by Jerramy Fine
Despite his incessant teasing, Rupert admirably maintained his role as my surrogate brother, allowing me to flirt with as many lords and non-lords as I saw fit. But even with this freedom, I was making a concerted effort to counteract my dreadful behavior at the toga party. Because to tell you the truth, I was not that kind of girl.
In my defense (and in spite of recent evidence to the contrary), I must insist that I’ve always been quite prudish at heart. Throughout my teens I’d been surrounded by so many goat-roping cowboys that held no ambition whatsoever other than to get drunk and drive around in pickup trucks42 until the day they died, that for the majority of high school, my interest in boys was practically non ex is tent. I did regard myself as rather inexperienced—but considering the alternatives, quite frankly, I didn’t mind.
I was nearly eighteen when I had my first kiss. And my first time wasn’t until several years after that (because with college came four years of loud-mouthed New Yorkers like Max). My extended intervals of self-imposed chastity were extremely effortless—mainly because in those surroundings, physical attraction simply never existed for me.
But meeting Rupert’s circle of friends changed everything. I was shocked at the heady effect these English boys had on me and became rather frightened by my endless desire to kiss every male within arm’s reach that spoke to me with a plummy English accent.
At the turn of the century, respectable Englishwomen used to force themselves to think of their childbearing duty to the British Empire in order to get through any kind of passionate activity with an Englishman. Fast-forward a hundred years and there I was seduced by the mere thought of one day serving the British Empire! Trembling with plea sure at the very idea of any passionate activity with an Englishman! And yet some people still had the nerve to accuse me of single-handedly reversing the feminist movement. If anything, I was moving it forward!
Nonetheless, in this new temptation-rich environment, I really had to watch myself. I knew that if I wasn’t careful, my personal and unique interpretation of “Lie back and think of England” could lead to scandals that would make the toga incident pale in comparison.
But I had to wonder, what patrician predicament would my accent-addiction lead me to next?
Later that month, I received an invitation to Rupert’s twenty-first birthday party that was to be held in an ancient windmill somewhere in the east of England. An American friend of mine pointed out that it’s a good thing England is stuck in the past because the modern equivalent would be to throw a party in a nuclear reactor, but I ignored him. Americans had no right to lecture me on what was and wasn’t an appropriate party. They couldn’t even binge drink properly.
As usual, this party had a theme: “Dress as Your Hero.” I have to admit, I didn’t quite understand this constant English obsession with costume parties. Prior to meeting Rupert, the last time I remember going to a party where a costume was required (other than Halloween) I was in third grade. Now I was attending “fancy dress” parties practically every week.
My real heroine was, without a doubt, the late Princess Diana. She was the epitome of everything I ever dreamed of becoming. She was gorgeous, stylish, an excellent social hostess, and an even better philanthropist. Although she was possibly the last traditionally chosen43 princess, she proved that her royal role was just as relevant to the public today as it was thousands of years ago.
Two years before I found Peter in the Windsor family tree, I remember watching Diana’s fairytale wedding on television. My grandparents had dotingly taped it for me, and as a four-year-old, I sat cross-legged on their floor, watching it over and over—utterly entranced by Diana’s magic. In that instant, she became the living link between the fairytale in my heart and the fairytale I knew my life could become.
Diana died three months before I was scheduled to come to England for the first time. I was devastated. After waiting all those years, my milestone trip had suddenly become bittersweet. I knew I would never see Diana in person; I knew I would never get to meet her.
Initially, I refused to believe anyone when they told me the news of her death. It was nearly one in the morning, I (big surprise) was at a college frat party, and I was certain that my friends were playing some vast practical joke on me and my royal obsession. But as the evening wore on, and more and more people came to tell me the heartbreaking news, I realized that the impossible was true.
I remember locking myself in my dorm room with piles of newspapers and crying for hours as I pored over the tragic headlines, staring at the TV as the knee-deep sea of flowers piled higher and higher in front of Kensington Palace. I stayed up by myself to watch the 4 A.M. funeral, as all those who loyally pledged to stay up with me fell asleep soon after midnight.
