Someday My Prince Will Come

by Jerramy Fine

  I have to admit that I was sort of tempted to laugh at this point. Was I supposed to believe that five hundred years ago my husband had an affair with chubby Queen Mary? Well, men weren’t exactly universally known for their fidelity so I guess it was possible. Still, it was a pretty surreal turn of events.

  But Joseph’s steady narrative didn’t stop for my musings and the story continued. “You were terribly upset by this and the whole affair was again causing new court gossip and jeopardizing your family name. But the Queen quickly grew tired of your husband. They had a falling out and he fled to India to escape her wrath, leaving you with no forwarding address. You gave up on the idea of love entirely and your parents begrudgingly took you into their home once again.”

  My heart twinged painfully with recognition. How many times (and in how many different centuries?) was I going to be abandoned by guys and left without a forwarding address? Was I simply not destined for love in any lifetime? It was all too familiar and all too emotional and new tears started sliding down my cheeks.

  “Then,” said Joseph evenly, “another man came into your life. The love and connection you felt was like a blinding flash of light. He was your soulmate.”

  The hairs on my arms stood on end. Still quietly sniffling, I leaned forward in my seat.

  “He was an Englishman and had spent the last few years in China working as a Catholic missionary. The first conversation you had with him was comparing how upper-class women were treated in China compared to upper-class women in India and Britain. You continued to be fascinated by the oppression of women everywhere despite their position. You fell deeply in love with him. However, you were still a married woman. Annulments were unheard of and divorce meant certain death. The only way you could remarry was if your husband died and you had no way of knowing if this had happened. So your love for each other had to remain hidden. As a man of faith, he would allow nothing more than friendship despite his unbearable love for you. It was torture for you both. Finally, he went back to China and left you longing for him until your death. It is that same soul that has drawn you to Britain in this lifetime. And it is that soul you have desperately been looking for. It is an agreement that is unfulfilled and when you finally come together, even if only for a few minutes, the circle will be complete. When this meeting takes place you will no longer feel such longing and such unrest. You will be at peace.”

  I sat there in my pink chair, wiping away the tears and trying to catch my breath. Finally, my bizarre longings had meaning. Finally, all of my weird royal memories had context. Finally, my aching desire to be in England made some kind of sense! But more than anything, I could finally begin to understand what my heart had been trying so long to tell me. And all at once, the tears of sorrow that flowed from my exhausted eyes turned to tears of joy.

  “It is very important, my child, that you do not spend all of this life focused on unfinished business from the life I have just described. You have many lessons to learn in this life as well, and you often get the two confused.”

  I didn’t realize it at the time, but that last statement was possibly the most powerful piece of advice anyone has ever given me.

  I looked at the small pink clock on the table.

  “I only have five minutes left,” I told Joseph.

  “Do you have any last questions, my child?” he asked kindly.

  “Can you tell me when I will meet this other soul? Or about any other past lives?” Now that the floodgates to my metaphysical psyche had been opened, I wanted to know more.

  “I cannot,” Joseph replied. “Only what is important is revealed to you. Only what concerns you in this life.”

  I nodded in acquiescence. I wanted to ask something else, but my mind was still reeling from all that I’d heard and I was so exhausted and emotionally drained that I couldn’t really think straight—much less think of another question that made sense. Then suddenly one just popped into my head out of nowhere.

  “If you could tell our current world leaders one thing, what would it be?” I asked.

  Joseph smiled. “I have not been asked that question in years. It is refreshing for me. I would tell them not to be frightened of mixing religions. They are all the same religion. Do not be frightened of mixing the races. Everyone is born in the same way. I would tell them that freedom and tolerance are important beyond all else.”

  I nodded in agreement. Our current world leaders could certainly do with a crash course in Joseph’s wisdom.

  “I have enjoyed our talk, my child. You have a long life ahead of you and it will be one of achievement. Please return again. I will remember you. Even fifty years from now, I will remember you. Shalom.”

