“Kyra.” He sounded tired, but I heard frustration in his voice, too.
“No, I don’t want you to say anything. I don’t need your pity or whatever lines you throw at women when you’re done with them. I was stupid enough to think it could be different with us. I thought we were friends who were more. I don’t know what I did to make you change your mind. All I can think is that when I came here, I disappointed you. Is that it? Were all my quirks adorable in the states, but annoying here in England? That’s the only thing I can think of that I did wrong. I’m sorry I outstayed my welcome and made you sorry that you invited me here.”
“Kyra, none of that is true. None of it. You’re not a disappointment—how could you ever be that? But one of us has to be—” He stopped. “Kyra, don’t you see? You’re trying to be what you’re not. What I love about you—what I have always loved about you—is your strength and your confidence. That’s why it’s killing me to see you give that away. To see you change who you are and how you are. We sat at that luncheon today, and I saw you downplay your intelligence and accomplishments. I heard the way you back-peddled with Sir Martin, when I joined you. For the love of God, Kyra, you changed your hair.”
I frowned. “I was trying to be—sometimes you have to make concessions. You have to bend when you’re a part of a couple, and I know that—I’m not exactly royal family material as I am.”
“That’s why.” Nicky closed his eyes. “That’s it, right there. What does it matter that you’re not royal family material, which of course is your opinion, not mine? Have I ever made you feel that you had to change to be with me? If I did—God, Ky, the idea that I did anything to make you believe you weren’t enough—that’s why we need to . . . take a step back. We need to reconsider. Because, Kyra, I don’t want to live without you, but I will be damned if loving you means I have to destroy who you are.”
“And you’re the only one who has any say in this decision?” My lip was beginning to quiver, but I held it together.
“Obviously, because if I can’t trust you to stand up for yourself enough to stay true to who you are, I can’t expect you to make a hard choice like this for the both of us.” He almost snarled the last words, and I couldn’t take another minute of sitting there, feeling him rip us apart.
I managed to scramble out of the car and slam the door before I could hear him say anything else. Gripping my handbag tightly to me, I focused on putting one foot in front of the other until I got inside the apartment, at which point I broke into a run, dashing up the stairs to the guest bedroom I’d been occupying.
No one was home just now. I remembered that Alexandra had an overnight engagement in Scotland, and Jake had gone along with her. Her secretary was somewhere in the apartment, probably, but he wouldn’t bother me.
I stripped off my dress and kicked away my heels, pulling on yoga pants, a T-shirt and a hoodie before I slid my feet into slip-ons. Right now, I needed clothes that offered comfort and mobility. Clothes for a fleeing woman, I thought to myself, my breath hitching just slightly.
But I wasn’t going to cry now. There wasn’t time for that. Now was the time for swift and immediate action.
My hands were only shaking a little as I yanked open drawers, and I called that a minor victory. Dumping all of my clothes onto the quilt that covered the bed, I strode to the closet and pulled out my suitcases. There wasn’t time to fold everything neatly, so I stuffed it all into the bags as quickly as I could.
Darting into the bathroom, I grabbed all of my toiletries and makeup, dropping it into the bag and tugging the zipper closed. I slid my phone out of my pocket and skimmed my fingers across the screen until I spotted the email confirmation of my trip for tomorrow. With a few touches, I found room on another, earlier flight and confirmed that I’d be on it. The only problem was going to be getting to the airport. I couldn’t exactly call a cab to pick me up from the center of Kensington Palace.
For a few moments, I stood in the middle of the room, stymied. And then I remembered the expression Nicholas had worn sitting next to me in the car, and I knew I had to do whatever I could to get away as soon as I could. My bags had wheels, and I was strong. I wasn’t some lightweight who couldn’t manage her own shit.
Without too much issue, I steered my luggage into the hallway and closed the bedroom door behind me. A pang of regret sliced through my chest, but I ignored it. Later I’d think about this and let myself wallow a little. But for now, I needed to get moving.
