Someday My Prince Will Come

by Jerramy Fine

  “My mom says the same thing about me!” I laughed. “In fact, she hopes that one day I will fall in love with a homeless man!”

  Adam’s mother didn’t look at all appalled by the idea.

  “You kids need grounding,” she continued. “All these expensive restaurants and fancy nightclubs that you go to. It’s not the real world. London is not the real world. I don’t know about you, Jerramy, but Adam tends to forget that.”

  “I’ve got it!” shouted Adam, sitting upright in his chair. “Mum, I have the solution!”

  She looked at him skeptically.

  “I’ll become friends with a dustman, just like you want me to. And then Jerramy can marry him! See? That way both of us will be grounded and both mums will be happy!”

  Just then the waiter brought the bill to our table.

  “Know any eligible dustmen?” Adam asked him.

  “Sorry, mate,” the waiter mumbled.

  “That’s a shame,” sighed Adam. “Well, Mum, when I’m prime minister and Jerramy’s living a miserable existence at Buckingham Palace, at least we can say that we’ve tried.”

  Meanwhile, I was about to spend an evening with a politician, an academic, and a millionaire all rolled into one. According to Adam’s mother, Dougal was the stuff of her worst nightmares. But to me, he was a dream. A dream that stepped into my life just when I was beginning to think that all Englishmen were nothing but superficial cads and heartless bounders.

  But Dougal was different than the others—he seemed more like the English guys I’d read about in Jane Austen novels, rather than exact replicas of the devious (yet gorgeous) Daniel Cleaver in Bridget Jones’s Diary. I mean, Dougal didn’t just say he would call me later that week—he actually called me! It’s quite sad that a guy can earn brownie points these days simply by doing what he says he will. But nevertheless, I was impressed.

  “I sure hope he has a great personality,” Adam said after I e-mailed him a picture of Dougal I’d found on the Internet. “Because you sure as hell aren’t with him for his looks.”

  “It’s a bad picture,” I insisted. “He’s cuter in real life. And the best kisser I’ve ever encountered in my entire life.”

  “With a face like that, he had better be a good kisser!” Adam joked.

  “Will you look out for him at the party conference91 next week?” I asked. “I’d love for you to meet him.”

  “Jerramy, I refuse to make friends, professionally or otherwise, with your posh love interest of the week. Your taste in men is just so bloody predictable. I can tell just by looking at him that he’s a typical Tory92 wanker.”

  “And you speak as a friend?” I teased.

  “Absolutely. I’m telling you, Jerramy—I know you. And despite what you say, I know you’ll never be able to sustain a relationship with someone who’s at the opposite end of the political spectrum. I don’t care whose great-grandson he is.”

  “You underestimate me!” I insisted.

  “No, Jerramy, I don’t think that I do. I know all things English and royal mean more to you than life itself—but I also know that deep, deep down, social issues mean much more to you than you care to admit. But if you want to snog your brains out with another Tory who cares nothing for the plight of the poor, then go right ahead.”

  I decided on a pleated beige skirt, baby blue cashmere, and pearls for my Friday night dinner date and when I arrived at Dougal’s small but expensively located Victorian flat, I was giddy with lust (and the small feeling that I was making some kind of political history).

  I eagerly tucked into the proffered Pol Roger and made myself at home as Dougal moved expertly about the kitchen and amused me with his enchanting repartee.

  “Jerramy,” he said seductively over our candlelit dinner, “I must take you to Chartwell93—and show you the rooms that mere members of the public are not allowed to see.”

  “What kind of rooms are those?” I asked.

  He winked. “Bedrooms mainly.”

  Once the shepherd’s pie was demolished, we moved to the sofa where Churchill’s great-grandson proceeded to spoon homemade chocolate mousse into my mouth.

  It may have had something to do with all the champagne, but I have to say that by this point I had become borderline delirious. I mean, passionate attention from the progeny of my favorite English hero—combined with chocolate? What more could a girl want?