It felt like some merciless higher power had single-handedly plucked the biggest inspiration out of my life, leaving me to face the world alone. No one could console me. The only person who came close was, quite unexpectedly, my dad—who told me he felt exactly the same way when John Lennon died.
Nearly ten years later, people still laugh and joke and scoff at my heartache, but it is a genuine loss from which I will never recover, and to this day, I still wear black on the 31st of August.
Did I dare dress up as Princess Diana for Rupert’s party? When I’d created a Diana costume for my eighth grade honors history class, I’d quickly learned that my long blond hair wasn’t particularly conducive to her look. However well intended, I knew any impersonation of mine would never do her justice, and I also knew the Brits would see the entire costume as terribly nouveau and tacky.
So, I resorted to heroine #2: Princess Grace of Monaco, another idyllic princess who was killed tragically in a car crash. Prior to becoming Princess Grace, she was the ultraglamorous screen actress known as Grace Kelly. And yes, she was American. I figured that with this costume, for once my accent might work in my favor. Granted, the real Princess Grace renounced her U.S. citizenship in order to marry her true love Prince Rainier, but I could hardly hold that against her. I would have done the same thing in a heartbeat.
I eventually settled for a black sheath dress with a peach silk cardigan, my highest, most glamorous black heels, a single string of pearls, and a pair of Hollywood cat-eye sunglasses. I coaxed my hair into thick Grace Kelly waves and finished the look with the hard-won tiara from my oh-so-controversial teen beauty pageant. Sadly, the tiara was set with rhinestones instead of diamonds and therefore rather unauthentic, but what could I do? Genuine jewels could only be mine when I was a genuine member of the royal family. I had to have patience.
As I stood in King’s Cross train station waiting for my platform to Windmill country to be announced, I got a phone call from Rupert’s friend Tigger. (Tigger’s real name was Arabella but she insisted on using her boarding school nickname. And thanks to Rupert’s incessant whispering, I also happened to know that her father was on The Times Rich List.44) Tigger was already at the windmill and wanted to know if it wouldn’t be terribly inconvenient for me to pick up the latest copy of Tatler, an English fashion magazine. Apparently the October issue was meant to hit the shelves that day. Of course I agreed and rushed to the newsagent before catching my train.
Once seated, I began to flip through it and saw that it was more than an ordinary women’s glossy—it was a society magazine! How on earth had I lived in England this long without looking at one?
I was reprimanding my own stupidity when I stopped dead in my tracks. I was looking at a picture of Rupert. Above him was a picture of Giles. And next to him was a picture of Tigger dancing with Freddy Windsor! For those of you who don’t know, allow me to point out that Freddy Windsor45 is thirtieth in the line of succession to the British throne and a major pal of Prince William.
I knew my circle of English friends was a lucky break. But I had no idea that I was spending my weekends dancing with boys who danced with girls who probably danced with Prince William! I had no idea the entire United Kingdom paid to see pictures of them at parties!
I giddily wondered if the windmill party would show up in the next issue.
Rupert picked me up at the train station and we drove through a plethora of fields, farms, and pastures. I knew we were somewhere near Sandringham46 (a much-loved country retreat of the Queen) so I kept my eyes peeled for glimpses of Her Majesty.
Just before twilight, and right when I had decided we were absolutely in the middle of nowhere, we pulled up to the towering windmill. (I have to say, windmills are much bigger than I ever realized.) Tigger had Tatler in her hands and was checking to see if she looked suitably photogenic before my bags were even unloaded from the car.
