by Jerramy Fine
As usual, I was the youngest person in the room and as usual, this was because I was the only one in the office that consistently volunteered for such priggish-sounding publicity events. But I loved the prim and proper stuffiness that filled these conventional English functions! So to me, attending them was hardly a chore. And besides, it gave me a chance to meet new people. I could scarcely keep my social life buzzing if I relied solely upon impromptu late-night tea parties with the occasional stripper.
As I glanced around to see when the next champagne tray might be coming my way, I noticed a flurry of activity near the entrance. Whispers rippled through the crowd and then suddenly the party fell silent.
Call it happenstance, call it serendipity, call it years of pure and relentless royal stalking—but yet again, I found myself face to face with my future mother-in-law.
In addition to the hundreds of charities The Princess Royal officially supports, she is also the president of U.K. Fashion Exports.
I knew this. And therefore I shouldn’t have been so shocked to see her at a party dedicated to some of the most traditional apparel in the country. Nevertheless, she was there. Meaning that Peter’s mother and I had found ourselves in the same country, in the same city, and in the same room—not once, but twice.
This was no fluke.
Not in the slightest.
What you think about, you bring about—and there was no doubt that I had brought this exquisite moment upon myself.
My heart pounded violently against my chest as my brain went into overdrive. Maybe this time I would actually get to talk to Princess Anne. Maybe this time I would be able to capture her attention for more than just a few moments. Maybe this time would be the chance encounter that would cement my place in her son’s future once and for all.
I watched in a daze as Her Royal Highness walked to the podium at the front of the lavish reception room. She looked exactly the same as she had three years ago. Same conservative English suit. Same white gloves. Same retro chignon.
The princess began her speech and I listened as she praised the history of English tailoring, praised the legendary shops of Savile Row, and of course, praised the book’s esteemed (and furiously blushing) author. But the more I listened to the princess speak in her wonderful cut-glass accent, the more my insides seemed to tremble. Toward the end, I could barely keep from spilling my champagne.
What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just relax and act normal whenever I was confronted with my destiny?
Okay. Breathe. Just breathe and try to stay calm.
When presented to her, I will simply sweep into a graceful curtsy like last time. Then I will remind her of our last meeting at the House of Commons and tell her all that I’ve been up to since. I will be poised. Engaging. Demure. And when she goes home she will not be able to forget what a charming, intelligent young girl she just met and next time she sees her son (who is obviously miserable with his current girlfriend), she will mention me. Simple as that.
Once The Princess Royal finished speaking, everything began to move in slow motion. I watched as she gracefully stepped down from the small platform and joined her awestruck audience. I watched as she shook (gloved) hands with the author. And then with the host. And then, with a mixture of panic and delight, I watched as she started walking right toward me.
And then right past me.
And then right out the door.
I’m not going to lie to you. I was disappointed. Very disappointed.
But, if I’m being honest, at the same time, I was oddly unfazed. I mean, let’s face it: Souls are not thrown together in this world at random. (And they’re certainly not thrown together randomly at Claridges.)
But deep down, I knew that every encounter, no matter how small, had a purpose. And that day, for those few seconds, Princess Anne reminded me of my own. Her very presence reminded me not of what I thought I must be, but of what I already was. And the minute she came into my view, she had dared me to become it.
The word manifest means “obvious”88—and all I can say is that it was pretty obvious to me that I was meant to be at that party at Claridges at that very moment on that very night.
So while I would never admit it to my mother, perhaps the Planetary Dog Moon of Manifestation did have something to do with it.
Twenty-two
“Courage is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm.”
—WINSTON CHURCHILL
I didn’t know when socializing had stopped feeling like fun, and more like obligation. Even though it was a Saturday night and I should have been out on the town searching for royal connections, I was actually very much looking forward to ordering Indian takeout, watching the complete boxed set of Sex and the City series three, and having the flat to myself. I knew staying in over the weekend was hardly going to help me meet my English soulmate but there comes a time when a party girl just needs to rest.
But no such luck.
“Jerramy,” Sophie asked sweetly, “would you like to go to this James Bond party with me to night? It’s at some banker’s house in Knightsbridge and I know it sounds a bit cheesy, but a friend from work invited me and I’m not going to know anyone else there. Please say you’ll come!”
Seconds later I was in my room searching for a suitable Bond girl outfit. (What can I say? I’m a sucker for dry martinis.) I didn’t exactly own a leather catsuit and I’d already decided against the traditional go-go boots and bikini combo—but eventually I settled on a simple yet glamorous black cocktail dress and hurried my hair into the tidy blond bouffant of my all-time favorite Bond girl, Honor Blackman.89 I had no idea how to go about fastening a dagger to my hip, but I figured I could always pretend that I had a gun tucked into my garter belt.
The neighborhood of Knightsbridge, with its mews houses and majestic redbrick buildings, boasts some of the highest property prices—not just in London, but in the entire world. When we arrived at the party and I saw how beautiful and spacious the flat was, I had no idea how someone my age (and the own er was my age) could afford such a place. What on earth did these bankers do all day to make so much money?
