Christmas at the Palace

by Jeevani Charika

  The phone rang. ‘I’ll get it.’ Lucy closed the small distance between the sofa and the breakfast bar where the phone sat. The flat was small and mostly open plan. The breakfast bar essentially separated the little kitchen from the living room. On a good day, when the place was tidy and the sun was shining through the one large window, you could call it homely. Mostly, it was just a mess.

  ‘Oh hi, Rukmali. Have you seen the papers?’

  Kumari sighed. Her mother. Probably the second biggest fan of the royals after Lucy. She listened as Lucy squealed about having been in the same room as Prince Benedict.

  ‘Oh sure, I’ll get her.’

  Lucy brought the handset over to Kumari before resuming her quest to find a pair of scissors.

  ‘Hi, Amma,’ Kumari said.

  ‘So . . .’ said her mother. ‘How did your pitch go?’

  ‘It was OK. I stumbled a bit at the start, but I think I got all the information across.’ She smiled. ‘I know you’re more interested in what happened when I met the prince.’

  ‘No. No. I genuinely do want to know how the pitch went. You were so nervous,’ said her mother. ‘I knew you would be fine. You always are.’

  ‘Thanks. I guess I was nervous. So much so that I made a complete idiot of myself when I met the prince.’

  ‘Yes, what happened there?’ The quickening in her voice was palpable.

  ‘I dunno. I tripped on my sari trying to curtsy and when he helped me up . . . my mind just went blank.’

  Lucy shouted something about His Royal Hotness from the kitchen. Kumari pretended to throw a cushion at her.

  ‘Well, they are very nice photos of you,’ said Amma. ‘Sonali Aunty said the sari looks lovely.’

  Kumari groaned. Sonali Aunty, Amma’s friend, lived in Australia. ‘How does Sonali Aunty know?’

  ‘It’s on the Internet,’ said Amma.

  Which meant that everyone knew. Oh no. That meant that not only were her work colleagues and medical school friends going to tease her, all over the world people were looking up the woman who didn’t know how to curtsy without falling over. ‘Remind me not to look at Facebook for . . . at least a week.’

  Later, she cautiously checked her phone and saw that there were several comments on her Facebook timeline. Most of them fell either into the ‘Omigod you met the prince’ category, or the ‘Forgotten how to shake hands?’ category. She decided to ignore them all. She was just about to put the phone back in her pocket when it rang.

  ‘It’s Ruby.’

  Kumari frowned. It was too early for it to be a result about who had won the pitch contest. Ruby would still be working on the coverage of the night before. ‘Hi, Ruby,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Hello,’ said Ruby. ‘Listen, Kumari, I’ve got kind of a weird favour to ask you.’

  Kumari sat up. ‘OK . . .’

  ‘I need you to go out to dinner with someone.’

  ‘That’s . . . who is it?’ She picked up her plate with the sandwich crumbs on and walked across to the kitchen. There was no response from Ruby.

  ‘Ruby?’ she said.

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Ruby. ‘I can’t tell you. It’s a blind date. Look. I’ve met him. He’s really nice.’

  ‘But why does he want to go on a date with me? Why doesn’t he want me to know who he is?’ said Kumari. ‘That makes no sense.’

  Lucy, in the kitchen, had turned and was listening in.

  ‘I know. The thing is, his . . . friend contacted me and asked me to get in touch with you . . .’

  Oh, right. As if the whole thing wasn’t weird enough already. ‘Ruby, I appreciate you thinking of me, but I’m not looking for a relationship at the moment.’

  ‘Please,’ Ruby wailed. ‘I need you to do me this favour. You owe me. I got you the Golden Globes gig so that you could seed the idea for your Boost Her! project.’

  As Kumari remembered, Ruby had needed someone to go to the Golden Globes at short notice, so they had both benefited from the arrangement. But, as Lucy kept pointing out to her, most normal people would have loved the chance to go to the Golden Globes.

  ‘You owe me. Big time,’ Ruby said. She sighed. ‘Besides, it’ll do you good. When was the last time you went on a date?’

