Someday My Prince Will Come

by Jerramy Fine

  “Precisely!” Hugo exclaimed, a look of triumph on his face.

  “They won’t believe their luck!” added Piers.

  “In all seriousness, Jerramy,” asked Hugo gravely, “you know us—what girl could find it in her heart to turn down such a pair of distinguished English gentlemen?”

  I could not stop laughing at their idea. It was genius. I wish I had thought of it a few years ago to get into dances at Eton!

  “But do you think it will work?” asked Piers, gulping directly from his wine bottle. “We want to be sure before we put the plan into action.”

  “I know it will work,” I told them. “If I were a young geeky girl looking for a prom date—and you two came along?” I shook my head wistfully at the thought. It was the kind of the thing I dreamed about happening to me in high school!

  “Excellent!” shouted Hugo, raising his wine glass. “To senior prom!”

  “To senior prom!” I toasted.

  I considered telling them that some kids from my hillbilly high school actually arrived at our prom on a tractor—and that not all proms were as glamorous as the one portrayed in their beloved American Pie—but I decided it was best to let them discover these cultural anomalies for themselves. So I left Piers and Hugo alone with their wine and their road map of the United States and went into the bathroom to reapply my lipstick.

  As I opened my purse, I saw a new text message (from an unknown number) blinking on my cell phone. I read it immediately: “UR LOVELY. IF STILL HERE, MEET ME ON BALCONY @ MIDNITE. NX”

  Nx? It was from Nick! (And the x was a kiss!)103

  I looked at my watch. It was 11:50! My God, how long had I been listening to prom-crashing strategies? I quickly powdered my nose, smoothed my hair, and stopped in the kitchen to refill my wine glass. Here goes.

  Not wanting to appear as if I had rushed to our rendezvous point, I slowly made my way through the inebriated crowd and stepped onto the large balcony at the front of the house.

  There were a few smokers enjoying the unusually warm night air, and sure enough, there was Mr. Buckingham Palace—standing patiently at the corner of the railing and watching the nightlife traipse by through the streets below.

  I walked up to him and lightly tapped his shoulder. “Hi.”

  His eyes lit up when he saw me, and he smiled. “Hi.”

  He put his arm around me and together we gazed into the starry spring night and then (hey, the wine was flowing, we were young, and it was midnight) we kissed. It’s amazing how close a bit of royal chitchat can make you feel to someone, and to make a long story short, I accidentally spent the night with Her Majesty the Queen’s assistant secretary.

  Back at his flat, Nick showed me his royal security pass and palace photo ID. Apparently his mother was a former debutante104 and through her tweedy family connections, he had landed the coveted palace position. Nick admitted that his job was mainly one of glorified admin, and didn’t pay particularly well, but like most members of the Royal House hold, he didn’t really need the money—and primarily carried out his daily work due to pure allegiance to the Crown.

  Such loyalty! Such duty! So incredibly romantic!

  These were my drowsy thoughts as I rode the tube home the next morning. (Albeit I did have to alight several times throughout the rattling train journey as my stomach appeared to be suffering from acute alcohol poisoning. And in those terrible nauseous moments spent doubled over on the train platform, I vowed for the billionth time to boycott white wine for the rest of my life. And, unlike those other times, this time I really meant it.)

  My phone buzzed with a text message from Rupert: “JEZZA—WAS IT ME OR WAS UR LIPSTICK SMUDGED WHEN U LEFT? RX”

  I sighed and held my aching head. Whenever I started to think that I might be in danger of turning into a real grown-up adult, I always proved myself spectacularly wrong.105

  Twenty-six

  “When you hate what is happening, something marvelous is happening. Something is changing.”

  —BARBARA DE ANGELIS

  The splendid fluted ballroom with its Italian Renaissance stylings bustles with a flurry of pastel satin and gloved elbows. Glittering girls in swirling floor-length dresses dance fox-trots with debonair gentlemen wearing silk tailcoats and white bow ties. Beneath the soaring gilded ceiling and crystal chandeliers, the air is filled with the glamorous fission of soft laughter, warm candlelight, and sparkling tiaras.

