The Royal We

by Heather Cocks

  “Lacey and Pudge aren’t the same, though,” I said. “Pudge had an addiction.”

  “I’d argue Lacey does, too.”

  “To what?” I asked.

  Bea bit into a slice of apple. “To attention. To you. To your attention.”

  “That’s not fair,” I said automatically. “Our relationship is different. Twins are—”

  “Yes, yes. You’re bonded. It’s special. Etcetera,” Bea said. “I may not be a twin, but that doesn’t mean I can’t read one. Lacey is trying to get your attention by giving you none, and you are so desperate to make her happy that you’re going to ruin everything for yourself.”

  “I can fix this, Bea,” I insisted. “She’s invited to Royal Ascot with me. It’ll be a great way to remind her that we can still be the Porter twins even when I’m the Duchess of Wherever.”

  “Doubtful,” Bea said, snagging the last piece of celery. “But I have said my piece. Now, back to work. And if you flash me any of your knickers at all this time, I will call the Daily Mail and tell them you’ve never worn any.”

  Chapter Four

  By summer, unbeknownst to us, The Bexicon was rushing toward its conclusion so it could hit bookstores in time to stuff people’s Christmas stockings. Aurelia Maupassant chose to close her trove of flattering fallacies with this interpretation of my debut at Royal Ascot:

  It was a triumphant appearance. As the young prince and his future wife stood on the balcony of the Royal Box, their faces showed it all: happiness, contentment, and commitment to each other and to the people amassed below them. Porter was the very picture of perfection, a living dream, an aspirational totem for those who cleave to the most hopeless and hopeful of romantic beliefs that someday, too, their princes will come.

  If that’s what she saw, then I’ll take it.

  The five-day, multimillion-pound Royal Ascot race meet every June is characterized by crazy hats, extremely rich purses—both in terms of prizes, and handbags—and the prestige of Eleanor’s daily attendance. This year, Nick’s ship would arrive in port in time for him to join the Queen’s procession, a prime opportunity for The Firm’s PR machine to capitalize on the mounting yen for a Posh and Bex sighting. The world seemed to feel that being given royal lovebirds, only to have them ripped away for half a year while one of them shipped out to the Indian Ocean, was voyeuristically unfair. So when word got out that we’d be there on Ladies’ Day, the Guardian ran the headline AND THEY’RE OFF, and the best of the Bex-themed fashion blogs, Bex-a-Porter, put a countdown to Ascot on the homepage along with a poll in which 73 percent of voters wanted me to wear a hat that made me taller than Nick.

  Royal Ascot’s dress code already falls in line with the litany of rules I have to obey: Sleeves are mandatory, or at least straps wider than an inch. Skirts must fall no higher than the vaguely defined just above the knee, and hats must have a base of four inches or larger (I wish I’d been present when they decided three inches was too trashy to bear). Lacey was still allergic to Donna—it was mutual—so it was Cilla, at loose ends now that she’d quit nannying and moved in with Gaz, who acted as my wingman during the flurry of emergency fittings.

  “You’ll want something bright, I think, Rebecca,” Donna theorized.

  “You’ve pulled some ripping patterns,” Cilla observed. “In the right spots, they’ll hide any wrinkles from the car ride.”

  “I was thinking a floral,” Donna said, impressed.

  “But just a touch of it. She can’t look like a throw pillow.”

  Donna pulled from the rack a summery white dress with a fiery cluster of poppies at the waist, a few wafting petals sprinkled in both directions.

  “My first pick,” she said. “You’ve got a keen instinct.”

  “You did the hard part.” Cilla beamed. She was the anti-Lacey. A love match was born.