  Kumari ran her hand through her hair and sighed when her fingers were stopped by a snarl. ‘OK. OK. Fine. I’ll do it. And then we’re even, OK?’

  ‘Brilliant.’ Ruby’s voice lost all trace of anger. ‘Can you email me your schedule for the next two weeks and I’ll get my . . . friend to check with Ben. Thank you, mate. You’re a star.’

  Kumari hung up and suddenly felt exhausted. She needed a shower and then to fall into bed. It was only in the shower that it occurred to her that Ruby’s gratitude had been a little over the top. She had agreed to go on a date with a friend of a friend. Why was it such a big deal to Ruby? There must be more to this. She frowned. Knowing Ruby, this friend she was talking about had something that could influence her career. Or Ruby fancied the friend.

  She turned the water off and stepped out of the shower, her mind still pondering Ruby’s request. They were so different: Kumari’s focus had always been on medicine and her humanitarian work, whereas Ruby was fiercely ambitious. Sometimes she wondered why they were still friends. She was just a doctor, after all. Not even a particularly successful one. Kumari sighed. She had hoped that her time in Africa would reignite her passion for medicine. In a way, it had. Seeing tears in the eyes of a mother whose baby had been brought back from the brink . . . if that didn’t reaffirm your belief in the profession, nothing could. But it had also made her see just how much work there was to do. There were so many people in need and so few resources to go round.

  Being back in the UK, doing A & E rotations again, she could see that resources were stretched here too, but the scale was not comparable. Just that night, she’d had a patient berate her for being kept waiting. It had taken a superhuman effort to remain calm, especially when she considered the queues of people who had waited patiently to be seen in the field clinic, often carrying children for whom the treatment meant the difference between life and death. She had already applied to go back. She could only do so much as a consultant for Better For All. Or even as a member of staff there. But if the Boost Her! project got funded. Oh, then . . . then she could make a real difference.

  Back in her room, her phone beeped. Oh great. More people had found her unwanted tabloid fame. Turning it to silent, she put it face down without looking at it.

  Chapter 4

  www.glamorous.co.uk

  Rules to observe when you meet a member of the Royal Family

  Don’t be like Kumari Senavaka. Know your royal etiquette:

  Rule 1: Don’t touch them. Don’t initiate a handshake. Certainly, don’t throw yourself at them!

  Rule 2: No selfies. The royals are not allowed to take selfies. You may ask someone else to take a photo, but no standing up close.

  Rule 3: Show respect. Gentlemen bow and ladies curtsy to the queen. Although the younger royals don’t insist on bows and curtsies, you may still want to, especially if you’re meeting Princess Helena because she is the future queen.

  Rule 4: Use proper forms of address. No first names please. The queen should always be addressed as ‘Your Majesty’ at first and then ‘ma’am’. The princes and princesses should be addressed as ‘Your Highness’ in the first instance and then ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ as appropriate.

  Rule 5: When the queen arrives, stand up.

  Kumari double-checked Google maps. This was definitely the place. The text that Ruby had sent said, Dress smart, but nothing over the top. Think upmarket wine bar. So Kumari was wearing black trousers and a dressy top. Her standard going-out outfit, although she hadn’t actually gone out anywhere for months now.

  The bar looked small from the outside. She couldn’t see very much through the windows, but it gave a gold and brown glow. She was early, but she couldn’t v
ery well stand out in the cold, so she stepped in. The place had a Moroccan vibe, with deep reds, browns and golds. Lamps with delicately carved bronze shades cast complicated patterns on the walls. A small bar, set a little way into the room, made the front look small and cosy. There were a few tables where people were sitting, talking and drinking cocktails. From here, she could see that the cosiness was an illusion. The place extended back a long way. The bar and clusters of tables had been artfully placed to break the room up, making it a series of small nooks, rather than a large, impersonal expanse. Clever.

  She looked around and a waiter appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. ‘Can I help you, madam?’