  Dougal and I kissed that night until our faces were raw. Literally raw! And when my bruised lips could take it no longer, I insisted that it was time for me to leave.

  “Forget the bedrooms of Chartwell!” Dougal protested. “We haven’t even made it into my bedroom!”

  “Exactly why I need to leave at this very moment!” I laughed.

  Dougal reluctantly went off to call me a cab, and while he was gone, I noticed two old Christmas cards sitting on the bookshelf. I reached over and sneaked a look at them.

  All at once, I felt stone cold sober.

  They were from Ronald Reagan and George Bush—personally signed.

  I carefully set the cards back on the shelf and smiled weakly as Dougal kissed me good-bye.

  Damn it, Adam was right. I had more principles than I realized.

  Sadly, I never made it to Chartwell as anything other than a tourist.

  As with most fledging relationships, it didn’t take long to realize that other than a mutual fondness for trivial banter and kissing marathons, Dougal and I had very little in common.

  Believe me, I would have happily carried on snogging the boy for years to come. But we couldn’t kiss forever. Unfortunately, there were times when we had to come up for air and actually talk—and the more we talked about politics (which, quite frankly, was a subject impossible to avoid considering his family, his job, and my own political background)—the less we enjoyed our time together. And alas, in the end, we went our separate ways.

  My lips still miss him, though.

  Based on her own harrowing experiences (including an adulterous father and a string of two-timing boyfriends), my friend Charlotte was a firm believer that men were inherently unscrupulous and intrinsically useless—except as stepping-stones for women determined to elevate their own lifestyles. And strangely, while many accused me of antifeminist leanings, she was one of my greatest advocates when it came to following my English dream.

  “I live vicariously through you!” she always told me. “Never give in! Never give up!” (Now that I think about it, her inspirational tirades sounded a lot like Winston Churchill’s.94)

  Needless to say, Charlotte was horrified when I told her my brief affair with Dougal had come to an end.

  “You did what?” shouted Charlotte over the phone. “You finished things with possibly one the world’s most eligible bachelors because you disagreed with him about politics?”

  “Well, kind of,” I answered. “But it wasn’t all down to me. It was very much a joint decision.”

  “You mean you annoyed him so much with your save-the-world views that he had to send you packing,” Charlotte said dryly.

  “I guess you could say that,” I giggled.

  “Jerramy!! I have no sympathy for you! You obviously don’t know a good thing when you see it! You’ll never marry a rich English guy if you carry on like this!”

  “But I’ve told you a million times! I’m not trying to marry a rich English guy,” I argued. “I’ve never been attracted to a guy purely for his money.”

  “Well, I can see that now. You clearly have far too many principles to marry for money.” I love that this annoyed her.

  “So I’ve been told,” I mumbled.

  “But if you’re not marrying for money,” Charlotte continued, “then why do you insist on pursuing this royalty guy?”

  I smiled. “That has nothing to do with money,” I told her calmly. “That has to with destiny. And true love.”

  “Jerramy,” said Charlotte.

  “What?”

  “You’re even crazier than I thought.”
>
  Twenty-four

  “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

  —WOODY ALLEN

  As I left for work the next morning (running extremely late as usual), I realized in horror that somehow I had become locked inside my own flat. How was this even possible? I had my key to the front door, but I didn’t have a key for inside the front door!

  I called Duncan in a panic.

  Typically, all he did was burst out laughing.

  “Classic!” he chuckled. “I told Oliver never to use both of his keys—or at least to make sure everyone had left the flat if he did!”

  I rolled my eyes at him over the phone. “Well, do you have a spare key so I can leave the flat and go to work?”

  Duncan carried on laughing. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Duncan! You’re the landlord! Don’t you have keys to your own properties?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Classic, isn’t it!”

  “Well, what do you suggest I do? What if there’s a fire? How am I supposed to get out?”

  “You Yanks!” He laughed. “Such alarmists! I love it!”

  I tried to stay patient. “Duncan, really—what am I supposed to do?”

