The Royal We (20 page)

“That prat looks just like her prizewinning pug,” Nick said.

“…and Gemma Sands talking to Bea…”

“Weird. Bea usually avoids Gemma,” Nick said.

“…and Lacey with your uncle Edwin and Freddie, and then some pictures of the owner’s prosthetic hand. I guess he lost the real one in a paddleboarding accident…”

“What?”

“It’s silver-plated, really ornate,” I said, hoping I had distracted him sufficiently.

Nick tilted his head in classic
give me a break
body language. Then he leaned over and studied the entire piece.

“‘…the real star was Lacey Porter, the sun-kissed twin of the serious brunette who betting shops believe will be Prince Nicholas’s first fiancée,’” Nick read aloud.

“
First
fiancée,” I repeated. “So, like, the test model. Thanks, guys.”

“All this bloody wedding speculation makes my head hurt,” Nick said. Then he continued reading. “‘Porter was spied with at least three of London’s dishiest bachelors, but she got the most attention on the arm of our famed Ginger Gigolo. Freddie frequently cold-shouldered his date, model-turned-party-planner Arabesque DuBois, to whisper what looked like very sweet nothings in Porter’s ear.’”

And amid pictures of her beaming at Prince Edwin and listening rapturously to Cressida Morningstar’s pug boyfriend, there was a raft of photos of Lacey with Freddie—at one point caught laughing so hard that her head apparently had no choice but to loll on his shoulder. It gave off an indisputably intimate vibe.

Nick tossed my iPad aside. “Wonderful. Bloody great.”

“Come on, it’s not like they had sex on the bar.”

“How many times do we have to talk to them about being indiscreet?” he said, exasperated. “Gran and Father are going to think we haven’t even tried.”

“Well…” I hedged.

Nick’s eyes widened. “You didn’t talk to her about it?”

Busted.

“She’s going back to med school!” I defended myself. “She can’t go out with Freddie if she’s all the way across the Atlantic.”

“You shouldn’t have avoided this,” Nick snapped. “It’s important to me.”

“And Lacey is important to
me
,” I argued. “There was no point in getting heavy-handed with her if the whole thing was about to become moot anyway.”

Nick rubbed his eyes. “I’m so tired of all this. The same conversation, the same fight. I don’t want to have it today, Bex. I can’t.”

He grabbed the last of his waffle and got up and walked toward the bedroom.

“Hey,” I called out to him. “I’m on it, Nick. It’ll be the last time.”

He looked sheepish, then doubled back to give me a syrupy kiss before heading to the shower. I, however, was becoming increasingly cranky, as if he’d passed his irritation to me by mouth. While I hadn’t had the larger discussion with Lacey about all this, she was standing right there the day Nick lectured Freddie about it, and simply hadn’t listened. Where had she stayed? When had she come back? And why was I finding out about it from a newspaper, and not my own sister?

Lacey was waiting by the Basil Street entrance of Harrods, looking crisp in a day dress and heels. I had texted her to join me there for a prescribed shopping outing, because I’d known she would accept, and now she’d beaten me there—along with six or seven paparazzi, who would doubtless multiply. Two Porters were better than one.

“Bex! Over here!” one of them called, and the cameras turned away from Lacey and the store’s iconic terracotta façade when they spied me spilling out of my cab. Most of these guys were my regulars, who’d shown up every day since we’d fled Greetings & Salutations, hoping I’d crack again and give them something similarly juicy. My boss was losing his patience, although that might’ve been because the press made
greeting-card artist
sound so foolish and inconsequential, or worse, made-up.

“Shopping for Nicky’s birthday?” That one, I’d dubbed Voldemort.

“Not getting him a Coucherator, then?” asked Too-Snug Safari Vest.

“Is he ever going to marry you?” Mustache boomed.

I turned a deaf ear and pressed toward Lacey, the cameras tracking my every step.

“Let’s get inside,” I said through my smiling, clenched teeth.

“Just give them what they want, Bex,” she murmured.

“Just give us what we want!” Mustache parroted as the men advanced on us, the flashes from their cameras bright and disorienting. My breath quickened. That day we ran up Regent Street, I’d at least known
somewhere
around us lay air and space. But at Harrods, I didn’t have anywhere to go other than through a plate glass window. I couldn’t control Lacey, but I was not about to stick around and get shoved through it by twelve hundred pounds of loudmouthed testosterone, and bleed out on a display of beaded evening bags.

