Royal Disaster

by Parker Swift

  “Your father?”

  “He could help me do something to investigate one possibility for who’s been sending these emails, but he’s so caught up in his own tiny self-serving world that he won’t. He’s apparently determined for me not to press him. He just wants me to roll over like a puppy.” Dylan was getting worked up, I could feel it in the rapid rising and falling of his chest. “He’s a complete arse. A complete. Fucking. Arse. Worse than that—he’s a greedy bastard with no regard for social progress, for running a company with any morality whatsoever. And being a father? Fucking forget it. The man belongs in the clink with Satan for a cellmate.”

  “Okay,” I said, taken a little aback by his vehemence and the turn in the conversation. “Care to elaborate? Did he say something awful?”

  “Oh yes. He can be counted on for that at least.” He rolled onto his back again and threw his forearm over his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it, Lydia.” I lay on my side looking at him, and I reached over and ran my fingers through his hair again, pulling gently at the short strands. “I refuse to be him, no matter how he tries to make me in his mold.”

  “He wants you to be like him?”

  “If he had his way,” he replied, “I’d sell the firm, forget architecture ever existed, take control of Hale Shipping, get married—preferably to a friend’s daughter—and devote my life to producing heirs, having others do my bidding, and living a quiet family life riding horses, extolling the virtues of the peerage, and reminding everyone of their proper station in life. He’s doing his absolute best to straight-out demand it.” He was practically spitting as he spoke. “None of that is ever going to happen.”

  I curled myself into his side, letting him wrap his enormous arms around me and pull me in closer. “None of that is you. You’ll never be so cold or heartless,” I said before realizing that I had just called his father cold and heartless. “I mean, I shouldn’t say that. I’ve barely even met him—”

  “No, you’re absolutely right. He’s awful,” he confirmed and rubbed his face with his free hand. “Do you know he’s been cheating on my mum since I was a teenager?”

  I looked up at him, dropped my jaw. “Really? With who?”

  “His secretary,” he said, huffing incredulously. “Can you believe that clichéd shite?”

  “Have you met her?”

  “You mean them? There have been seven of them.”

  I laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was outrageous. “Seriously? And they’re always his secretary?”

  “Every. Single. Time. You’d think he could at least be original.”

  “Yeah. Is it just me or is it somehow more disrespectful to your mom to have predictable clichéd affairs? Like, sure, maybe a little extramarital action is accepted in the aristocracy, but have some imagination for crying out loud. Like, maybe his proctologist? Or a member of Parliament? Oooh, or like one of those mimes in Covent Garden.” I felt Dylan smile into my hair, and then chuckle, and then really chuckle.

  “I can see the headline now,” he said, his chuckle growing into a full-on belly laugh as he rolled onto his back. “‘Your place or mime? Sixteenth Duke of Abingdon beds silent street performer.’”

  His laughter was contagious.

  “‘Geoffrey Hale snogging outside the box,’” I said, laughing through my words and doing the classic mime box move with my hands.

  “‘While his mistress performs in one!’” Dylan was gripping his sides from laughter, and he could barely get the joke out.

  “‘“The Duke of Abingdon is all mime” mistress is thought to have said,’” I said, giggling and trying to act like a mime, making exaggerated expressions that no one would ever be able to interpret.

  We were literally rolling over from dumb puns and slowly letting the silliness lie between us. Somehow we’d just ended up in a fit of laughter over his father’s infidelity.

  “By the way,” I said, “I don’t care if you are aristocracy. If you ever cheat on me, I’ll put your balls in some kind of medieval torture device—I’m sure there are lots of options in the Tower of London, and I have connections.”

  “I’d never dream of it, baby. Why would I need to? The perfect girl is already mine.”

  I ignored the perfect girl part of what he said and just affirmed the important thing. “Yours.”

  “Don’t forget it,” he said, looking firmly into my eyes. He leaned in and kissed me sweetly on the lips. We stayed like that for a moment, the tension uncoiling, Dylan relaxing into our comfortable, safe world. Into us.