No one bothered me as I bumped down the steps, across the foyer and exited through the front door. I knew there was a better than good chance that some security camera was watching me, but I didn’t care. Not unless they were going to chase me down and toss me into a dungeon at the Tower.
I did my best to walk sedately along the sidewalk that ran the interior perimeter of the Palace complex, trying to look as though I knew exactly what I was doing and wandered around dragging my suitcases every day. I was so intent on playing it cool that I jumped a mile when I heard a voice just behind me.
“Excuse me, miss.” It was Harold, and he was leaning out the window of a small, non-descript white car, one hand resting on the wheel. “Can I help you get somewhere?”
I wanted to say no, that I was fine and could take care of myself, but the still-functioning part of my brain intuited that perhaps Harold’s offer was actually his kind way of telling me that I was breaking some kind of rule.
Pausing, I frowned at him. “I need to go to the airport.”
Surely Harold was aware of my original travel plans; I was positive Nicky had arranged for someone, probably Harold himself, to pick me up and drive me to the airport tomorrow. But the policeman didn’t even blink when I made my announcement.
“Of course, miss.” He jumped out and reached for my suitcases. “I’ll get you there in a jiffy.”
Within seconds, my bags were in the trunk, and I was in the passenger seat. The car ambled along the narrow way until we reached the gates, which opened as if by magic as Harold turned out into the city.
We were both silent. I almost opened my mouth several times to explain why I was leaving today, and why I hadn’t called to ask for help, but in the end, I decided it didn’t matter. I wondered if Harold had played this role before, coming to the aid of women whom Nicholas no longer wanted. Maybe I was just the latest in a long line of discarded girlfriends. No explanations were needed.
He only spoke to ask me about my airline, and once we’d arrived at the terminal at Heathrow, he jumped out to help me with my bags.
“Thank you, Harold.” I tried to muster up as much dignity as I could. “It’s been a pleasure to know you.”
“The honor’s been mine, miss.” He hesitated, as though he was about to say something else, but instead, he only shook his head and extended a hand to me. “I hope you have a safe and uneventful journey home. And I also hope that we meet again soon.”
I wanted to bark out a sardonic laugh that said unlikely, but that would’ve been unfair to a man who had shown me only kindness. Instead, I nodded and made my way to the ticketing desk.
It wasn’t until I was standing in line, waiting my turn to check my bag, that I began to think about the press. Clearly, no one had expected me to be at the airport today, because there wasn’t a camera or a reporter in sight. However, mindful of the thousands of cell phones around me, I made a concerted effort to keep a bland expression on my face. The last thing I needed was a picture of me looking weepy and forlorn to hit the tabloids.
The ticket agent did a quick double-take when she saw my name on the print-out, but she recovered and was professional. It wasn’t until I’d gone through security and customs and reached the gate that someone approached me.
“Excuse me.” The voice was soft and tentative. “Are you Kyra? I mean, the one who—you know. Prince Nicholas’ girlfriend?”
She was perhaps fourteen years old, and her eyes shone with admiration and perhaps a touch of envy—not of Nicholas and me, I
thought, but of the romance of it all. I imagined she was the sort of girl who wanted happy endings and fairy tales.
I evaded the question as I’d learned to do. “I’m Kyra. It’s nice to meet you.” I offered her my hand. “Are you traveling to the United States today, too?”
She shook her head. “Just coming back with my mum, and I saw you and told her it was you, but she didn’t believe me. We’re just back from Florida.”
I smiled. “I’ll bet you had a wonderful time. It’s beautiful down there this time of year. Much nicer than where I live, where there’s probably snow on the ground.”
The girl laughed. “It was very warm, but the beach was lovely.” From a few feet away, an older woman I assumed was her mother called out, and she glanced over her shoulder. “I guess I should go, but—could I possibly get a picture? With you, I mean? I wouldn’t give it to anyone, just show my friends, I promise.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to refuse, as I’d gotten in the habit of doing, but then it occurred to me that I was no longer bound to try to please Nicholas and his family.
