Royally Yours

by Amy Brent

  “New pose! Switch it up and show me how categorically rabid this makes you feel!”

  I used the flat of my palm to shove Liza away. She tugged Mr. Snowman’s arm even harder.

  “Yes!!!” Winston shrieked in a tone I would have thought he was incapable of.

  Which was a good thing, because it came seconds before Liza tumbled to the ground, Mr. Snowman’s snapped-off arm going with her.

  An ominous silence.

  Winston stood up from behind his camera and called out, “Helpers!”

  Half a second later, the room was filled with people scurrying around to fix the situation.

  “Sorry, Winston,” Liza said, getting to her feet.

  “Forget it,” he said crisply. “You two go and have some lunch.”

  My ravenous stomach growled out a thank you as we walked out of there.

  “If I’d known all it was going to take was to pull the arm off the snowman for us to get a proper lunch break, I would’ve done that in the first place,” Liza said dryly.

  After I closed the dressing room door, I opened the lid of the massive cooler our agent, Ron, had bought us. He had done so in an effort to inspire healthy eating by claiming we could fit “a whole army of carrots” in there.

  As Liza looked inside, she let out an appreciative chuckle.

  “Oh, if only Ron could see this now.”

  I could almost see him in front of us, his little hands on his muscular hips, his over-Botoxed face attempting a mask of horror. Inside our big-ass cooler, in this morning’s sleep-deprived haze, I’d crammed the pizza box Liza had apparently half-polished off last night. The result was a whole half a pizza for the two of us.

  Taking two slices each, we cheered.

  As soon as one bite was in her, Liza asked the question she’d been clearly dying to ask all morning.

  “How did it go?”

  I chewed and swallowed slowly, crafting exactly what I was going to say before I said it. I didn’t want to impulsively blurt out something I shouldn’t.

  “It went well,” I said, which was true after all. “We really hit it off. He wore this amazing suit and booked out a whole restaurant for us.”

  “And then…” Liza said, her sly smile goading me into it.

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry. I forgot to ask him about Henry.”

  Now distracted, Liza ogled me.

  “You mean you meant it when you said you’d ask him to see if I could get a date with his brother?”

  I put my arm around my friend and squeezed her to me.

  “Of course I meant it. You’re my best friend, Liza.”

  She grinned at me, biting down on her pizza. “You’re not bad either.”

  “Pfft, come on,” I said. “Just admit it. You love me.”

  “Maybe half as much as Charles does,” Liza said cheekily. My friendly clasp around her arm drooped, and suddenly, I couldn’t even bring myself to bite down into the triangle of pepperoni pizza in front of me.

  “I don’t know about that,” I said uncertainly. “I mean, we really did get along well, but he’s…a prince.”

  “And you’re a supermodel,” Liza reminded me.

  “I know,” I said, “but still…”

  My phone went off, and Liza grabbed it, then answered it.

  She handed it to me with a smirk.

  “Speak of the devil.”

  “Hello, Heidi,” Charles said.

  “Hello,” I said. “What’s up?”

  He paused. “You just called me,” he said, sounding about half as confused as I felt.

  My angry gaze went to Liza, who was blowing me a kiss.

  “Sorry about that,” I told him, “I think it was my friend, Liza. She wants me to hook her up on a date with Henry, but I know that really isn’t up to me, or even to you.”

  Another pause. For a few seconds, I was afraid I’d gone too far. I’d had one date with Charles, and now I was asking him for favors for my best friend?

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Charles said. “But could you wait a minute or two?”

  “Sure.”

  Less than a minute later, he was back.

  “Henry’s free to meet on Friday if your friend is free. And I was thinking you and I could join them. Like a double date, if that’s fine with you.”

  I gave Liza a thumbs-up. She dropped her plate of pizza on the floor and danced around, punching her hands up and down over her head exuberantly. I bit back a guffaw.

  “That definitely will work for both of us.”

  “Same limo pickup and restaurant work for you?” he asked. Then he added, “I know we just went there, but it’s the easiest to buy out without people suspecting anything. Not to mention that it’s my favorite anyway.”

  “I liked it too,” I said heedlessly, “and our first date was so good, I’d be happy to spend the second at the same place.”

  “Great,” Charles said. “I guess this is good-bye then.”

  “Good-bye,” I said. “And thanks again.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Charles said, and something about the way he rolled his R made me settle into the chair behind me breathlessly.

  Just as I was about to hang up, he said, “And, Heidi? One more thing.”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Wear red.”

  Chapter 7

  Charles

  “And then there’s the school visit tonight, and the golf tournament tomorrow, and the parade on Saturday…”

  My mom’s voice drifted in and out of my consciousness. My gaze was fixed on a painted portrait of my great-great-great-grandfather, old Charles V. He looked morose and paunchy, and I wondered if the reason was because, as his likeness was being painted, his own mother was reciting the events of the week to him too. Had things always been this complex and busy for the royals?

  I frowned, dismissing the thought. It was something whiny Henry would think while he was griping about not being able to go on a six-month vacation to Brazil. Although it didn’t mean he didn’t have a point too.