  Another minute passed in tense silence. Estella took a few deep breaths and then slowly opened her eyes as if awaking from a deep sleep. My lap was filled with crumpled pink tissues.

  “He has that effect on people,” she smiled. “That’s why I always put a box right next to the chair. Now, would you like to see my flower garden before you leave? The crocuses are coming up quite nicely.”

  As she showed me her collection of spring bulbs, I marveled at the gulf between Estella’s conscious mind and the profound, timeless wisdom I had just witnessed in the shed. I have to say that if channeling Joseph was just an act, it was quite the skilled performance. For one, it was unbelievably consistent. For two, the historical knowledge alone was impressive. And even if that entire hour spent with her eyes closed was merely a clever piece of theater, Estella was still an amazing reader of people—the specifics of that story would not have made sense for anyone in the world but me.

  What other people may think happened that day is of little consequence. What counts is how I felt. And all I know is that for the first time in a long while, I no longer felt crazy. I now knew why seeing ancient royal objects affected me so deeply; I now knew that my insistence on finding Peter Phillips was so much more than a madcap obsession; and I now knew that when I was two years old and told my hippie mother that she wasn’t “the woman who dresses me”—I meant it.

  Twenty-eight

  “The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances; if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”

  —CARL JUNG

  Learning that my royal obsession wasn’t entirely Disney’s fault certainly had a calming effect. I mean, for a girl who’d had a nervous breakdown on a park bench less than two days ago, when I walked into the office on Monday morning, I have to say that I was remarkably composed.

  But that lasted approximately twenty-five seconds because my boss pulled me aside the minute I walked in the door.

  “Sorry to bring this up so early in the morning, Jerramy,” he said, “but a courier just arrived with an envelope for you. I think it’s from the Home Office.”

  Oh God. Not now. Not today.

  Not when I’d only just discovered that my soul was in England for a reason. And needed to stay in England for reasons those lackeys at the Home Office couldn’t begin to comprehend!

  My throat began to tighten and I hoped I’d be able to hold it together for just a few minutes longer so my boss wouldn’t see me cry. My emotions were all over the place these days—and based on my track record, I knew that tears could spill at any second.

  He held out the envelope and with superhuman strength, I willed my hands to take it from him.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” he asked.

  I was too upset to answer. Too upset even to look at him.

  “Jerramy, I know it’s probably not the news we want to hear—but I’m away for the rest of the week, and I’d like to know what the final verdict on all this is.”

  I stared at the flat package in my trembling hands.

  I knew he was just doing his job and trying to manage my expectations, but did he have to be so cavalier about everything? Didn’t he realize the root of my very happiness was on the line? I didn’t want to open it in front of him, but I had to. If he wanted to risk a
gush of tears, so be it.

  I said a silent prayer to what ever entity was crazy enough to still be listening to me, took a deep breath, and ripped it open. With sweaty palms and a woozy stomach, I pulled out the letter and forced myself to look at it.

  Dear Miss Fine…The Home Office is pleased to inform you…that your application has been approved…and your Leave to Remain has been granted…

  The rest of the text blurred before my eyes.

  Oh my God! I’ve been approved!

  Then I said it out loud. “Oh my God! I’ve been approved!”

  I looked up at my boss with shocked delight. I wasn’t going to be deported! I could stay in England! My soul could stay in England! I wanted to hug everyone in sight and shout my new legal status from the office rooftop. But instead I just stood there with a dazed grin on my face. Once again, the gods had intervened on my behalf. And I was so happy and so grateful and so relieved, that in the end, my poor boss still had to witness quite a large gush of tears.

  Later that afternoon, I was still reeling from the jubilant news when the phone rang. It was Tigger (aka Arabella, aka the one whose father was on The Times Rich List).