  “Call a locksmith.”

  “But that’s like sixty-five pounds!” (For me that was almost three weeks’ spending money.)

  “Probably,” Duncan snickered.

  “Will you reimburse me?”

  “Don’t be daft! Now, I’ve got to go—I’m a terribly important man around the office, you know—can’t waste all my time listening to the trivial complaints of my tenants. Cheerio!”

  And he hung up on me.

  I quickly called work and told them I probably wouldn’t be in until lunchtime, because, I was, um, locked inside my own flat.

  “You mean locked out?” asked the receptionist.

  “No, locked in.” If anything I guess they gave me credit for providing such an original excuse.

  Then I called Sophie who worked in an office building near Oliver, and being the stellar friend that she was, she fetched Oliver’s “special” key, put it in an envelope, and gave the envelope to a black cab. An hour later, the cab driver pushed the key through the letterbox and I let myself out.

  Still, not an ideal way to start the day. Especially since the cab fare cost me £20.

  I just couldn’t believe that U.K. fire codes allowed doors that locked from the outside, but required keys from the inside. Nothing like a good mea sure of Old World incompetence first thing in the morning.

  When I finally arrived at the office, I volunteered to attend yet another grand-sounding invitation-only event: a celebrity auction to benefit teenagers with cancer—taking place at the swankiest cocktail bar in South Kensington later that week.

  Seriously, what was there not to like? I had no idea why my dreary colleagues always turned down such fantastic free tickets. Sophie couldn’t get her hands on my extra invite fast enough.

  Located in a converted ware house, the auction venue was considered one of the hippest nightspots in the city—especially if you’re anyone who’s anyone in the world of fashion. So of course this prompted the eternal question: What on earth was I going to wear?

  After much agonizing, I went with a black pleated wool mini skirt and fitted argyle jumper from Pringle. (I figured it was understated, yet still chic and traditionally British.) Meanwhile, since Sophie possessed the lissome stature of a couture model, she managed to look stunning in simple designer jeans and a plain white top.

  Keeping with the fashion theme, entering the bar involved walking down an elaborate eighty-foot catwalk and then emerging into a soaring loft-style space packed to standing room only with trendy young fashionistas. (We couldn’t wait to tell George and Oliver about it all—they would be seething with jealousy!)

  Sophie and I gleefully dove into the fashionable throng and downed glass after elegant glass of Campari cocktails as we admired the designer auction items (including garb donated by Dolce & Gabbana, Pucci, and John Galliano), all the while pretending that we had enough money to place even a single starting bid.

  We scanned the room for celebrities and to our delight spotted several B-listers, including the hunky star from the U.K. version of the The Bachelor. Sophie was discreetly pointing out the two superstylish women from What Not to Wear, when I stopped dead in my tracks: Standing no more than three feet away from me was Sarah, The Duchess of York!

  I didn’t say a word to Sophie (who was momentarily distracted by the South African barman and lecturing him on apartheid).

  Instead, I just watched.

  With her flaming hair, large sparkling eyes, and fabulous legs, the Duchess was infinitely more beautiful in real life than she was in any of her photographs. Dressed in a classic tailored suit that showed off her new streamlined figure, I thought of her exceptional roller-coaster life and marveled at her amazing tenacity. Once again, I knew that serendipity had put me in the same room with her. After all, this woman was Peter Phillips’s aunt!

  Peter’s mother (Princess Anne) has three brothers: Prince Charles, Prince Andrew, and Prince Edward. Miss Sarah Ferguson (aka Fergie) met the dashingly handsome Prince Andrew (the Duke of York) when her dear friend, the newly married Princess Diana, invited her to a party at Windsor Castle.

  Sparks flew between Sarah and the Duke—and within a year, Fergie and Diana became sisters-in-law. In a huge televised wedding (at which nine-year-old Peter served as a page boy), Fergie married Prince Andrew in Westminster Abbey and became the Duchess of York.