  Sometimes, the constant event attendance expected of me was just plain tiring. I constantly had to be on my game, constantly give my best manners, my best smile, say the right things to the right people and steadfastly avoid or ignore the wrong ones. It wasn’t just a full-time job; it was more like a full-life job.

  “Charles,” my mother said suddenly, “are you listening?”

  “Mostly,” I said, straightening myself in the velvet couch.

  She responded by straightening herself even higher. That was my mom’s thing. Due to her looming height of six feet three, she even towered over me a good inch. Part of me suspected God had expressly made her tall so she could achieve her continued aim of looking down on people.

  “I expect as much from your brother,” she said, tossing her hand toward Henry as if at a dog. Sure enough, Henry was on his phone, engaged in a noisy game by the sounds of it. “But from our future king and sovereign?”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The way Mother spoke, it was as if I were the king of England when it was a colonial superpower that had settlements on every continent.

  “My apologies, Mother,” I said.

  Patience was something I had learned from Dad. When I was fourteen and it first became clear I was to be the next king, I had adamantly refused. I’d seen enough in the shadows under my dad’s eyes to know it was something I wanted no part in. And yet, on with it my dad had persisted. When we all went out to the opera, he’d lean over and just mention it, just a passing comment, another dribble of his patient work: “Our future king.”

  Each time, the words made me feel sick to my stomach. At least, until one day while on vacation in the Bahamas somewhere. Henry had befriended a local kid, a younger boy with a mocha mop of hair and a gap-toothed smile. He and the little boy had been chucking handfuls of dirt at each other, giggling maniacally all the while. This behavior was only possible because my mother was taking a much-needed nap in our cabana. My dad and
I had been sitting on the swing, half dozing off. I’d been too tired to want to join in on my brother’s antics. And, over the years, it’d gradually become clear that Henry was far wilder and more reckless than I would ever be.

  That was when my dad did it. Leaning over, he said ever so casually, “If you don’t become king, then it’ll have to go to Henry.”

  His gaze rested on the jubilant face of my brother. He didn’t say the rest because he didn’t need to.

  Simple pleasures like that, like goofing off and being bad—Henry could never get away with it as the future king. If anyone was going to save him from a life that would become a prison, it was me. If I couldn’t become king for myself or for my parents, then I had to do it for Henry.

  That settled it. Dad’s patience paid off and I dutifully marched into my expected role. Sixteen more years of learning decorum and saying the right things, going to the right places and rubbing shoulders with the right people, and here I was now.

  “It is all right of course,” my mother said, betraying a tender little smile as she swiped a runaway curl off her forehead. “But I do have to get to tea.”

  Rising, she settled the teacup she had just emptied on the side table.

  I knew better than to ask Mother about her upcoming tea date with her friends. After flowers and good manners, tea was her next favorite thing. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the whole British connotation or because she genuinely liked tea, but whatever the reason, we had several whole cupboards in the pantry dedicated to it.

  “I never got a firm answer from either of you as to whether you understood the events for the next few days or whether you’d be there for this Saturday.”

  “I will be there,” I confirmed immediately.

  Mother’s steely gaze fixed itself on Henry’s still phone-fixated form.

  “Henry?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said over the sounds of shots and blasts emanating from his phone. “I’ll be there too.”

  Clasping her hands together, she paused for a moment. I could already see her brow working over some angry retort. But then, suddenly, she swiveled and glided out of the room without another word.

  “Phew,” Henry said, putting down his phone. “I thought she was going to crucify me on the spot.”

  “You weren’t exactly making things easy for her, you know,” I pointed out.

  Henry grabbed his phone, looking like he was considering playing on it again. Thinking better of it, he put it back down.

  “My apologies, future king,” he said in a falsetto voice. “Only I had invested myself prior in blasting off the heads of flesh-eating zombies. You don’t want flesh-eating zombies to overtake London, now do you?”

  I responded by chucking a pillow at his head, which he laughingly dodged.

  “Cool it, bro. You don’t want to be a grandpa for the date.”

  “You mean our date on Friday,” I corrected him.

  Henry slapped his palm to his forehead.

  “Tomorrow, right.” He gave a wicked half smile. “Must’ve mixed it up with my other date.”

  I didn’t ask. At this point, I didn’t want to know, but Henry supplied me with the details anyway.

  “You remember that redhead from the popsicle shoot?”

  I nodded.

  “Yep, her. Her place too.” He leaned back on the couch, his gaze spanning the ornamental ceiling with all its swirls. “And then there’s that blonde from the popsicle shoot, too, tonight. It’s going to be a winning hat trick week.”

  I stretched out my arms, feeling drained just hearing about it.

  “Don’t you ever get sick and tired of it all?”

  Henry ogled me like I had just asked him what two plus four was.

  “You mean like sick and tired of partying and girls?”

  “Basically.”

  Henry arranged his hands behind his head, which he shook with a carefree, lopsided grin.

  “Nope.”

  “But you will be there for Friday,” I confirmed, moving closer to him on the couch. “I promised Heidi you’d be there for her friend.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Henry said, getting out his phone again. “I just told you, it’s going to be hat trick week. Why would I ruin my own streak?”