“Have a nice day, gentlemen,” I said tightly, pushing inside to the complicated air of men’s promotional fragrances.

Harrods takes up an entire city block and sells everything from handbags to riding equipment to foie gras, to elephants like the one Queen Eleanor bought Nick for his ninth birthday—although in fairness, they had needed to special-order that. (Now it lives at the London Zoo. His name is Patrick. Nick likes to visit him.) It was hardly a soothing place for me to regain my bearings—I once had to ask directions five times just to find the restrooms—but I’d been forced there for a very specific reason: I, my friends, and my immediate family had all gotten the same gold-edged, cream invitation with elegant script requesting the honor of our presence at a birthday celebration in late August for His Royal Highness Prince Nicholas of Wales, black tie required. Eleanor had stuffed the invite list with important diplomats, politicians, and foreign relatives, making it more of a coming-out party than anything else—and in a much smaller sense, it felt like mine as well, given that the handful of approved reporters in attendance would all know who I was, or what they suspected I might be. Which left me with one very large problem, and apparently I wasn’t the only one who knew it.

“You’re going to bungle this, aren’t you?”

I had flinched and held the phone away from my ear. “Hi, Bea. I take it you got the invitation today, too.”

“Has he gotten you a stylist? No, of course not. He cannot be seen paying to tart you up, especially when you don’t officially exist,” Bea mused, as if she’d called just to monologue at me. “And yet if you insist on banging about with him, it’s in everyone’s best interest that you do this correctly. I
suppose
I can help. Meet me at Harrods on Sunday, and for God’s sake, bring the right underpinnings.”

And then she’d hung up on me.

I spied Lady Bollocks waiting at the foot of the ornate Egyptian escalator, which probably seemed like the height of opulence when it was built but now feels like something on loan from a Vegas casino. Bea looked wan underneath her typically cross expression. I’d heard from Clive that Pudge had fallen off the wagon, and also off
a
wagon, at Glastonbury.

“Where is Lacey? I haven’t got all day,” she snapped in her usual tone.

“Out making friends with the paparazzi,” I said.

“Naturally,” she said, her lips tightening with disapproval. “You have got to put a stop to this. She’s getting more and more indiscreet. You should’ve seen her and Freddie at that party, breathing all over each other. It was almost worse than snogging.”

I groaned. “She is addicted to Freddie. He shouldn’t be legal.”

“He is irresistible,” Bea affirmed. “Everyone’s slept with him.”

“Have
you
?” I asked.

“Of course,” Bea said.

“Sorry!” Lacey bounced over, tucking her phone in her purse. “One of the photographers wanted to know where I got my shoes.” She grinned. “They’ve given me a nickname. Racy Lacey. I think it’s cute!”

“You would,” Bea said, giving me an arch look. “It’s not a compliment. It means they think you’re unsavory.”

“Nah, it’s just their way of saying I’m fun,” Lacey said. “I like it.”

“
It’s not a compliment
,” Bea squeaked, almost losing her composure in what would have been a historic first.

Bea had arranged for a private fitting area, a beautiful sanctuary of a room where racks of pre-pulled gowns waited for us, along with petit fours, chilled glasses, and an ice bucket holding an open bottle of white wine. There was a bell to ring if we needed any assistance, but otherwise, we had complete and utter solitude.

“Discretion,” said Bea, “is nine-tenths of success.” She glared at Lacey again for good measure.

“I may never be able to shop another way ever again.” Lacey sighed, ignoring Bea in favor of sampling the sweets.

The three of us spent the next hour zipping and unzipping some of the most perfect dresses I’d ever touched, and I relaxed and let out the breath that I’d gotten accustomed to holding every time I felt a stranger staring at the side of my head. Lacey and Bea put aside their squabble and seemed to have fun—or as close as Bea ever got—bandying about opinions on what I should choose. In the end, Lacey knew best; her first pick for me was a magnificent forest green strapless gown with gossamer gold thread woven into the bodice, then shooting through the skirt like a sunburst, and it won easily.

“It’s even a British designer. They’ll love that,” she said, as she fastened the hook-and-eye closure at the back.

“Quite. You may not be
totally
useless,” Bea said to Lacey, which for her was rapturous praise. The dress cost three times my rent, but if Lady Bollocks approved, there could be no other choice. Sabotage was not Bea’s game: I might be a foolish American, but as long as I was with Nick, I was
her
foolish American.