  “Thank you,” he whispered as we settled back to sleep. “Thank you for making me laugh. Thank you for letting me…” He didn’t finished the thought. He didn’t need to.

  Chapter 5

  That night was the most we were able to talk for the next four days.

  On Tuesday, we only spoke in the morning before he ran out the door to an early meeting. He mentioned how “those fuckers better watch their back,” and I had to admit—the vengeful side of Dylan was kind of a turn-on.

  On Wednesday, he woke me up with a kiss and a latte but left before I could unearth any intelligible words. We had dinner plans that night, but he cancelled because he was at risk of being overdue on a project for Sir Richard Branson. Dylan Hale didn’t do overdue—he was methodical, but I had come to understand that the amount of time he was spending with his security team trying to figure things out and his father because of family business was unprecedented and not something he’d planned for. He was sweet enough to have the restaurant deliver what he said was the best thing on the menu along with a card on which he’d drawn a rough sketch of a person, presumably him, delivering a dome of food on horseback.

  On Thursday, I only saw him during a cocktail party for someone at his office. We stayed just a half hour, and then he’d had to fly up to Edinburgh to participate in the opening ceremony for a new building for the university’s school of architecture. When he dragged me to the restroom so he could personally remove my panties, taunt me for my egregious error, and then fuck me with my back against the stall door, I somehow managed to ask about any progress on my cyberstalker. He huffed, paused contemplatively, and then simply brushed the hair away from my forehead, kissed it, and said I shouldn’t worry. In these moments, it was as though he were trying to distract me, like he knew if he seduced me I’d stop pressing him, stop asking. And each time it happened, it felt more and more like Dylan was subconsciously somewhere else, trying to figure this out. Oddly, I missed him more when we were having sex than when we were actually apart.

  Now it was Friday, I was midway through my workday, and Dylan was supposedly on a plane, returning to London. I had no idea how busy Dylan had been before we started dating, but he said it had gotten worse since our going public. No one could get enough of a love story, and ours was the one of the moment. The media attention had amped up, as he’d always said it would, and along with it interest in Hale Architecture and Design. It was as though all of London suddenly wanted an architect’s—a very specific architect’s—input on their home’s redesign or wanted Dylan to speak at their club’s annual dinner.

  Occasionally I saw him wince when we’d catch a photographer watching us as we walked from the house to the car or when he’d see our picture in the paper, and I knew he was thinking about Grace, about what the media attention had done to her. So far, all of the pictures, apart from those in the emails, anyway, had been innocuous, banal even, but I knew he was fearing the worst. I could feel the tension radiating off of him whenever the paparazzi made themselves apparent.

  And the media couldn’t be avoided at that night’s event. We were going to the annual showcase party at the Serpentine Gallery, and it had become increasingly clear that this party was a big deal. A really big deal.

  If it hadn’t been drilled into me by Fiona and Josh a gazillion times, then Hannah’s excessive attention about her dress being photographed on me that night would have told me everything I needed to know. She
had called me into her office not once but twice to remind me to wear nude heels with the dress. “Higher the better.” And a third time to give me a sparkly black clutch from her own closet to take with me. Message received: Don’t trip on the red carpet or in any other way embarrass Hannah Rogan while out with your boyfriend.

  At that moment, with two hours to go until Dylan would pick me up from my place, Fiona gave me a rundown about who I was likely to see (apparently both Sting and Guy Ritchie had been there the year before) and we tried to figure out if I was supposed to curtsy in front of Caroline and her brother, Prince Richard.

  “I mean, there must be some kind of rule,” I argued insistently, “about not having to curtsy if your boyfriend used to date the person, even if she is a princess. It just seems wrong for me to have to curtsy to my boyfriend’s ex!”

  “I know you’ve got the passport, Lydia, but you’re not much of a Brit if you can’t remember that she’s not just Dylan’s ex. She’s the future queen. I mean, according to the future history books she doesn’t have any exes. You might have to suck it up,” Fiona said while searching online for the rules for greeting royalty. She was being very matter-of-fact about this whole thing.

