another royal engagement, but instead of preparing myself, I’m hunched over my phone.
“What are you watching?” Raymond asks from the front seat.
“The live stream of Prime Minister’s Questions. I’m just trying to get a handle on your politics,” I say, as it seems like a very conscientious future-king thing to do.
I’m not sure if my motives are entirely conscientious though.
Because watching Oliver in his element, standing tall and handsome at the despatch box and coming up with clever retorts to every question thrown at him, stirs feelings inside me I can’t quite describe.
Inadequacy? Oliver is so smooth and polished, his delivery so different from how I stumble through prepared speeches.
Pride? He’s absolutely dominating every opposition MP who tries to challenge him. He’s got a comprehensive knowledge of all policy areas, and his witty, cutting remarks draw laughter from all the MPs behind him.
The fact he’s now my friend, and I can make him laugh—and most of the time it’s with me, not at me—is something I feel I should win universal cool points for.
Seeing all the Conservative MPs booing him makes me want to ask my driver to take me to Westminster so I can scold those politicians for being mean to Oliver.
Don’t they know what a good person he is? Don’t they realize how hard he works to make life better for the people of the United Kingdom?
Although royalty is supposed to maintain political neutrality, and I’m not sure the Prince of Wales standing outside the Commons Chamber berating all the Conservative MPs for being mean to the prime minister adheres to that.
Oliver finishes answering a question on tax reform and then takes his seat, leaving me bereft because I don’t get to watch him anymore.
It’s a continuation of a problem I have at the moment.
I can’t stop thinking about Oliver.
I can’t stop messaging him either.
I’ve never been addicted to my phone, but I’ve changed in the last few weeks because my adrenaline spikes every evening when I see I’ve got a message from Oliver.
When I’m not messaging him, my new hobby is stalking him virtually.
Last night, while waiting for Oliver to get back from a dinner with the Lebanese ambassador, I discovered an entire Instagram account devoted to categorizing Oliver’s facial expressions.
I find myself checking it again, scrolling through and snorting at some of the descriptions.
#28 I’ve just won an election—where he’s triumphant.
#43 I’m smiling at you, but really I’m thinking up ways to skin you alive—he mainly directs this one at his political opponents.
I have to agree the uptilt in his lips has a slightly sinister feel.
#68 Diplomatic grin—a polite, friendly smile he uses when meeting with world leaders and ambassadors.
#89 Press conference poker face—a neutral expression he wears when facing tough questions from reporters.
#108 Contemplating crease—where his forehead wrinkles as he’s thinking about something.
But as much as I scroll through the classification of Oliver’s facial expressions, I can’t find anything that matches my favorite Oliver smile—the slightly lopsided one where one side of his mouth quirks up higher than the other.
Once I run out of Oliver expressions, I can’t resist checking Twitter.
My good mood generated from looking at pictures of Oliver quickly dims when I check the account of BritishPatriot and see another litany of anti-Callum posts.
He’s not a prince. He’s just a parody. The royal family has turned into a not-very-funny sitcom.
Wonder how long until Callum Prescott decides to replace the Royal Guard with cheerleaders?
Why do we have to foot the bill for this American to prance around the country being a fool?
Our new prince doesn’t just butcher the English language, he massacres it. I’ve seen better royals on burger wrappers.
“We’ve arrived, Prince Callum.” Raymond’s voice interrupts my dip into social media perjury.
I snap my head up.
The entrance sign for St James’s Hospital is right in front of us.
A knot of apprehension grows in my stomach.
Combining sick, fragile people and expensive medical equipment with my clumsiness. What could possibly go wrong?
Stepping inside the entrance, that sharp nostril-sting disinfectant scent slams into me.
I don’t think anyone has warm and fuzzy associations with hospitals.
I’m taken back four years to when my mother was dying of vicious liver cancer and I was trying to cope with the thought of losing my mom, the central pillar of my life.
I swallow these feelings as Raymond and I meet Latisha, the head of the hospital who will be showing me around.
“Our patients are so excited to meet you,” Latisha says, and I try to summon a smile. My shoulders stiffen as I follow her down the hallway. The tie around my neck suddenly feels too tight, and I tug at the knot to loosen it.
We enter the children’s ward, and the first bed we stop at contains a girl around fourteen or fifteen. She has long brown hair and a tiny stud in her nose.
