Someday My Prince Will Come

by Jerramy Fine

  If Madeline’s wise guidance was to be believed, then surely my life had become enough of “a story” by now. Surely, I (the brave young heroine) had endured enough drama and heartache, and therefore my prince was bound to show up on the scene any second. Right?

  I just didn’t get it. I’d spent months caught up in a passionate hurricane of fiery embraces with pirates and racquets players and God knows who else—yet suddenly I’d allowed myself to be completely pulled in by much weaker waves. It’s amazing to me how courageous my heart was back then—how freely it loved before it knew there was anything to be afraid of.

  Sure, I’d kissed quite a few English boys that year. But I was young. I was in England. I couldn’t help it. But rarely in my entire life had I found boys that I actually liked. Yet, in that month, I had met two. And unless I was imagining things, both of them gave me the distinct impression that they liked me back. And then both of them promptly fell off the face of the earth.

  I know Fergus and Alex weren’t even royal, but if I could barely keep the attention of a normal English guy, how on earth would I be able to keep the attention of Peter Phillips?

  Maybe both Fergus and Alex had suddenly dropped dead before they had a chance to contact me. Maybe they had been abducted by aliens. (Frankly, I liked pretending they dropped dead.) I just didn’t understand. One guy acting like a bastard, I could handle. But two in row? Why did both of them feel the need to lie to me? Why did both of them put on this incredible act that made them seem like the kindest, most caring, most romantic guys in the world when they knew all along that they had absolutely no intention of ever seeing me again?

  Was it possible that all of that sweet talk was simply to make sure they could kiss me? For godsake, I didn’t need sweet talk! I didn’t need a complicated charade. All they had to do was let me hear their boarding-school accents, pin me against something, kiss me as hard as they could, and then walk away. Don’t tell me moments are “meant to be.” Don’t tell me I’m “a dream.” Don’t climb on moonlit lions with me or rescue me from nightclub cubicles. Just kiss me and then walk away before my heart has a chance to feel anything.

  I cried on and off for weeks. I played Britney Spears and sobbed. I played the soundtrack to Les Misérables and sobbed harder. Fergus and Alex were discussed and analyzed in excruciating detail with dozens of female friends via dozens of transatlantic phone calls. We searched endlessly for evidence that might explain such heartbreaking behavior. All actions, all dialogue, all nuances were examined repeatedly. Countless theories were formed, but not a single conclusion.

  What on earth was I doing with my life? Is this why I’d gotten a master’s degree? Did I truly think I was going to find a prince and then everything would fall into place? Was I really that stupid and naïve? How could I go on believing in true love when I of all people had the least evidence that it existed?

  To make matters worse, my boss casually informed me that according to the Home Office, there was a significant chance my work permit could not be renewed and that I might have to return to the U.S. in less than three months. Excellent.

  My living space was a nightmare, my love life was in shambles, and my very ability to legally exist in the U.K. was hanging on by a tiny bureaucratic thread. Was there anything else the universe wanted to throw at me? Was this a test? Or was this a forthright cosmic message that I should catch the first flight back to America?

  It was spitting icy rain as I walked to the tube station after work. The sky was dark gray and everyone who brushed past me looked angry or suicidal. Under the dark shadow of my umbrella, my beloved England suddenly seemed cold and vicious. Just like a boy, it had turned on me without warning and for no reason. A double-decker bus drove by and splashed muddy water over my favorite white coat. I felt the familiar tears welling up in my eyes—they were getting to be a pretty permanent fixture these days.

  My God. When had my dreamland started making me this miserable?

  As if I were following some sort of internal beacon, I changed directions on the tube, and instead of heading back to my flat, I found myself wandering through the damp grass of Green Park. It had finally stopped raining and as I approached the towering sculpture of the Victoria Memorial, its carefully chiseled white marble glowed softly in the last light of the evening sun.

  It was still absolutely freezing outside but I didn’t care. I sat down on one of the cold, frosty steps of the memorial, pulled the collar of my coat closer around me, and gazed at the tall, regal stones of Buckingham Palace.

  The Palace would listen. The Palace would understand. And like a little girl who had finally come home to a warm house after a terrible day at school, I began to sob.

  “Dear God,” I whispered, “please tell England to let go of me! Please get rid of that little voice inside of my heart that keeps telling me to stay here! Please make that voice just go away!”

  A few people looked at me strangely, and then looked away. Seeing someone cry their eyes out in public was not that unusual. (That was the thing about this crazy city. Everyone seemed to be crying or making out. Nothing in between.)

  I buried my face in my gloved hands, not caring that I was making a scene.

  “I’m a smart girl,” I whispered to myself. “Why do I let a little voice control everything that I do? Why can’t I just do what makes sense? Why do I insist on following my stupid heart? I’m not even sure my heart is on my side anymore!”

  Hot tears streamed down my face. I put my head in my hands and prayed. Prayed that someone would cut the ball and chain that linked my heart so tightly and so inexplicably to England.

  I’m not sure how long I sat there, crying helplessly into my hands to any entity that might be listening. But my sleeve was soaked with tears when I finally looked up.