Anyway, don’t get too excited. The flat’s own er wasn’t English. He was French. And as far as Sophie and I could tell, so was everyone else at the party. Either French or Italian or Eastern European. And all in 007 tuxedos.
Call me crazy, but uber-rich European guys just didn’t do it for me. They loved to dance, they loved to flirt, and judging from the amount of expensive champagne that always flowed so abundantly around them, they clearly loved the finer things in life. But for me, something lacked. Let’s put it this way: Would James Bond be so devilishly irresistible if he wasn’t English? Exactly.
Sophie went off to find her friend while I stood on the sidelines swigging ice-cold vodka martinis. (Shaken, of course. Not stirred.) Martinis are ingenious inventions when you think about it. There is no other way to down large quantities of neat liquor without looking like a tramp. But pour the fiery concoction into a martini glass, and suddenly drinking straight gin becomes stylish. It might taste like lighter fluid, but it looks beautiful in the glass and you feel elegant holding it. Besides, after drinking the first one, you rarely notice what the second one tastes like.
Still, for once I just didn’t seem to be in the party mood and after about an hour of watching drunk people dance around in their spywear, I was kind of wishing I’d stayed home and watched Sex and the City. I mean, even with my martini enhancement, there are only so many Euro-playboys you can chat to before it becomes tedious.
Right around the time I was thinking of cutting my losses and heading home, another guy came up to me. He was less tan and more portly than the others. German perhaps? Austrian maybe?
“Hello,” he said, eyes twinkling.
He was English! At last I might be able to talk with someone who doesn’t want to discuss sports cars or St. Tropez!
“Are you a liar like everyone else at this party?” he asked skepti
cally.
“I’m not a liar!” I replied with mild indignation. Seriously, the opening lines some guys came up with left a lot to be desired.
“Not a liar!” he chuckled. “A lawyer! I asked if you were a lawyer.”
“Oh.” I smiled bashfully. “Sorry. It’s just been a long night, that’s all. And um, to answer your question, I’m not a lawyer. There’s no way I could spend my whole life arguing with people.”
“Because you’re too nice?”
I blushed. “Something like that.”
“I’m Dougal,” he said. These British names killed me.
“I’m Jerramy,”
“Really? Jeremy? Why, that’s a boy’s name in this country!”
“It’s a boy’s name in all countries,” I replied.
“Well, you certainly don’t look like a boy!” winked Dougal.
I laughed like it was the first time anyone had ever said that to me. “That’s a relief.”
“So, Jerramy—would you like to join me on the roof terrace for another martini?”
What did I have to lose? Sophie was nowhere to be found, and so far this was the first guy that had held my interest for more than a nanosecond. He was a little on the husky side, but his accent was right up my street and there was something about him that was quite charming. At the very least he could keep me amused through the next drink.
We wandered up to the roof terrace, but it was packed with chain-smokers. Actually, the whole party was heaving at this point and the two of us struggled to find any place to sit down despite the banker’s giant apartment. Finally, we came across a spare bedroom. Just like everywhere else in the house it was filled with people and blaring with music, but we were able to perch ourselves on the edge of the bed. (I know what you’re thinking: Sitting on a bed with a guy can be dangerous. But I wasn’t worried. We were just talking.)
“So, Jerramy,” Dougal began, once we were firmly ensconced with our new martinis, “I couldn’t help noticing your accent. Are you Canadian or American?”
“American,” I answered, “but please don’t hold it against me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it! My great-grandmother was American, and by all accounts she was witty and charming and everyone couldn’t help but adore her. Much like you, I’d imagine.”
I blushed again. What was it with this guy? He wasn’t even that cute. Why did I feel so tongue-tied around him?
“Have dinner with me,” Dougal blurted out.
“Excuse me?”
“Jerramy, I’d love to have dinner with you this week. When are you free?”
“I barely know you,” I countered.
“Well, then. Let’s get to know me then, shall we? What would you like to know?”
“How about you start by telling me what you do,” I said.
“Well, that one’s easy. I work in local politics. Dreadfully boring, I know. But no way around it really. It’s in the blood.”
“But I love politics!” I exclaimed.
“Really? Jerramy, for an American girl you are full of surprises. Tell me you’ll have dinner with me.”
I ignored him.
“I’ve spent time working in both Congress and Parliament,” I said, trying to change the subject.
“How extraordinary!” declared Dougal. “I also used to work in the American Congress! I do adore D.C. Such a remarkable city.”
I nodded vigorously. “I agree. I love D.C. If I had to live in America, that’s where I would be. Whom did you work for when you were there?”
He proudly named a very prominent, very conservative member of the Senate.
My heart sank. “Oh. I see. A Republican.”
“Don’t tell me I’ve just lost my chance of taking you to dinner.”
“You very well may have,” I teased. “I’m sorry. I’m just not a fan of Republicans. Here or in the U.S.”