  The day of the races did not dawn fortuitously. We had to be in place well before the royal procession at two o’clock, but Bex Standard Time didn’t exist yet, so my usual well-intentioned struggles with punctuality resulted in Kira nagging me to tears. And then Lacey made Mom and me wait an additional half hour before texting that she’d have to meet us there. It was only thanks to PPO Stout’s lead foot that we were almost back on schedule when we drove in through the pack of wobbly racegoers spilling toward the grandstand. The racetrack has tried curtailing the party atmosphere, even adding an amnesty box inviting you to deposit any drugs you might have planned to sneak inside. (Freddie told me very seriously, in front of a stone-faced Twiggy, that they are doled out as Christmas bonuses to the PPOs.) I wish I’d attended just once when I could still anonymously people-watch, but instead we took an elevator above the fray to the curved, blue-carpeted Royal Box, jutting out like a flying saucer from the rest of Ascot’s grandstands. Clive and the rest of the Fitzwilliams had beaten us there, with his father, Edgeware, holding court among the other toffs about a recent rugby match in which his fourth son Tim majestically shattered his nose. Dim Tim himself stood by, listening, and offering little other than a vacuous smile and a wonderful view of his new Picasso of a face: flat where it should be strong, his nostrils too close to his eyes. His brothers’ buffet of distortions, to go with their matching hulking blondness, made Clive even more of an anomaly in the family than he already was.

  “Clive!” I called out, spying him from behind.

  He turned around, and with him, Paddington Larchmont-Kent-Smythe, in a yellow chiffon day dress straight out of a Fred Astaire movie.

  “Rebecca!” Paddington said, gliding over to embrace me. “It’s so fulfilling to be reunited.”

  “Um, yes, with you, too, Pud—er, Padding…Larchmont…?” I fumbled.

  “You may use whichever name speaks to you,” she said, warm but still somehow remote, like she was communicating from a dimension a half step out of sync with my own. Per Tatler, she was spending every third week in an ashram.

  “Bex.” Clive ducked in to kiss my cheek, dashing in his tailcoat. “It’s been ages.”

  “Got any sure winners?” I asked.

  “He’d better,” said Thick Trevor as he passed, yanking painfully on his brother’s earlobe. “Horse racing’s the only kind of sport he plays: one where you don’t actually do anything.”

  Clive shot him a disgusted expression as Pudge waved at the throngs outside.

  “I was trying to absorb psychic energies from the people, because it’s so fucking electric down there.” Her new-age veneer made her old favorite word sound like a spiritual orgasm. “But nothing came to me. I shall meditate on it.”

  She kissed Clive on the mouth and then floated away.

  “You two? I never would have called that,” I said. “Hard to believe she’s the same Pudge who could barely sit up at Klosters.”

  “Hard to believe you’re the same Bex,” he said, giving me the once-over, then pulling me to the window. “Have you taken in the view yet? Pretty impressive stuff.”

  The racecourse was set in countryside as green as my emerald. The crowd hummed with excitement as the bookmakers began taking punters’ money for the day’s races under their colorful umbrellas, and every ten seconds another wonderful, ridiculous hat wandered into view: a bust of David Beckham; a Mad Hatter’s tea party recreated in elaborate clay sculptures, the Cheshire Cat’s tail flicking the wearer’s ear; even a tiny topiary trimmed in the image of Nick’s face. And directly beneath us, a drunk woman was being escorted out under great protest—possibly because her hat, while chaste looking at eye level, from above was clearly a graphic depiction of a vagina. In her defense, it was Ladies’ Day.

  “Amazing,” I said. “I never thought I’d be standing here.”

  “Nor did I,” Clive said frankly.

  I cast him a sidelong glance. “Yes, I know.”

  “How are you doing with all of this?” he asked. “You look smart, but if I know anything about The Firm, it’s that appearances are deceiving when they need to be.”

  “Yes, no one ev
er accused me of being smart by any definition,” I quipped, though his remark needled me. “I’m…so-so. It’s hard without Nick. Marj is throwing stuff at me faster than I can keep up, and every day I find out I’m supposed to have a stance on, like, monograms, or something. And, man, the press is weird—no offense.”

  “None taken, man,” he said.

  “The other day, Xandra Deane said Nick and I are fighting because I want our children to be born in America.” I shook my head. “Nick was at sea, and the last thing I want to discuss when I finally see him is childbirth.”

  “Xandra Deane is a professional royals hater,” Clive said. “No one knows why—maybe because vitriol sells papers. But she’s mysterious in general. Loads of people claim they know someone who’s met her, but it’s never a firsthand story.”

  “Maybe you can hunt her down,” I said. “Weren’t you applying for stuff at the Mail?”