  Our eyes meet and the orchestra swells.

  Standing on the landing of the Grand Staircase, he breaks into a wide smile. I smile back.

  “There you are!” I mouth playfully through the buzz of the party. In his black evening clothes, he takes my breath away.

  Looking at me with tender eyes, he slowly descends the curving marble steps until he is by my side. Confident in his intimacy, he kisses me gently on the lips and my hand slips effortlessly into his.

  Together we walk into the palace garden, the golden brown stone glowing in the fiery light of the flaring torches. The powdered, liveried footmen bob graciously as we pass. We linger a moment, laughing quietly in the dawn air before he leads me swiftly through the portico, out of the gates, and into the hushed blue light of the winding London streets.

  “We can’t stay out all night!” I laugh.

  But he just pulls me into his arms and says mischievously, “Why not?”

  And then my alarm went off.

  Normally I hate the mornings—but this one was different. I was practically whistling with joy as I floated cheerily through my working day.

  Considering the extent of my passion I know it’s hard to believe, but other than childhood nightmares about how my parents might behave at a royal wedding—I had yet to have a single dream about Peter Phillips. But last night’s dream had been the most vivid I’d ever experienced in my entire sleeping life.

  I could still recall every detail as if it had happened minutes ago. I could still hear the orchestra violins, I could still see the sun rising slowly above the palace, and I could still feel Peter’s warm hand wrapped firmly around my own. Every sensation had been incredibly, astonishingly, arm-tinglingly real. And I wanted to hold onto their memory with all of my soul.

  By the time my lunch break arrived, everything was clear.

  There had been a crucial new development on the royal scene and once again, I had the eternally wondrous Hello magazine to thank. Once again, it had become my benevolent personal messenger, a glossy envoy from the heavens—this time alerting me to the glorious words I’d waited years to see.

  The small article was tucked away in the back pages, but still, there it was in black and white:

  Peter Phillips Splits with Girlfriend

  Peter Phillips, Princess Anne’s twenty-four-year-old son, has split up with his American girlfriend of three years. The couple, who lived at Peter’s three-bedroom flat in North London, met at a three-day equestrian event. No reason has been given for the breakup.

  I could have cried with happiness. (See? I knew he’d see sense in the end! I knew everything was going to be okay!) With life-shattering news like this taking place, it’s no wonder I dreamed about him. In those slumbering moments, Peter and I had something magical. And that magic was seeping into real life.

  Max called from New York to wish me a happy birthday.

  “So how are things going with the London love life?” he asked. “No, wait, don’t answer that. Let me guess. You’re dating some pale skinny Brit named Nigel. That, or some inbred prince with terrible teeth and no chin named something ridiculous like Pip.”

  I laughed. “Actually, I had a really amazing dream last week.”

  I told him all about the palace ball I had attended with Peter Phillips and how wonderful it had been.

  Max paused before saying anything. “Well, Jerramy…I’m glad to hear things are going so well for the two of you…but you are losing your mind, you know that, don’t you?”

  The guy who quietly occupied the desk next to mine was na
med Conrad. With his sturdy thighs, his stocky build, and his weekly, positively gruesome rugby injuries106—Conrad was somewhat out of place in the fluffy publishing world and pretty much kept to himself.

  But it was later that week, as I was gleefully discussing the miraculous Hello article with one of my gossip-loving female coworkers, when I heard Conrad grunt something under his breath.

  “Do you have something you’d like to add?” I asked playfully.

  “I saw Peter Phillips this weekend,” he mumbled.

  I swiveled around in my chair and stared at him in shock, “What?”

  Conrad shrugged. “I was drinking at a pub in Wandsworth this weekend and I saw him there with his mates.” He said it as if it were the most boring thing in the whole world.