I ducked through the miniature windmill door and entered the loud buzz of the party. The large, circular wooden space was heaving with guests supposedly dressed as their heroes, but from the looks of it, I’m not sure anyone took the theme as literally as I did. A guy dressed as “Hugh Grant” (hardly a stretch!) was opening about ten bottles of red wine and “Alicia Silverstone” was making sangria. I have to say that this bunch were so ridiculously handsome and beautiful to begin with, that visually imitating handsome and beautiful celebrities was annoyingly effortless for them. Despite all my attempts, I never seemed to glow as much and as naturally as they did. Still, I suppose if I’d been blessed with a lifetime of guaranteed privilege, I’d glow from within too.47
I went upstairs to change into my costume and found about six bedrooms filled with wooden bunk beds. It reminded me of the summer when I worked as a camp counselor. Who knew that a windmill could easily sleep fifty people? I quickly made the finishing touches required to transform myself into Princess Grace, then descended the ancient staircase, and officially joined the party.
As ever, I was the only American and loving it. I drank my red wine and happily drifted from one charming character to the next. In a surreal haze, I flirted with Groucho Marx, had a deep conversation with one of the Spice Girls, and batted my eyelashes at several Hugh Grants. I was downing perhaps my third or fourth Jell-O shot (or “vodka jelly” as the Brits call it) when I saw him come in through the tiny windmill door.
Did I know him from somewhere?
He had broken his leg (skiing in Switzerland, of course) but hadn’t let his giant cast48 stop him from dressing up as Superman. And what a glorious Superman he was! He had one of those cute, dimpled baby faces that I adored, and perfectly formed muscles that bulged rather authentically beneath his blue Superman T-shirt. He had the requisite upper-class glow, the requisite disheveled hair, and the requisite rosy cheeks. Just by looking at him, I knew his requisite accent would be to die for.
I racked my wine-soaked brain trying to remember where we might have met. I mean, how could I have possibly forgotten a creature that was half superhero, half aristocrat? As I watched him hop toward a chair on his crutches, he caught me staring at him and smiled shyly, his blue eyes twinkling.
In a flash, I realized why he looked so familiar. I had just been looking at his picture in Tatler!
That does it. I was officially a girl on a mission. I focused intently on his blue Superman T-shirt, and without letting my eyes stray from that red and yellow Superman symbol, I began to make my way through the crowd.
I was just about to tap Superman on his muscley shoulder and confess something similar to undying love, when a guy dressed as Captain Hook stepped directly in front of me, blocking my path.
First of all, I always thought Captain Hook was a villain, not a hero. But I had to admit that the pirate rags flattered his broad shoulders in a very regal, very sexy kind of way. I smiled politely and tried to wriggle toward my original love interest, but the tall, burly pirate simply wouldn’t let me.
So we just stood there. Eyes locked, hearts pounding. The chemistry between us was undeniable and it kind of threw me. Finally, I broke the sexually charged silence.
“I am Princess Grace of Monaco,” I said, extending my hand. “I don’t believe we have met.” Because of all the wine (and also because of his dark hair, and his perfectly chiseled, tanned face), I had to make an effort not to slur my words.
Seriously, this constant temptation just wasn’t fair! There were simply too many of them. And they were simply too good-looking. How was I supposed to cope?
“The plea sure is all mine, Your Serene Highness,” he answered, kissing my fingertips. “I am Captain Hook.”
For one, he actually knew my official title. For two, his accent was so well-bred that for a split second I wondered if my heart was still beating.
“Would you like to tour the machinery of the windmill?” the pirate continued, still grasping my tiny hand in his own.
“Yes,” I breathed. “I mean, um…how terribly kind of you, Captain. I would like nothing more.”
I truly think that perhaps I have some sort of rare medical disorder. I truly think I must have been suffering from some sort of mysterious condition that caused all brain activity to shut down in the presence of any cut-glass English accent. It was the only explanation. Why else would I have agreed to climb dozens of rickety ladders in my best three-inch heels through some ram-shackle windmill with some random guy dressed as Captain Hook whom I’d known for all of thirty seconds?
After quite a precarious journey up quite a few precarious ladders (a journey not at all conducive to those wearing skirts or those who had recently consumed four to five glasses of wine), we finally reached our glamorous goal: “the machinery of the windmill.”