  He stiffened. “No takers,” he said. “I missed the two biggest Lyons stories to come out in years, so I lost my momentum. But I’m making my way. Human interest profiles are very enriching. It’s a real way to touch people.”

  I saw through him. His recent Recorder piece on an ancient male MP, who writes raunchy mysteries under the pseudonym Petunia Cortlandt, had read like Clive found it beneath him after the heady rush of the polo scoop from a year ago, and I think he regretted discarding the supremely socially connected Davinia Cathcart-Hanson before his ascent had been assured. I felt responsible. Bea said I didn’t owe everyone my patronage, but no one taught me the distinction between that and loyalty.

  “I’ll talk to Marj,” I said. “I know it’s a delicate balance between being our friend and…”

  “…and my career?” Clive supplied. He smiled absently, staring out the window. “It is hard,” he said. “Nick only knows the half of how discreet I’ve been over the years.”

  “If it’s Paris you’re alluding to,” I said with a slight edge, “neither of us did anything wrong that night, so maybe I’ll just tell Nick and be done with it.”

  “No, Bex. No,” Clive said. “Don’t tell him. My point is only that it’s hard to make it clear to him just how loyal I am, when I can’t do it without…you know.”

  “You’ve been great,” I said. “I bet we can work something out.”

  Clive lit up, which made me wonder fleetingly if I’d overpromised. I was saved by Gaz and Cilla, with Bea in tow, looking impeccable in blue.

  “Incoming,” Cilla breathed.

  I glanced past her and saw Lacey heading over from near the elevator, smart in a red suit and a striking black hat, albeit one that looked hastily affixed.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, and I detected a distinct whiff of alcohol on her breath. “I came with Tony’s friends, and they had to make a stop.” She gestured at the small purple button attached to my dress. “Where can I get those little passes for them to come up?”

  I froze. Did she really think I could invite random guests? This wasn’t even my party.

  “This isn’t a nightclub, Lacey, it’s the Royal Box at Ascot,” our good old Lady Bollocks said, and I shot her a grateful look. “You can’t just have the bouncer lift the rope.”

  “Why not?” Lacey asked. “This place is huge, and they’re with me, and I’m with her, and she’s with the heir.” She looped an arm through mine, wobbling in her heels. I wondered what all had been consumed in that limo.

  “If you don’t understand, then I am not wasting my breath explaining,” Bea snapped.

  Nigel sidled up, white as a sheet. “Er, did you say Tony is coming?” he asked quietly, tugging at his waistcoat. “Bloody hell, I owe him a hundred…never mind. Just tell him to, er, be cool.” He scampered away.

  “An excellent demonstration of why your drug runner can’t come up here,” Bea said.

  Lacey looked crestfallen. “But I can’t tell them I couldn’t get them in,” she said.

  “Why ever not?” Bea said, then glanced down at her racing form as if the subject were closed. “Great Scott, ten-to-one odds on Jolly Roger in the first? He’s a brute. Can’t pass that up.”

  Lacey bit her lip. “Shit,” she said, loudly enough that I saw Pansy Larchmont-Kent-Smythe swing around and glare at us. “Fine. But when I get back, I have some news,” she said, steadying herself ever so briefly before leaving.

  “It never ends,” Cilla said under her breath.

  As I watched Lacey go, my mother and I met eyes across the room. I didn’t want to ruin her day, so I gave her a sprightly thumbs-up, then turned back to my friends and sighed with what amounted to my whole being.

  * * *

  George IV was, by all accounts, a fatuous king and a worse husband, but he had an undeniable knack for pageantry: A lot of the things that are now hallmarks of the monarchy were his initiatives, including the redesign of Buckingham Palace that yielded its current famous façade, at least half the sparkle of its interior, and the Royal Procession at Ascot. The carriage parade begins at Windsor Great Park and winds around onto the racecourse past the grandstand, where a band strikes up “God Save the Queen.” There’s something magical about the rousing, carousing sound of sauced, exultant male and female voices shout-singing that anthem. If I’m around to hear “God Save the King” sung to Nick, I will cry every time. I got misty enough seeing through my binoculars how enthused he was by his first time in the procession with Eleanor. Her famous halting, semicircular wave had over the years become a flick, like she was halfheartedly shooing a gnat, but Nick’s was so hearty he almost banged into Her Majesty’s hat.