  Wandsworth was less than ten minutes away from where I lived! My heart was pounding so hard I could scarcely hear myself think. (See what I mean about magic seeping into real life?)

  “Which pub?” I breathed.

  “The Ship.”

  “And you saw him this past weekend?”

  “Yup.”

  “But Conrad! Today is Thursday! How long were you going to wait before telling me this?” I tried to feign anger but for the life of me, I couldn’t stop smiling. “You know how much I like Peter! He’s my screensaver, for godsake!”

  Conrad looked at my computer monitor and chuckled. “Sorry. I guess I just forgot to mention it.”

  Of course, I forgave Conrad instantly and left him to nurse the latest egg-sized bump on his forehead. But still, no one could argue that the trajectory of my royal destiny seemed to be speeding up at quite a dizzying pace. First in my dreams, and now in my neighborhood? Soon he would be in my arms.

  Remember all that uncertainty about my work permit? Well, for my own sanity I had shoved the entire topic to the back of my mind and carried on with my London life as if everything was absolutely fine—as if my very existence in the country that I loved wasn’t wholly dependent on some silly paperwork that may or may not be approved. But that Friday morning, my boss sat me down and the look on his face told me everything I needed to know.

  He said that word from the Home Office was expected some time next week, and based on what the company’s immigration lawyers were telling him, I should expect the worst. Unless I could financially support myself without working, I must be prepared to leave England within the next ten days. Still, I was not to forget that I was a fantastic employee and it would be a terrible loss to them all.

  How tremendously comforting.

  Practically choking with emotion, I could barely breathe as I left the office that night. How could this be happening to me? How could this be happening to me again? Right when things were going so well? Peter Phillips was finally, officially single (not to mention hanging out in my neighborhood)—yet I had to leave England in the next ten days because of another stupid immigration rule? Just as I was getting so close to them, I had to walk away and leave my dreams behind? Just because of the place I had been born? It took all my strength not to sob hysterically the whole train ride home. What on earth was I going to do?

  Ninety minutes later, I walked into the flat, visibly distraught and close to tears. George, Oliver, and Sophie were gathered in the sitting room and Sophie didn’t look very happy.

  “Christ,” said Sophie when she saw the gloom on my face, “don’t tell me Duncan called to tell you personally.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She looked confused. “You mean you don’t know about the letter?”

  “What letter?” What was she talking about? And why were the boys behaving so strangely?

  Sophie handed me a thick cream envelope. Inside was a type-written letter on Duncan’s personal stationery, as well as a second letter from his solicitor. I scanned them quickly, then fell onto the sofa in disbelief.

  According to the two very courteous letters, my rental contract expired next week and categorically was not going to be renewed. (Duncan’s cited reasons for my eviction included, among others, an inappropriate obsession with fire safety.)

  I had to move out by the end of the week.

  “Am I the only one being kicked out?” I asked, trying not to cry.

  “No,” Sophie said curtly. “I’m also being forced to leave. But not surprisingly, the boys’ contracts have been extended for the rest of year.”

  “It’s a real shame,” said George, solemnly shaking his head. “You know how much Oliver and I detest interviewing prospective flatmates. We’ll probably have to speak to hundreds of new girls in order to fill your rooms.”

  “How horrible for you,” spat Sophie.

  It was clear to both of us that the boys couldn’t care less about Duncan’s petty property games and as they left the flat to embark on their usual Friday night of clubbing and strip joints, we were left to commiserate in private.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked Sophie. “Do you think we can find a place to move into together with such short notice?”

  “Well,” she answered quietly, “I’d never admit this to Duncan, but for me this surprise eviction is really a blessing in disguise. For a while I’ve been thinking about moving back in with my parents so I can save money for a down payment….”

  “You mean you’re moving out of London?” I asked incredulously.