  I resisted the urge to jam the off button on his phone. Henry could be exasperating even in the best of times, but he was my brother.

  “Although I still don’t know why you get the brunette from the popsicle shoot,” he said petulantly.

  Suddenly, I had to resist the urge to chuck his phone across the room.

  “We all get to have our fun,” I said evenly.

  “I know,” Henry said to his phone obliviously. “Only I had two out of the three for fun, so if I want to have a full house—”

  “Just drop it. Okay, Henry?” I snapped, jerking myself to my feet. If the conversation continued, I wasn’t sure what I would do. “Can you just drop it and slow down for once in your life?”

  Henry thrust his phone aside, onto the couch.

  “Need I remind you, brother, that this is what the younger royal brother does? Parties and whiles his time away with passing pleasures because he’s not much use to anyone?”

  “Don’t take that bullshit stance with me,” I snapped back at him. “Dad has offered you a whole score of things to do, but the only things that interest you involve eating, partying, and sleeping around.”

  “What’s the matter?” Henry intoned, his full lips twisting. “Jealous?”

  Suddenly, it occurred to me just what the matter was. It was hearing him talk about Heidi like that that had set me off, especially now that I had her all lined up for taking her to the hidden house and the room and all that.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just sometimes stressful watching the way you rampage about. Mother has a point. If you keep going on like this, you’re going to get a girl pregnant, and then Mother really will carry out her threat.”

  Henry glared at me as if I were our dear mother in question.

  “Just let her,” he said. “Just let her.”

  Clearly, that was my cue to leave. As I walked across the gleaming wooden floor, it occurred to me that was just what I thought about the whole Henry-Heidi situation. If he had been serious when he’d talked about making Heidi part of his hat trick, then he had another thing coming. Just let him.

  Chapter 8

  Heidi

  “What do you think about this one?”

  Liza poked her newly manicured thumb at the black-and-white striped storefront. I was mesmerized by her polish of choice. Apparently, the nail attendant had told her it was like a mood ring, only nail polish, which meant it got redder the happier she was. Right now, it was blaring, bright cherry red.

  And I couldn’t blame her. The closer the seconds ticked to tomorrow, the more excited and nervous I got myself. In the flat, I’d spent half the day wandering around fruitlessly, moving inanimate objects like Kleenex boxes and pens from one useless space to another until Liza had finally suggested a trip out of the house that we so desperately needed. Besides, shopping was our favorite activity.

  “Hello, earth to Heidi,” Liza said, waving all five beaming red nails in my face.

  “Sorry,” I said, grinning. “Just admiring your manicure. This place looks good.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Liza said, clearly pleased.

  Really, I’d only hastily glanced in the window. It showcased several sitting mannequins in colored mod outfits that also looked vaguely punkish. Usually, goth wasn’t my style, but something told me Charles would find it enticing. And tonight, that was my only goal.

  Liza “oohed” and “aahed” over a whole circular rack of leather skirts of various lengths. Seeing my friend so obliviously into the task had my heart boiling with guilt. Several days had passed, and I still hadn’t told Liza the real details of my date with Charles. As in, the real mind-blowingly sexy details of the hot fuck fest we’d had.

  But every time I ev
en considered telling her, my stomach was jammed with such an immediate sensation of revulsion, I knew it was impossible.

  Monday night, I’d had what could only modestly be described as the best sex of my life. I was not about to go and endanger that by running my mouth to Liza. Sure, I knew she wasn’t the type to go blabbing all around town about it, but if Charles found out—hell, if he even asked me outright—I wouldn’t be able to lie to him.

  “The world’s worst liar” was what my mom had proudly declared me at seven years of age when I’d tried telling her some tall tale about what had happened to her expensive Venetian vase. She had me clean up the shimmery amber shards, and I’d only dabbled in lying ever since. I just wasn’t good at it. According to my friends, my cheeks went beet red and I was stricken with the immediate need to look away from any living thing in a five-mile vicinity. So, the truth it was for me.

  Like now, as Liza lifted the ugliest skirt I’d ever seen. It was patchwork and polka dot mixed with tiger print and…was that neon-green fur?

  “Is this ugly?”

  I looked at her with a pained expression. Pain, mainly because Liza was forcing me to say what she secretly knew already. “Yes,” I said.

  Liza exhaled angrily. “You’re no fun,” she complained.

  “If you want to go out there and be ugly without me telling you…”

  “Oh, thanks. You’re just a regular Mother Teresa,” Liza muttered darkly before striding to the opposite end of the store.

  I focused my attention on a line of dresses in the corner. They were on sale, although it wasn’t the sale sign that drew me there. It was the material.

  Leather. Sure, I already had a white leather dress at home, but it was of a different style entirely, more modern and posh. The ones here could only be described as biker chic. They were black or blue and clingy with a zipper straight down the front. They basically said “fuck me now, I’m ready, and I’m bad.”

  Just looking at them made me feel hard core. So, I went into one of the open dressing rooms and tried a black one on.