  “Ugh, but they slept together!” A fact that made it a hundred times more difficult to think about curtsying to this woman, even if, as Dylan said, it hadn’t meant anything. “I mean, Dylan didn’t bow to her at the museum. Isn’t there some royal rule about how if you’ve had sex with a member of the royal family you’re exempt from bowing protocol?”

  “Well, first, men don’t bow. They just nod their heads,” she started.

  “So unfair,” I pleaded, and she nodded, commiserating.

  “Also, remember, love, he’s a marquess. You, I’m afraid, are nothing.”

  “God, Fiona. Harsh.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean you’re nothing. You know what I meant. You don’t have a title, and you’re basically an American,” she said apologetically as she swiveled in her chair and looked at me. “Look, you should just talk to Dylan about it. Ask him.”

  I sighed, probably louder than I should have. “Yeah, I will.” I could ask Dylan, and I probably would, but not knowing this stuff just reminded me how different our worlds were. We spent the next fifteen minutes watching YouTube instructional videos on curtsying while Fiona critiqued my attempt with helpful advice like “Don’t stick your arse out so much” and “Can’t you go any lower?” and “Not that low! She doesn’t need to know the shade of your nips, now, does she?”

  When I wasn’t laughing, I was wincing at the discomfort of the whole thing. “Since when does my dating life involve enacting scenes from Shakespeare in Love?”

  “Since you started dating the aristocracy.” Fiona was looking down at her feet as she said it, fussing with the laces on her lace-up boots. “And that scene where Joseph Fiennes unravels Gwyneth Paltrow’s boobs and they make sweet love doesn’t seem so bad,” she offered unhelpfully, although little did she know that my sex life with Dylan actually did involve a fair amount of tying and untying knots around various body parts. I smiled to myself, wondering if Dylan would break out that silky rope again soon.

  Just then Hannah came into our office in a panic. “Lydia, what are you doing here?” she asked, frantic.

  “Um…” I looked at her blankly. Had I forgotten something?

  “You’re supposed to be at the studio. I called Stephen, and he’s going to spiff you up.” Stephen was Hannah’s go-to hair and makeup consultant for her shows, and he had recently been deployed to make me look less average whenever I was wearing one of Hannah’s dresses to an event with Dylan.

  “Oh, Hannah, I didn’t know. I still need to swing by home and find a pair of shoes—”

  Hannah cut me off. “No. You go to the studio,” she ordered. “The dress is there, and Stephen is waiting for you. Fiona,” she said, turning to face her, “please go to L. K. Bennett and pick up a pair of nude patent pumps for Lydia. Tell them they’re for me.”

  Oh god. Fiona’s eyebrows shot up, and her gaze flashed to me, as though it had been me who just asked her to do this. “No, no, no, Hannah. Fiona shouldn’t have to do that.” The last thing I needed was Fiona running an errand for me. All of this gown borrowing and special attention from Hannah was bad enough, not to mention the fact that my idea for the brick-and-mortar store had been green-lit. If I wanted even a remote chance of protecting my friendship with Fiona, she could not slide into the role of my assistant.

  “I’ll just call the store and have my driver pick them up. It’s fine.” I realized as soon as I said my driver that I probably hadn’t helped my cause. God, this was so complicated.

  “Fine,” said Hannah, visibly relaxing. “But, listen, Lydia, the dress you’re wearing marks somewhat of a departure for me—people will notice. I need you to look perfect.”

  “I know. I won’t let you down, Hannah. I promise.”

  When I looked back to Fiona, her gaze was firmly on her computer screen.