  Sophie nodded. “The commute to the office will be hell, but I think it’s something that I have to do before it’s too late. If I wait any longer before buying a flat, I will be priced out completely…. Poor you, though! I don’t envy your search for a new set of lunatics to live with.”

  I cried myself into a fitful sleep that night. I tossed and turned as my dreams were filled with a blizzard of rejected work permits, eviction papers, and student loan bills. They piled up higher and higher around me until I was trapped beneath their weight. And as I lay there, helpless and suffocating and unable to escape, evil voices chanted incessantly around me: “We told you so. We told you so.”

  At dawn, I woke with a start. It was no use—I was a basket case and far too upset to sleep. I got dressed quietly, crept out of the house, and bought a newspaper. Then I groggily sat in a coffee shop with my mobile and made my first appointment to view a studio flat that very morning. I couldn’t face living with more insane strangers; I had to find a place I could afford on my own. And this was the first studio I’d found in my price range that was available next week.

  A fat, unshaven man wearing a tatty undershirt opened the door, gruffly introduced himself as the landlord, and then halfheartedly showed me around the microscopic one-room apartment. But it was hardly necessary; the place was so tiny I could see it all without turning my head: There were no windows; the stained and yellowing carpet was covered in thick layers of dust and looked like it had never been vacuumed in its life; the miniature “kitchenette” (which consisted of a fridge and stove the size of a shoebox) was encased in de cades of black grease; and I don’t even want to know the state of the flimsy single mattress that was lofted directly above the dirty kitchen sink. I never thought I’d say it, but the bomb shelter looked like a palace compared to this place.

  “Where’s the loo?” I asked.

  The creepy old man dramatically opened a narrow door to reveal a space the size of a broom cupboard. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was like some kind of bizarre nautical wet room you’d find in a third-world youth hostel. The toilet was actually in the shower and the cupboard itself was the shower. And needless to say, it was covered, floor to ceiling, with dried urine and rusty water stains.

  “Are you looking for a two-year contract or just a year?” the landlord asked, eyeing me lecherously.

  Right then, the reality of my situation hit me like a ten-ton truck. A year? I didn’t even know if I was going to be around for more than a few days! I felt dizzy and sick. And for a terrible moment I thought I was going to pass out.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “This isn’t for me.”

  I b
olted out of that filthy flat and in a blur of tears, I headed toward the riverbank. It was high tide and the shimmering, tree-lined Thames looked tragically beautiful. I crossed the footbridge, found an empty bench, and sat down.

  And then—I completely fell apart.

  I may have been in the country of my heart’s desire, but I could no longer function normally. And in the moments that followed, I proceeded to have what many would call a nervous breakdown.

  Hot tears tumbled down my cheeks as I silently screamed at the sky. For the love of God, how many times did I have to go through the same heartaches? How many work permits did I have to beg for? How many weird places did I have to live in? How many deranged flatmates did I have to live with? How many pointless kisses, empty promises, and bastardly boys did I have to endure? And how many trillions of dollars in debt did I have to rack up for the plea sure?

  I tried to wipe away my runny mascara but it was no use.

  Was this how the universe rewarded those who followed their dreams? God, how I envied people without dreams! How I envied their unlimited choices! Their freedom to do what ever they liked without betraying their hearts.

  I thought of my childhood friend Chloe. I had seen her briefly last Christmas and she lived in a gorgeous, sparkling clean, three-bedroom American house with a gigantic backyard and a dog. She had a job that she loved and paid her well, she had a handsome husband who adored her, and the cutest baby son you’ve ever seen. Chloe wasn’t stupid like me. She wasn’t crazy. She didn’t sacrifice her whole life to move across the world and chase after some boy she cut out of a magazine!

  Chloe knew better. She had stayed in the real world. And because of that, she was a million times happier than I’d ever be. My God, who was I to lecture about dreams? Out of the two of us, Chloe was the one fulfilling her dreams.

  My tears were unstoppable now.