“But Republicans in England aren’t even a political party!” exclaimed Dougal, slightly confused. “They’re just a bunch of batty people who want to abolish the monarchy.”
“Precisely,” I said. “That’s exactly why I’m not a fan of them.”
“Ah. Well, I can live with that. We may not support the same politicians, but at least we can both support Her Gracious Majesty the Queen.”
“God Save Her,” I smiled.
“Jerramy, you must let me have dinner with you!”
“And you must stop mentioning dinner with me!”
If truth be told, I was tired of pinning my hopes on every English guy that happened to flirt with me in a heart-stopping accent. Who’s to say they wouldn’t drop me within minutes—just like Fergus and Alex? Who’s to say they weren’t secretly bringing home strippers every night after work—like George and Oliver? Quite abruptly, I had reached a phase in my life where men were guilty until proven innocent. And unless I was face to face with Peter Phillips himself, at that moment I just wasn’t in the mood to have my heart trampled upon by yet another sweet-talking Englishman. One measly dinner was hardly worth the heartache. Or so I drunkenly told myself.
“Jerramy, you are impossible! Tell me. Who would you consider to be your ideal dinner date?”
“Hmmm,” I pondered. “That’s a good one.”
I wasn’t about to reveal my royal crush to a perfect stranger, so I went with the next best thing.
“Okay,” I said. “My ideal dinner date would be a cross between Hugh Grant and Tony Blair.”
“Jerramy! I expected slightly more from you!”
I looked at him innocently. “But why? I’m just being honest!”
“Jerramy, Hugh Grant I can vaguely—and I mean vaguely—understand. But Mr. Blair? Please don’t tell me that grinning nitwit is the only British politician that you admire.”
“Well…I do love Churchill,” I said truthfully. “I used to cry whenever I read his speeches in college.”
Dougal looked at me approvingly. “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to hear you say that.”
“But Churchill is dead!” I reminded him. “I was trying to think of the perfect living dinner date!”
Dougal moved closer to me. “You know, Jerramy, Churchill once said that there are only two difficult things in life: climbing a wall that is leaning toward you, and kissing a girl who is leaning away from you.”
“Kind of like now?” I laughed.
“Why, yes. Exactly like now.” He moved in closer. “You know, Jerramy, for an American, you really do behave like a proper English girl.”
I smiled modesty and lowered my lashes. Dougal didn’t know it yet, but that last sentence had just clinched the deal.
“Now Jerramy, I won’t have any excuses. I insist that you have dinner with me. I’ll even cook you dinner, if that’s what you prefer. How does Friday evening sound?”
“I suppose Friday evening works for me.” I know I said I wasn’t in the mood, but at the end of the day, a girl’s gotta eat.
“Superb,” said Dougal. “I knew you’d see sense in the end.”
Then Dougal inched even closer to me and (martinis are evil!) we kissed.
But it wasn’t just a kiss. It was amazing. An utterly amazing, out-of-this-world, forget-who-you-are-and-where-you-are kind of kiss. It was brief, no more than a few seconds, but its impact was so unexpected that I was completely and utterly floored by it.
“I will make you my famous shepherd’s pie,” Dougal whispered into my ear, “and as soon as I get home to night…I will begin chilling a few bottles of Pol Roger…Churchill’s favorite champagne.”
“How do you know so much about Churchill?” I asked.
Dougal stopped his nuzzling and looked me in the eye. “He’s my great-grandfather,” he said softly.
Okay. I did some major Googling, and to the best of my knowledge, Winston Churchill’s great-grandson was making me dinner on Friday night.
My heart may have been set on the Queen’s oldest grandson—but until then, I figured one of Churchill’s great-grandsons would certai
nly suffice.
Twenty-three
“Failure comes only when we forget our ideals and objectives and principles.”
—JAWAHARLAL NEHRU
One cloudy Sunday afternoon I was having lunch with Adam and his mother—perhaps the only woman in his life besides me that knew his true sexual orientation. To her credit, she hadn’t disowned Adam when he told her the “gay news,” but nor had she altogether accepted that his homosexuality was a permanent state of affairs.
“Why, Jerramy’s perfect for you, Adam,” she said. “Can’t you two at least try to be boyfriend and girlfriend?”
“I’ve already asked her to be my wife and she refused,” Adam grumbled. “I daren’t ask her to be anything else.”
His mother turned to me. “You know what Adam’s problem is, Jerramy?”
“What?” I asked eagerly. Adam rolled his eyes and kicked me under the table.
“Adam doesn’t have any normal friends. He’s always insisted on hanging around with these high-flyers. Politicians, academics, millionaires—that sort of thing. Nobody normal. Why can’t he be friends with a simple shop assistant or a dustman?90 Nice normal people that will keep his head out of the clouds and help bring him down to earth?”
She looked pointedly at Adam, who was looking right back at her with irritated bewilderment, as if she were absolutely insane. I knew that look well; it was exactly the way I looked at my own mother.