  “Honey, he’s so handsome,” Mom said, squeezing my arm.

  “He’s always been a dish,” agreed Gaz. “Can you imagine Nigel’s ugly mug on our money? If I’m going to make a fat pile of dosh at the track, I want it to be attractive.”

  When Nick finally came up the elevator, and I saw him for the first time since January, I practiced my very best Barnes-approved walk and gave him a demure (if tight) hug and a kiss on both cheeks. Eleanor is lucky we didn’t tear into each other like some kind of Animal Planet show.

  “Welcome home, sailor,” I said.

  “You’ve no idea how good it is to see you,” Nick said, flicking my flag pin, which I’d put on the brim of my hat. “And also agonizing, because there are no hidey-holes in here for acting on these extremely inappropriate thoughts I’m having, oh, hello, Gran. Didn’t see you there.”

  Eleanor’s face betrayed nothing—a lifetime of living behind a mask means hers very rarely slips, even in private—as she came around and laid an affectionate hand on Nick’s arm.

  I curtsied. “Your Majesty. I was just telling Nick that I hope he can give me some insider tips on how to read a racing form.”

  Nick shook his head. “I’m useless. I go by the jockey’s colors.”

  “And I go by horse names,” Freddie said, joining us. “There’s some revolting nag in the Gold Cup called Dynastic that I hear is a lock to come in last. Know anything about that, Gran?”

  The mask dropped and Eleanor all but vibrated with competitive fire. An inveterate horsewoman and Thoroughbred owner, she’d won some hardware over the years, but the Gold Cup—the most prestigious in British distance racing and the first leg of its own Triple Crown—cruelly eluded her. Bookmakers said Dynastic was her best shot at it in twenty years.

  “Bite your tongue,” she said to Freddie. “I’ll expect your support in the form of a very generous bet.”

  “Only if you let me have a tipple of brandy out of the Cup when you win,” he teased, poking cheekily at her hat. She swatted his hand away, with the kind of smile you give the overgrown imp you adore in spite of yourself, and headed off to her table. Lacey, across the room nursing a cocktail, waved awkwardly, and Freddie tipped his hat to her before pretending he was thrilled to see Thick Trevor and Dim Tim on the complete opposite side of the room.

  “What’s that about?” Nick wondered, watching Freddie go. Before I could answer, Mom stopped over to g
ive Nick a squeeze before making a beeline for Agatha. The two of them set to chatting like a couple of old ladies in their rocking chairs.

  “And what’s that?” Nick asked.

  “That is either a match made in heaven or an unholy alliance,” I said.

  “Speaking of which,” Nick said, nudging me flirtatiously, “you would not believe the unholy things I’m thinking.”

  “Can you get your mind out of the sack for a second?” I grinned.

  “Not a chance,” he said. “I’ve been on the high seas, Rebecca. It makes a man thirsty.”

  I laughed. “Settle down, Sub-Lieutenant. I’m a sure thing,” I said. “But first I have so much to tell you.”

  “Nicholas!” said Paddington, breezing back from wherever she’d found her meditative bliss. “What a fucking pleasure!” She wetly pecked both his cheeks. “I haven’t seen you since that night we…well. You know.”

  “Er,” Nick said, the tips of ears beginning to vibrate.

  “He’s such a spiritual lover,” Paddington said to me.

  “He…yes?” The implied question mark at the end was unintentional.

  “The plane we were on was exquisite. I am so fucking delighted he’s found the right soul to unite with in carnal Nirvana,” Paddington said, and she seemed profoundly earnest about it. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my sex partner is waiting for me over there.”

  During the ensuing seconds of silence, I must have burned a thousand calories just keeping my face impassive.

  “We were split up. It was just one time,” he said.

  “One very spiritual time.”

  “And it only happened because I didn’t actually recognize her until after. Well, during.” He rubbed his head. “Wait, I’m making it worse. This is why I didn’t want to get into everything that happened during the Dark Period. It was just…you know…things happen over the course of two years and…two years, Bex.”

  “Relax, I think it’s funny,” I said. “Things happened with me, too. Want me to spill one to even the score?”