I nodded, warning her, “I probably look a wreck just now, from getting ready to travel. So I really would appreciate it if you don’t send this to anyone else. It would be embarrassing.”
“I won’t, I swear.” She lifted her phone, tilted her head close to mine, and snapped the photo. “Oh, thank you so much. You’re so nice, and just like a normal girl.”
I smiled. “That’s all I am. Normal.”
“Can I ask you just one thing before I go?” She bit her lip and gazed up at me through thick lashes. “Is it just . . . wonderful? Being in love, I mean? It looks amazing, and so romantic and lovely.”
My heart ached, not only for myself but for this girl who still had years ahead to discover what love and romance and relationships were really like. I wanted to warn her to be careful and to guard her heart and not to trust it—to go forward with a clear head and open eyes. I wanted to tell her to avoid plunging headfirst in love with a man who seemed to feel the same way about her.
But I knew my words would’ve fallen on deaf ears. She was young, and until she experienced love for herself, she wouldn’t believe me even if I told her.
“Of course, it is,” I answered her at last. “Just as lovely and romantic as you think.”
Her eyes lit up. “I knew it. I just knew it. Thank you so much. Oh, and for the picture, too. For talking to me. You’re so nice.”
She flitted away to join her mother, and I watched her go, melancholy stealing over me. For a brief moment in time, I’d learned what it was like to have the admiration of people who didn’t know me, for reasons I couldn’t fathom. While I wasn’t going to miss the media attention or worrying about every little thing I said or did, I realized that on some level, it was a privilege to be an unwitting role model. It wasn’t something I’d sought out, but under other circumstances, maybe I could have used the position to do some good.
The gate agent announced that my flight was boarding, and with a sigh, I hitched my handbag more securely over my shoulder and joined the line of waiting passengers. I glanced over my shoulder for one last look. My adventure in royalty was ending, and I was all right with that. I’d never chosen to walk that path.
It was the end of the love story that was breaking my heart. I had a feeling that getting over Nicky was going to take a very long time.
The Lloyd Post
Editor’s note: The following piece was written by one of our staff reporters, Sophie Kent, who’s spent a good part of the last year covering the romance between Prince Nicholas and American Kyra Duncan. Her opinion piece first appeared on her own blog, but she is graciously allowing us to share it here, too.
A break-up is hard. Ending a relationship with the person who has been your significant other, no matter how long or short a time that has been, is painful. Most, if not all, of us can relate.
Now imagine that your heartache is played out on the world’s stage, for everyone to see. Imagine reporters asking you daily about the one person whose name you never want to hear again. Imagine photographers taking pictures of you, even when you feel miserable. Imagine being unable to forget or ignore, because there are stories about your pain in newspapers and online.
If you can imagine all of that, you know a bit about what Kyra Duncan has been going through over the past week.
I met Ms. Duncan in April, when a story broke that she’d been spotted and photographed kissing a man who happens to be a member of Britain’s royal family. From the start, this woman has been gracious, kind and patient with all of us members of the press who have taken up residence on her front lawn, following her everywhere and making her life enormously complicated.
When she returned from England this week, it was clear to me that something had changed. As a woman, I recognized the signs and symptoms of heartache in a fellow sufferer. At that point, she had every right to tell the lot of us to get the hell off her property. She would have been excused if she had been rude, nasty or unpleasant to us. She had nothing more to lose; if her relationship with the prince truly is over, as it seems to be, she doesn’t need to behave out of respect for the royal family anymore.
And yet she has. She has carried on with being polite and kind. She hasn’t said anything about anyone, nor has she hidden herself at home. She has shown incredible dignity under trying circumstances.