Honestly, it was nothing but a bunch of giant rusty gears and deteriorating wooden boards. Hardly worth a tour, but I suppose guys like dull mechanical stuff like this. Still, I had to acknowledge that the view of the moonlit sea from so far above was positively breathtaking. And before I knew what was happening, the pirate and I were kissing.
Don’t get me wrong; the pirate was hot, and kissing him was fantastic. But even in my highly inebriated state, rolling about passionately on those crumbling, termite-infested floorboards at least ten stories above the ground didn’t seem like the safest idea, and I tried desperately to communicate this to him. But the pirate showed no signs of coming up for air and it occurred to me that this was one situation where my knowledge of Debrett’s wasn’t going to help.
So I lay there—hopelessly and deliciously pinned beneath his ruffly pirate shirt and wonderful pirate kisses—waiting to plummet through the floor to my death, and thought of England.
Eventually, the rather risky kissing marathon came to an end. The pirate disappeared toward the bar and I was able to return to the party’s significantly more stable ground-floor footing. And just I was tottering down the last rungs of the last ladder, I found myself face to face with a smirking Rupert.
“Jerramy, you are aware that Captain Hook is the Queen’s second cousin?”
God help me. What had I tangled myself up in this time?
My head was spinning with the possible ramifications of my quasi-royal conquest, so I ran away from Rupert and headed to the safety of the food table. My cheeks were flushed, my arms were tingling, and I could literally feel the alcohol coursing through my veins. I knew food might be a good precautionary mea sure to prevent myself from accidentally making out with any more royal relatives.
I was helping myself to some grapes, a slice of bread, and a piece of brie, when Charles, dressed as James Dean, sauntered up to the buffet. Charles. He tormented me at every party in Oxford. And he would dress as James Dean, wouldn’t he? Who else would he possibly dress as?
The truth is Charles belonged on the cover of GQ magazine. He was agonizingly attractive. His every movement was an unconsciously graceful, pantherlike pose. His bone structure was flawless. And you could probably get a paper cut on his cheekbones. Silently, he poured a cup of sangria and handed it to me.
“Charles,” I heard myself saying, “did you know you have perfect bone structure?”
For the love of God. What was I doing? Why did I insist on playing with fire?
“Jerramy, you are too kind,” Charles said absently, his la
zy, insouciant accent piercing my very soul.
He always did this. He always put himself directly in my path but refused to pay me the slightest bit of attention. Like right then he was busy looking at an antique map on the wall, and looking unbearably like a Burberry model while doing so.
“It says here,” Charles murmured, “that there is a herb49 garden on the grounds of this windmill.”
Then he turned to me as if only just remembering that I was standing there and said, “Let’s go see if we can find it.”
He held his hand out behind him and didn’t even look to see if I would take it. My God, he was arrogant. And my God, did I love it.
Our fingers entwined and we walked out the front door of the windmill into the crisp autumn night. Everything was bathed in moonlight and covered in drops of dew. And I was deliciously drunk. And as I tried to come to terms with the sight of his bone structure in the moonlight, my heel caught in a cobblestone crevice and I went tumbling down into the wet grass, pulling Charles with me. As we landed, our lips came together and the whole thing accidentally slipped lusciously out of my control.
For those few minutes, I was transported to another universe, aware of nothing but me and this English Burberry model rolling around in the grass and locked together in the darkness. If someone had come up to me in that moment with a clipboard and asked me what my name was, I’m not sure I could have answered. It was a truly an incredible kiss. Then, as fast as we had fallen down, Charles pulled me up and we retreated to the warm chaos of the windmill.
The party was still going strong. People were dancing on the furniture and childishly pelting each other with wine corks and bread rolls. When I saw that I was covered in grass and mud, I hurried to the bathroom. I had to remove all evidence that the two of us had done anything other than gone for an innocent walk! I was hardly the type of girl to make out with more than one boy in a single evening. I rarely made out with more than one boy in a single year!