  ‘I’m here to meet someone. I believe we have a table booked under the name of Ruby Codding?’ Ruby had been very specific that she should give Ruby’s full name when asked about the reservation.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said the waiter. He hadn’t even consulted anything. He must have a full list of bookings stored in his head. Kumari, who could barely recall a shopping list if it wasn’t to do with work, was impressed.

  She followed him past the bar. More nooks and cosy booths. At the end of the long room, they turned a corner. These rooms were brighter. He showed her to a side room and offered to hang up her coat. She asked if, rather than take it to a cloakroom, she could keep it with her. He hung it up on a hook, discreetly tucked into a corner of the room.

  ‘This is your table, madam. Can I get you a drink while you’re waiting? We have a wine list . . .’ He gestured to a folder lying on a table set with two chairs. He whipped away a red-and-gold marker with ‘Reserved’ written on it.

  The chairs were upholstered in artfully mismatched prints. It shouldn’t have worked, but, somehow, it did. It was all tremendously chic and trendy. Kumari at once felt out of place. Even in the days when she had gone out, she tended to prefer places that did a decent plate of chips or, if it was daytime, cake.

  She took a seat, but didn’t open the wine list. ‘I’ll have . . . a fresh orange juice please. If you have it.’

  ‘Of course we have it.’ He smiled. ‘Would you like ice with that?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He gave the smallest of bows and left, leaving her alone in the room.

  She looked around. There was a wall of books, all with red, brown or gold spines. There were a few tables, but she noticed they all had ‘Reserved’ markers on them. She checked her watch. Ruby had said eight o’clock. There was still three minutes to go. Her phone beeped in her bag.

  It was a text from Lucy: What’s he like?

  She texted back: He’s not here yet. This place is well posh.

  The waiter reappeared with her drink and disappeared again. Kumari took a sip and flipped open the wine and cocktails list. She spotted the prices and nearly choked.

  Carefully, she swallowed about a quid’s worth of orange. Wow.

  A shadow at the door. She looked up and the waiter was back. He showed someone in and took his coat.

  ‘Hello,’ her date said.

  It couldn’t be. It took a few seconds for her brain to catch up. She scrambled to her feet. When Ruby had said his name was Ben . . .

  ‘Oh please, Kumari, don’t stand up.’

  Should she curtsy? ‘Prince Benedict. Er . . . Your Highness.’

  ‘Call me Ben.’ He held out his hand.

  She shook it, still too startled to speak properly. This time she made sure she let go promptly.

  He gestured for her to sit and, once she lowered herself back into the chair, he sat opposite her.

  ‘So, I’m guessing you didn’t know it was me you were meeting?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, Ruby said you were called Ben.’

  ‘Which I am.’ He smiled. Such a nice smile. She inclined her head to acknowledge that.

  ‘It’s probably better this way. The whole Prince Benedict thing sometimes gets in the way a bit when I meet people who are—’

  ‘Common?’ she said.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘No,’ he said quietly, but very firmly. ‘Who are not in my usual social circles.’

  ‘In other words, common.’

  He watched her for a few seconds, his lips pressed together. The corners of his mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile. You never saw this sort of thing on TV. He was normally serious or smiling broadly. This was . . . different. More human. ‘I think I can see why your friend didn’t tell you.’

  She didn’t have an answer to that. She needed to up her game. She picked up her orange juice and took another few pounds’ worth of juice.

  The waiter appeared, as though he’d sensed a gap in the conversation. Prince Benedict . . . Ben, picked up the cocktail menu. ‘Where are the non-alcoholic cocktails?’ When the waiter directed him to the right page, he ordered a Virgin Mary.

  Kumari was surprised. She had assumed that he’d be drinking alcohol. She tried to remember what she’d read about him. She wasn’t much of a royal-watcher, unlike Lucy. All she could remember was that the prince was a bit of a party animal and had had a string of very well-groomed girlfriends. She wasn’t too sure about the girlfriends, but she was fairly certain he’d been photographed dancing semi-naked somewhere.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ he said.

  ‘You’re not drinking.’ Oh God, Kumari. Accuse him of being an alcoholic, why don’t you? ‘I’m sorry, that came out wrong. It’s just that . . . I expected. Um . . .’