  I checked to see if anyone was still around.

  Nope. It was still just me and the Palace.

  We gazed at each other silently for a long, long time.

  Then, out of nowhere, I was enveloped by an overwhelming wave of strength. I don’t mean to get all mystical on you, but it was almost as if the Palace walls had heard me.

  Something out there had heard me. And what ever it was, it filled my wailing heart with a magnificent sense of peace. Everything would be okay. Everything was okay.

  I had already beaten the odds with so many things! My LSE acceptance, my wonderful Oxford friends, and (as precarious as it was) even my work permit! Was I still living in that vacuum of a farm town with my nutty hippie parents in the middle of western Colorado? No, I most certainly was not. I was living and working and partying in London! I was a million times closer to my dream than I was even two years ago! A billion times closer than I was ten years ago! All I had to do was stop second-guessing myself and stay patient.

  Sure, I was pretty miserable. But you know what? This was a battle. A battle for my destiny. And like all battles, all fights, and all wars—there was going to be some pain. But I could take it. I would take it. Because I had a job to do, a calling to enact—and when it came to that bossy little voice in my heart, surrender just wasn’t an option.

  So I dried my tears, sat up straight, and with my eyes locked on that mystical Palace, I began to plan my engagement party to Peter Phillips.

  I was contemplating the protocol of the guest list when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Startled, I was surprised to see a Palace guard staring down at me. Not one of the guards with the big bearskin hats who aren’t allowed to move or smile, but one of the guards who works outside the gates who are allowed to speak.

  “Miss,” he said kindly, “are you alright? It’s not safe for a young lady like you to be sitting here on your own so late at night.”

  I looked at my watch. It was 10 P.M.! I hadn’t even realized how dark it had become!

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve completely lost track of the time. I’m leaving right now.” I shivered as I stood up, then quickly tried to wipe away any remnants of tears.

  “Are you su
re you’ll be okay walking through the park by yourself, miss? Would you like me to get a policeman to walk with you?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

  “Miss?”

  I turned around. “Yes?”

  “Life is never as bad as it seems.”

  I smiled at him. “I know.”

  “Good night, miss.”

  “Good night.”

  Adam called me the next day. “Wow. You seem to be in a better mood. Last time we talked I thought you were going to throw yourself off the top of Big Ben. What’s prompted the big change? Did you finally meet your prince?”

  “No, I’ve just gained some badly needed perspective.” I told him about my late-night date with Buckingham Palace and how it had magically restored my spirits.

  “Jerramy, do you mean to tell me that you were physically removed from the royal premises by a Palace guard?”

  “Adam! Don’t be so dramatic! It wasn’t like that!”

  “Sure, it wasn’t. Jerramy, this is the kind of stuff that gets recorded in secret Palace files. And I’m willing to bet that wasn’t the first time you’ve sat on those steps staring longingly at the Palace like a lunatic. Am I right?”

  I was silent.

  “See? I knew it! Jerramy, if you don’t stop all this stalkerlike behavior, if you ever do meet your prince, the powers that be will take one look at your stalker file and deport you faster than you can blink!”

  “Adam, what do you mean if I meet my prince? I am going to meet him.”

  Adam sighed. “Oh, Jerramy. I’m sorry. Of course you will meet him. And you will marry him. And when I’m the first gay prime minister, you, your prince husband, and I are going to throw fabulous dinner parties.”

  “We certainly will!” I laughed.

  And I meant it.

  As soon as I hung up, my mother called. She was very excited.

  “Jerramy, I’ve finally figured you out!”

  Not again.

  “What is it this time?” I asked. “Does this mean that I’m no longer a Self-existing World-bridger?”

  “No, that’s still true. But this has nothing to do with your galactic signature.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No! This is something else! But it’s just as important. I’ve done a lot of reading on this recently, and I’m pretty confident about it.”

  “About what?”

  “About the fact that you’re an Indigo Child.”

  Of course. That explained everything.

  “Thanks, Mom, now everything in my life is crystal clear.”

  It was good to know than when times were tough, I could always count on her to bring me a bit of clarity.

  My mom wasted no time in sending me all the new age literature on Indigo Children to help me come to terms with this recent diagnosis. And admittedly, as crazy as my mom is, I actually read some of it. Even though some of the essays had worrying titles like “Gifted or Troubled?” and mentioned things like “inter-planetary Indigos,” I couldn’t help myself. At the end of the day, I wanted to figure myself out as much anyone else.

  According to the authors,72 Indigo Children are highly advanced souls with a strong sense of purpose. In addition to robust independence and a memory of other lifetimes (both of which I arguably possess), their unique psychological attributes include:

  1. Coming into the world with a feeling of royalty and acting like it

  2. Having no issues with self-worth—Indigo Children often tell their parents “who they are”

  3. Never shy in letting parents know what they need

  4. Never responding to guilt-based discipline

  5. Feeling they “deserve” to be somewhere and are surprised when others don’t recognize it

  Oh my God.

  For possibly the first time ever, I could actually see my mother’s point!

  Fine. So I had to concede that I was officially an Indigo Child. Now what precisely was I supposed to do with this information?