I don’t know anything about the true nature of her affair with the prince. Perhaps they were very good friends whose love turned romantic for a season. Perhaps this was merely a fling. Or maybe it was something real and true that has been derailed by the complexities of twenty-first century life as a prince.
Regardless, I can’t help being sad that it appears that Ms. Duncan won’t be joining the family after all. Her class and unabashed sense of self could only add another dimension to what its members wryly call The Firm.
I, for one, think they are missing out. And if Prince Nicholas is reading this, I recommend copious amounts of flowers, boxes of chocolates and an enormous outpouring of apology for whatever you did. You let a good one get away.
February
“KYRA?” SHELBY KNOCKED ON MY bedroom door and leaned her head inside. “I’m heading into town to pick up some milk and bread. We’re supposed to get fourteen inches of snow tonight. Do you need anything while I’m out?”
I glanced up at her from my computer, frowning as my concentration broke. “Um . . . no. Thanks. I’m good.”
“Okay.” She lingered, her expression sober. “I thought I’d get us a six-pack and a couple of bottles of wine, too. Just in case we get snowed in, we might as well have some provisions, right?”
“Uh huh. Sure. Sounds good.” I scrolled back to review what I’d just written, making sure I was hitting the points that I needed to cover. Thesis writing wasn’t something I enjoyed. I wasn’t sure anyone did.
“Want me to stop by the library and see if there’s anything you might want to read? I mean, you know, in case we lose power and can’t watch movies or work on the computer.” Shelby leaned against the doorjamb, watching me.
I drew in a slow, calming breath. I knew my friend meant well. She was worried about me—hell, she’d been worried about me for three months. She wasn’t the only one, either. But the truth was that there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do, and all I really wanted was for them to leave me alone.
“If it makes you happy, Shel, sure. Stop at the library. But I doubt we’re going to lose power. And my priority has got to be this paper. I want it done so that Ed and I can review it together in a couple of weeks. It has to be ready to submit to both the college and to Honey Bee’s advisory board, too.”
“I know all this, Kyra. But you’re burying yourself in it.” She raised one eyebrow, daring me to argue with her.
“Yep, I am.” I wasn’t going to fight what was clearly the truth.
“You’re using it as an excuse to hide.”
I snorted. “Hiding is on
e thing I haven’t had to do in a while, Shel. If there’s been one improvement in my life since . . . November, then that’s it. You’ve got to admit, it’s nice that we don’t have to dodge anyone when we leave our house anymore.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” She hesitated. “If I thought you were coping with this, I wouldn’t push you. I’d just let you deal with it. But since you got home from England last fall, you’ve just acted like nothing happened. Like your entire time with Nicky was something you want to forget.”
“Well, duh.” I rolled my eyes. “Who wouldn’t want to forget it? It was an unholy mess. It was a momentary insanity. Forgive me that I don’t want to wallow in the memories and deconstruct the whole thing.”
“But it’s not healthy. It’s downright unhealthy, in fact. You have to face it and let yourself feel the pain so you can move on.”
It was the same old song I’d been ignoring for months, but today I was over it. “I am moving on, in case you haven’t noticed. I’m moving on with school and with science and with my future. I’m trying to move on with this thesis, if you would just leave me the fuck alone and let me do it.” I ground out the last few words, feeling only a passing guilt when Shelby flinched.
“Fine.” She threw up her hands. “Whatever, Kyra. You do what you feel is right for you. But don’t be surprised when you wake up one day and realize that you’ve pushed everyone away from you in your effort to pretend that everything’s fine.”
She slammed my bedroom door, and then a few minutes later, she repeated the sentiment as she left the house. I heard the car start up and the spray of gravel hitting the undercarriage when she pulled out of the driveway.
The ensuing silence in the house was both a blessing and a curse. I could get back to my writing now, which was what I’d wanted, but what Shelby had said had rattled me more than I’d let on. It was too quiet for me to focus now, and with a frustrated groan, I closed the computer and dropped back against my pillows.
The Anti-Cinderella Page 20