She also has dark-purple bruises under her eyes that look almost violent. I remember that from my mother when her body turned against her. It seemed like she was being beaten up from the inside.
“This is Amara,” Latisha says.
“Hey, Amara,” I say gently as I pull up a chair next to her. “Do you know who I am?”
Amara rolls her eyes. “You’re the new American prince. I’ve seen the clips of you. I’m going to move my jug of water to safety because you seem to destroy all objects you go near.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” I say.
Amara makes a big deal of nosily rearranging the contents of her table while I sit there feeling more and more like an idiot, Latisha and Raymond watching.
What am I going to talk to her about?
Cynical teenagers aren’t my specialty. I lacked the cynical mode even when I was a teenager myself.
When she finishes, she gives me a look halfway between a scowl and a smirk.
I’m struck by the helplessness of it all. How someone thought my presence would help her when what Amara needs is the best medicine money can buy and a miracle.
My eyes flick to a book resting on the edge of her table.
“Are you interested in Greek mythology?”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Yeah.”
“Who is your favorite god?”
“You’re telling me you know about Greek gods?”
“I know a bit,” I say.
“Eirene is my favorite.”
“Goddess of spring, good choice,” I say.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Most people don’t know who Eirene is.”
“I was obsessed with Greek and Roman gods when I was seventeen. I read everything I could about them.”
“Who is your favorite?” she asks.
“Helios,” I reply.
“God of the sun. Nice.”
Seeing the small upturn of Amara’s lips, Oliver’s voice leaps back into my head.
Just be yourself.
So I force out the voice of BritishPatriot and the others on social media who constantly mock me, and I press on.
“Do you know what the most common game played by Greek gods is?”
She looks at me suspiciously. “What?”
“Hydra and seek.”
Amara gives an agonized groan. I take it as a sign to continue.
“What would Chiron have been called if he’d practiced medicine on the side?”
She puts her hands to her face. “What?”
“The Centaur for Disease Control.”
“Those are the dumbest jokes that have ever been told,” she informs me, but a smile fixes on her face.
“Probably,” I agree. “For some reason, only dumb jokes stick in my mind. All the funny, cool ones slip straight out, and I’m left with the worst puns ever. It’s quite tragic, really.”
Aaanddd…now I’m joking with a cancer-ridden teenager about tragedy. But Amara doesn’t seem to mind.
She’s straightened and is reaching for her phone. “I need to give you some better jokes about Greek gods.”
“That could be your public service for the day,” I agree.
So Amara scrolls through Greek mythology jokes and realizes that good ones are a rare commodity. So she settles on the best of a bad bunch.
“How did the Greeks clean up a battlefield?”
“With Ajax.”
With every bad joke Amara reads out, groaning and rolling her eyes, I feel myself growing lighter inside.
I can do this.
It’s similar to the philosophy I had when I worked in the insurance call center. Leave every person slightly happier than they were at the beginning of the call.
I can apply that same approach to my new job as the Prince of Wales.
Once that concept is straight in my mind, the rest of the visits go smoothly. I can’t do anything to ease people’s pain, but I can try my best to leave them happier than they were before I arrived.
And one of the ways to do that is to make people feel seen and valued. So with every patient, I grasp for something we can talk about. My habit of becoming obsessed with random topics and switching majors so many times in college actually helps because my scope of general knowledge is wide.
But I also realize I don’t have to be an expert on things. It’s about asking people questions and genuinely engaging in the answers.
I’ve always been interested in learning new things, and when Ernest, a guy in his mid-sixties who recently suffered a heart attack, explains the intricacies of betting for Blackjack, I listen closely and ask lots of follow-up questions.
The bonus is if this royalty thing doesn’t work out, I could head to Vegas and try his strategies.
“You’re not what I expected,” Ernest grunts as I stand to leave.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I ask.
“You’re not up your own arse, so I guess that’s a good thing.” Latisha sucks in a breath and sends me an apologetic glance, but I answer Ernest benignly.
“I would find life quite difficult if my body could contort enough to be up my own ass.”
That evening, I compose a message to tell Oliver about my day, but it’s impossible to reduce Amara, Ernest, and the other patients to simple words on a screen.
Before I can second-guess myself, I press the video call button.
It’s only after the robotic calling noise has started that I panic.
He’s the prime minister. Messaging me is one thing, but expecting him to waste his time on a video call with me is completely different.