“Right, now that I’ve done my patriotic duty, I’ve some choice words for Giles in the saddlery and he’s not going to like them,” Bea said. She eyed Lacey sipping her drink. “Do try not to pocket the Waterford.”

I almost wanted Bea to stay, so that I could delay this inevitable Freddie conversation a bit longer, but when the door clicked shut behind her I knew there could be no more stalling. Lacey and I were heading into uncharted twin territory: I’d always been content to take a backseat when she needed to shine, and she’d never had to step back and return the favor. But Nick had begged Freddie to tone it down and it hadn’t made a difference, so Lacey would have to step up.

I weighed carefully what to say. Maybe I could just be casual. Maybe she’d bring Freddie up organically, apologetically, and I wouldn’t have to put my foot down at all.

“So Lace,” I said, deliberately taking a long time to zip my boots over my jeans. “How was New York? I didn’t know you were back.”

“I like giving you and Nick space when I can,” she said. “Freddie had a room at The Dorch that he wasn’t using.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I slept alone, Bex.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s got you in such a mood?” she asked, sitting down on a tufted ottoman.

“This paparazzi stuff is really bumming me out,” I said.

“Well, it shouldn’t,” Lacey said, draining her glass. “You’re world news, after all. And speaking of news, I have some that ought to cheer you up. I’m staying.”

I blinked. “You’re
what
?”

“Isn’t it awesome?” she asked. “I just started thinking about it, really seriously, and I realized that I’m not enjoying med school. The thought of going back and spending the next however many years locked in a lab…” She shuddered.

“But you’ve been talking about med school since we were fifteen,” I said incredulously. “It was awesome of you to put it on hold to help me, but it seems crazy to give up completely.”

It was, in fact, totally unlike my sister to do that. Lacey simply never quit something before she mastered it.

“It’s not giving up. It just didn’t feel right anymore,” she insisted. “Look, if you must know, my grades haven’t been so great. It’s hard to concentrate because I miss you so much, and I’m not happy there the way I am over here. So I told NYU that I’m done.”

“But what—”

She held up a hand. “I’m way ahead of you. I had an interview with Whistles the other day to be one of its new buyers. That would be a lot more fun than studying the inner workings of the colon anyway, and it means no more transatlantic flights and months apart. We can get the band back together, once Nick gets out of his mood. You and me and Freddie and Nick…”

I leaned forward to rest my elbows on my thighs. At the sight of my face, Lacey stopped talking.

“I thought you’d be more excited,” she said, genuine hurt in her voice. “Do you not want me here?”

“No! It’s not that, it would
never
be that,” I insisted.

And it wasn’t that; not really. But I could no longer pretend the problems that came with Lacey would dissolve once she went back to her real life—and it gutted me that she might’ve done this hasty one-eighty on her future in service of something I now had to ask her to walk away from entirely.

My hands shook. Asking her to pick me over Freddie was effectively telling her that she played second fiddle to Nick. And yet I couldn’t see any other way. I needed them both.

“You can’t keep seeing him,” I blurted.

She held my gaze. She knew the score. “It wasn’t a date. We were just talking at a party,” she said evenly.

“More like Racy Lacey snuggling up with Freddie in public again,” I said, sitting back up. “And then you add us running through London, and you taking an extra ten minutes to pose in front of Harrods on the pretense of a photographer complimenting your shoes.”

Lacey opened her mouth immediately and then closed it. “Yeah, I was enjoying that,” she grudgingly admitted. “People want to talk to me, Bex. It’s flattering! I don’t know why everyone’s so uptight about it, or about Freddie, for that matter. He’s not the one who’s going to inherit the throne someday. Let him enjoy his life.”

“No one has ever accused Freddie of not enjoying his life,” I said, my lips twitching. “It’s coming from the top, though, Lace. It’s not coming from me.”

“Isn’t it?”

I froze on that. Because she knew me better than anyone else, and she had me.

“Maybe it is coming from me, too,” I said. “Because everything that keeps
you
in the papers keeps
me
in the papers, and you know that whenever I’m in the papers, it’s a problem. Everything you and Freddie do ties back to me and Nick, then to Richard, then Eleanor. It goes up the chain, and then comes back down on me again twice as hard.”