  Happily ever after, right?

  Well…not quite.

  Like Diana, Fergie was a vivacious free spirit and she struggled with the strict protocol of life at Buckingham Palace. Also like Diana, Fergie had a terrible time coming to terms with the ruthless criticism of the British tabloids. (One cruel headline went so far as to dub her the “Duchess of Pork.”)

  Nor did it help that Prince Andrew, her beloved husband, was away at sea with the Royal Navy almost ten months a year—leaving Fergie to look after their two small daughters, Princess Beatrice and Princess Eugenie, all by herself. Normally an extremely exuberant young woman, the duchess eventually found the combined pressure too much to bear—and with much sadness and heartache, the royal couple divorced in 1996.

  Devastated by her broken marriage, Fergie tried to cheer herself up by plunging headfirst into a jet-set lifestyle and went on to spend millions (that she didn’t have) on designer clothes and exotic vacations. Publicly banned from the royal family and constantly subjected to widespread public ridicule, it’s no wonder Fergie finally hit rock bottom: Despite her best-selling children’s books95 she was nearly $8 million in debt and tremendously over-weight.

  But this is what I love about the dazzling Duchess of York: She may have stumbled, but when she finally faced up to her mistakes and pulled herself up, she arose with new power.

  The penniless Fergie moved to America to escape the venom of the British press, and eventually, through her own efforts96 she became a millionairess in her own right. How many royal family members can say that?

  But even more amazing was this: Through all the ups and downs, Fergie managed to maintain an honest and loving relationship with her ex-husband, Prince Andrew—sparing their young daughters the traditional trauma that so often comes with bitterly divorced parents.97 In this modern age of broken families (of which royals are clearly not exempt), I found it incredibly inspiring to see how Fergie and Andrew rose above the fray and kept their family unit intact.

  Despite her royal title, Fergie refused to conform to everyone else’s ideas about what her royal life “should have” been. Instead, she became the Michelangelo of her own destiny. She now happily lives out a storybook existence that she’s designed and created—and does so with dignity and grace. Staying true to yourself like that takes guts—and I loved that about her.

  I knew immediately why the duchess was at this event. Her own father98 had suffered a painful ba
ttle against prostate cancer, and in 1998 she had endured a frightening breast cancer scare herself. Although the lump she found turned out to be benign, Fergie used her own startling experience to become a public advocate for self-exams and cancer awareness. And as a mother of teenage daughters (Beatrice was fifteen and Eugenie thirteen) this fund-raiser for teens with cancer was precisely her kind of party.

  I was deep in royal thought when Fergie caught me staring at her (admittedly, I was staring). But instead of ignoring me and quickly looking away like most people would have done to an annoyingly awestruck stranger like me, she paused momentarily in her conversation, looked me directly in the eye, and smiled.

  Thrilled by the royal acknowledgment, I turned to tell Sophie. And as the two of us exchanged awed whispers, Fergie calmly took to the podium and began to speak about her passion for the Teenage Cancer Trust. In those moments, I felt the audience respond not only to her words or to her royal position, but to Sarah herself. Life had given her a royal title—but Fergie used her title to give to others. And as I stood in that noisy cocktail bar, I knew deep down that that’s truly what royalty was all about.

  I’d been getting a lot of these royal reminders lately: Earl Spencer, The Princess Royal (again), The Duchess of York…all clear signs from the universe that I was moving in the right circles and headed in the right direction. As I’ve always suspected, like attracts like. Not only do you eventually become what you think about most, but I was certain that you also attract what you think about most—how else would you explain all these royal personalities walking through my life?

  I sat at my desk in a daze, unable to concentrate on anything. I desperately needed something to take my mind off all these royal appearances and my various theories on their potentially life-altering meaning.

  From what I could tell, most people were lured into the world of online dating due to pure unadulterated boredom, but for me it was the urgent need for some kind of distraction. (My mind could spin itself into royal knots for weeks upon weeks if I wasn’t careful.)