  You see this was where my mother’s book kind of let me down. Almost all of it was about parenting young Indigo Children while “respecting their Indigo journey.” Nothing much was mentioned about what to do if you’re a twenty-four-year-old Indigo. Nothing much was mentioned about what to do if you’re a twenty-four-year-old Indigo wandering around London trying to reconcile that “feeling of royalty” that you came into the world with.

  Nineteen

  “I can resist everything except temptation.”

  —OSCAR WILDE

  Determined to make the most of my unique Indigo Child wisdom, I decided to do everything in my power to diminish the various insanities that were quickly taking over what was supposed to be my blissful twentysomething existence.

  I obviously couldn’t make Fergus, Alex, or Peter Phillips call and ask me out, and the fate of my work permit was still very much out of my hands, but the one thing I could change was my ludicrous living situation. I’d only been sharing a flat with the lovely Rebecca for less than six months, but I couldn’t stay in that building with her a moment longer. My mental stability was at stake, not to mention my dating life.

  And if that wasn’t motivation enough, I’d also discovered that according to Rupert’s friends, St. John’s Wood, as smart and tidy as it was, was not an acceptable London postcode73 in which to live. I was mortified when Hugo pointed out my fundamental error.

  “Firstly,” he explained, “St. John’s Wood is the neighborhood of choice for London’s plethora of wealthy American diplomats.”

  (No wonder it was so smart and tidy!)

  “Not to mention the area also contains that ghastly American School.”

  (That’s why there seemed to be so many American kids running around!)

  “Jerramy, my dear, for these reasons alone” (I assume he meant the large population of Americans), “you should move immediately.”

  I loved that Rupert’s friends seemed to forget there was an actual American present when dispensing such advice.

  “Secondly,” Hugo continued, “St. John’s Wood is in north London.” The word “north” was said with a mix of fear and bewilderment. “North London is a place one knows of, but not a place one ever visits or fully comprehends.”

  “But why?” I asked, genuinely curious. “It’s not like it’s another planet.”

  “Oh, my darling Jerramy. But that’s exactly what it is! North London is full of those dreadful lefties, those baffling intelligentsia types. Arty, media people live in north London. Not, Jerramy, nice girls like you.”

  Ah. I guess I never got around to telling Hugo that I used to work for Tony Blair’s (left-wing) Labour Party.

  “Jerramy, ideally a nice girl like you—if you wish to be surrounded by the right kind of English people—should be living somewhere north of the River Thames and south of Hyde Park.”

  This, incidentally, was the most expensive ten square miles in all of London. It was also the area where the tube trains were the oldest, the most dilapidated, the farthest apart, and broke down the most frequently. If I moved to an SW postcode as suggested, rent would cost me 25 percent more and it would take me 75 percent longer to get to work.

  But if that’s where I had to go, that’s where I had to go. God forbid anyone in London mistake me for a member of the intelligentsia.

  Adam later told me that he liked living on another planet. But Piers and Rupert strongly concurred with Hugo’s shrewd advice, as did several girls at work, and hence my search for the perfect flatshare began for the second time. The only thing that got me through the dreaded routine of waking up at 6 A.M. to buy the paper and make appointments for viewings was the thought of what Rebecca would do to Peter Phillips if I ever brought him to the flat, and what Peter himself would think if he found out I lived near arty media types.

  As ever, my specifications were simple: I was looking for a friendly English house hold full of young, nonmarried nobility begging to adopt an American. Easier said than done, I know, but thr
ee weeks and twenty viewings later, I hit the jackpot.

  It was 11 A.M. on a Saturday morning when I rang the bell of yet another four-bedroom flat. I was tired, I was hungover, and as usual, I was doubting that the place I was about to see would be worth the insane amount of money they were asking. But as the front door opened, my jaw dropped.

  Jude Law’s identical twin brother was standing before me with a tiny white towel wrapped around his waist. Square jaw, dark hair, startling blue eyes, tanned muscles, razor-sharp cheekbones. They just don’t make guys like this in America.

  “Hello! You must be Jerramy. Sorry, I just got out of the shower. I’m George. Come on in.” His accent was as fatal as his looks—not quite nobility, but certainly upper class.

  George led me into the sitting room, which looked like a normal twentysomething sitting room with newspapers, DVDs, and wine glasses strewn about—quite a change from the sterile hotel lobby look Rebecca insisted on maintaining.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea?” George asked.

  I could barely speak in the presence of such Adonis-like beauty.

  “Yes, please,” I squeaked.

  George brought me some Earl Grey and then disappeared into his bedroom to get dressed. “Oliver will be out in a minute,” he said. “Apologies for the chaos. Saturday mornings tend to move a bit slowly around here.” Then he winked!

  My heart was still fluttering when a bare-chested Oliver appeared, still wearing his pajama bottoms.

  This was ridiculous. Were these guys fashion models or something? Oliver was brawny and blond and his green eyes twinkled with that devilish boarding-school charisma that never failed to make my insides melt.

  He swaggered toward me, we quickly introduced ourselves, and despite my attempts to stay cool and collected, I blushed furiously.