  * * *

  As I sat in Hannah’s studio while Stephen pulled, straightened, tweaked, plucked, and brushed, I found myself spacing out. I’d had this tiny icky feeling lately, a rough pit in my stomach. About the emails. About how suddenly my life was open to scrutiny. About how I’d become someone who was sitting in this chair, getting ready to wear an expensive dress and extremely high heels. What I couldn’t stop thinking about was that not being a secret may have closed one big gulf between us—that between our public and private lives. Everyone knew we were a couple now. But somehow it had cracked opened another. It had brought into relief how much of Dylan’s private life—his family, his work, what he wanted for himself and for us, how to even navigate any of that—was still a mystery. When I was compartmentalized into the “secret sex” part of his life, not knowing had seemed normal, expected. We’d had strict rules about intimacy, rules that we’d ended up throwing to the side. But as his girlfriend, we were supposed to have more, weren’t we? Somehow I knew, by the way he looked at me, by the slips of intimacy, the zipping of skirts and the fastening of buttons, that he was mine, that I was his. But it also somehow made what I didn’t know about him so much more obvious.

  Stephen tilted my chin up to his and carefully applied a thick coat of coppery eye shadow. He scolded me to snap back to attention, and then he proceeded to explain to me why I should be using a different skin care line and to chastise me for going to sleep with my makeup on.

  Thirty minutes later I stood in Hannah’s studio in the dress, wearing the new heels Frank had dropped off, and coiffed within an inch of my life. My hair was sleek and pulled back into a low bowlike bun at the nap of my neck. My bangs had been pinned to the side. I looked around the studio and scrounged up a handful of gold bangles, piling them onto my slim wrists.

  I went to grab my coat—I could actually hear the cold wind outside the old building’s windows. It sounded frigid out there, and I was basically wearing a handkerchief. But as soon as I lifted the thick navy peacoat and saw it against my slim, elegant dress I knew it was a no-go. The coat had seen me through college and with jeans looked worn in a purposeful, cool kind of way. But with shoes that cost five hundred pounds and a gorgeous, wispy dress, it just looked college-student grungy. I left the coat behind and braced myself for the chill.

  Dylan’s Mercedes was parked right outside the building, and he stood by the door, waiting for me, looking sharp, clean, and devastatingly perfect in his sleek modern tux and overcoat. As soon as I left the building, the cold fall air blasted against my bare skin, making me shiver and scamper towards the car.

  Dylan rushed to me and pulled me against his warm body as he ushered me into the car. “Lydia,” he asked, sounding worried, “where on earth is your coat?” The wind picked up as he said it, proving his point that I needed it. I ducked into the car as quickly as I could and soaked up the heavenly heated seats.

  “I didn’t really have one that was appropriate for this kind of thing,” I
said, shrugging. “I’ll only be outside for a total of forty-five seconds. I think I can handle it. It’s not like anyone will even notice.”

  “First,” he said, looking down at my chest, “I think people might notice.”

  I looked down and realized that my nipples were hard against the thin satin of the dress. I hadn’t been able to wear a bra, which Hannah had said was fine, but now I was wondering what the hell she’d been thinking. It looked obscene.

  I covered my breasts with my palms, praying the warmth from my hands would improve the situation. I looked at Dylan, who now had an evil look of lust on his face. “They’ll go away,” I insisted.

  “That would be a tragedy,” he said, sliding closer to me. “You look bloody edible, Lydia. I mean, that dress. Christ.” He turned towards me and pulled me over his lap so my legs draped over his, and he could rub his large warm palms down my bare arms and back. His hand continued and slid down the bodice of the dress, moving over my bare legs and back under the skirt of the dress as he took me in. The warmth of his hands clashing with my cool skin sent a shiver running down my spine.

  He was speaking softly as he warmed me. “Lydia, you must let me buy you the clothes you need to go to these things with me. And for Christ’s sake, you need to be warm. This is ridiculous. You know there is an account set up for you at Harvey Nichols, and the personal shopper is on call for you. Use it.”

  I pulled back from him, and he gripped me tighter. He wasn’t going to let me pull away from him when we talked about this. Again. “We’ve been over this. I don’t want to be a kept woman, Dylan. You can’t buy me a wardrobe.”

  “I’m not talking about a wardrobe. I’m talking about a few things so you don’t have to worry about attending these events with me. You’re being ridiculous. You’re so stubborn.”