  He looked directly at her. Startlingly blue eyes. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,’ he said.

  She felt the heat in her cheeks. ‘Sorry.’ She looked down at her hands, one was curled into a fist, the other was clutching her juice glass like her life depended on it. This meeting was not going well. Even though she kept telling herself she was ambivalent about the royal family, here she was acting like a moron because she’d met one of them. He was just a guy. Quite a good-looking guy too, but that was irrelevant. She could do better than this. Slowly, she forced herself to relax her hands.

  She looked up. So did he. They both said ‘Sorry,’ at the same time and laughed, small embarrassed laughs. He said, ‘Please, go ahead.’

  ‘I was going to say, please can we start again.’ She hoped that didn’t sound too stupid.

  He smiled again. A quick mercurial smile that transformed his face into the one she’d seen so many times in the papers. ‘That’s a great idea.’

  ‘OK.’

  He sat up straight and cleared his throat. ‘Hi. I’m Ben.’

  ‘I’m Kumari. It’s nice to meet you.’

  They shook hands again. This time, it wasn’t as awkward.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘why did you want to meet me?’

  He looked down for a second before replying. ‘Why does any guy ask to meet a pretty girl?’

  ‘Oh.’ She felt her face heat up again. That had nothing to do with him being a prince. It had everything to do with a handsome man saying he fancied her. ‘I . . . I’m flattered.’ Wait. He had just said he fancied her, right? Or had he just avoided the question?

  ‘If it makes any difference,’ he said, picking at the edge of his napkin, ‘I intended to ask you out before the whole falling-into-my-arms incident.’

  She fought the urge to put her hands over her face. ‘I’m so sorry about that. I’m not normally that clumsy.’

  ‘Oh, no. It was fun. Honestly, we have to do this stuff all the time and it’s always the same – I mean, everywhere smells of new paint and everyone is really deferential. It’s refreshing when someone does something different, like forgets their lines or fall over.’

  The comment about the lines reminded her. ‘You winked at me,’ she said.

  ‘I thought it might help. You seemed to be struggling a little.’

  Oh. He hadn’t been behaving oddly. He was trying to help. ‘It did help. Thank you. If you hadn’t done that, I might have wasted the whole five minutes.’

  ‘That wo
uld have been a real shame,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed hearing your ideas about the value of educating women. It’s something my sisters and I are interested in.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ She didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘It sounded like a good project. And that chap with the 3D-printed prosthetics. That was incredible too.’

  ‘Do you help decide who gets the grants?’ A small flare of hope rose. Perhaps this meeting was about her project. Maybe she was going to be awarded the grant.

  ‘Good heavens no,’ he said. ‘I’m a patron of the charity. I don’t actually have a role within it. Even in our own Princesses and Prince Foundation, where my sisters and I are trustees, we never make unilateral decisions. It’s always down to a committee.’

  ‘Oh, I see. That’s interesting.’ So this wasn’t about the grant. She tried to tell herself she was disappointed, but her heart gave a little skip of excitement.

  The waiter appeared with Ben’s drink. He checked if they needed anything and then smoothly slid away again.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ said Ben. ‘I know you’re a doctor, but I don’t know much else. Why did you go to Africa?’

  ‘I was out there vaccinating children against rubella and measles.’ She’d have thought he’d know that. But then again, she did rush the presentation.

  ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘I mean why did you go? What moved you to leave your job here and go and live in the heat and the mud with the mosquitoes for a year?’

  ‘Oh. I . . . I don’t know. Two years ago I looked at my life, where I was just cruising, doing what I needed to do . . . and it felt like nothing was changing. It was the same every day. I thought I’d like to make a difference to someone.’ She used her straw to poke at the slice of orange that was floating in her drink. ‘So I took a contract to go and be a medic for Better For All for a year. They sent me to Lesotho.’

  ‘It must have been heartbreaking,’ he said.

  What? She looked up and found him frowning at a spot on the table. ‘Pardon?’