  “Hi, sweetie,” she cooed in her hyper blueblood voice. “I know this is a bit unexpected, but you see, my silly sister decided only yesterday that she is going to spend the rest of her life in Sydney—leaving me with the arduous task of looking after her empty room. Since Daddy is making me rent out all four London bedrooms and I simply can’t face the vile idea of living with strangers, you instantly came to mind. You’re not by chance looking for anywhere to live at the moment, are you?”

  “Well, actually I am,” I replied in amazement.

  “Oh, Jez, darling—you’re an absolute star! I promise to make the rent what ever you can afford. Do pop round this evening and I’ll show you your new room!”

  I hung up the phone, and for the second time that day, sat in a state of blissful shock. I just couldn’t believe it. In a space of five hours, I had learned that I no longer had to live in fear of exile and that I no longer had to live in Duncan’s stupid flat!

  I called Adam immediately and quickly related how suddenly, and quite miraculously, my life had turned on a dime.

  “Don’t you mean a shiny sixpence?” he asked.

  It’s funny. When you spend all your time desperately hoping that something will happen, you lose sight of the fact that something is happening. And has been happening all along.

  That evening, when my parents called (probably to make sure I hadn’t checked into a mental institution), I told them the wonderful news.

  “Well, I have some good news myself,” my dad said when I was finished. “I’ve just been ordained as a minister.”

  Allow me to point out that my dad is agnostic at best, and with his peace-loving ways he has always refused to acknowledge organized (and therefore war-mongering) religion of any kind.

  “What kind of minister?” I asked suspiciously.

  “A cannabis minister!” he exclaimed happily.110

  “Dad! That’s the kind of good news that’s going to get me deported! Didn’t I just tell you how I’ve finally been allowed to stay here?”

  He chuckled. “Freedom of religion, honey. Freedom of religion.”

  And quite frankly, at that moment I couldn’t have been happier to live in a country where religion was in the hands of Her Majesty the Queen.111

  Even though I was positively beaming with contentment, the following day was pretty much just like any other day in the office. Like always, I poured myself a cup of mediocre British coffee, sat down at my desk, and commenced my usual routine of scanning the morning papers. I was supposed to be looking for press coverage relevant to the company, but I (ever the multitasker) also utilized this daily assignment to look out for any news about the Royal family that might be relevant to me.

  Just as I was finishing up and making my way through the last of the tedious sports sections, my eyes were drawn to a small blurb at the bottom of the events calendar:

  May 28: Professional Rugby Players’ Awards 2002

  Peter Phillips, Jason Robinson, Johnny Wilkinson, Kieran Bracken, Matt Dawson (Royal and England Rugby squad, respectively) attend annual ceremony. Lord’s Cricket Ground, St. John’s Wood, 7:30 P.M. Media Reception, 5:45–7:30 P.M. Invite only.

  I figured I was hallucinating so I read it again.

  And again and again.

  It couldn’t be.

  No one, no one, could have this much good luck in one week.

  I read those few sentences over and over. I checked, and double-checked, and triple-checked my Outlook calendar. But there was no mistake: Conrad and I were scheduled to attend that very same media reception. And the 28th of May was tomorrow.

  But before I allowed myself to completely hyperventilate, I picked up the phone and called the awards organizers.

  “Hi,” I said casually, “I’m just checking to see if Peter Phillips will be appearing at the awards dinner only, or if he will be at the media reception as well.”

  “Oh, Peter will be around all evening tomorrow,” the man replied cheerily, “at the dinner and at the reception.”

  I nearly fell out of my chair.

  It is not an exaggeration to say that I didn’t sleep all night.

  Not one wink. I just lay there, frantic with nerves, staring into the darkness.

  After twenty years (and possibly twenty lifetimes) of searching, I was finally going to meet the boy I found in that library book. I was finally going to meet the boy I had once Scotch-taped to my wall. I was finally going to meet the boy (quite literally) of my dreams. How was I going to approach him? What was I going to say? How on earth was I going to cope? Despite my seemingly endless preparation, it began to dawn on me that at the end of the day, I was absolutely clueless. My destiny was less than twenty-four hours away, my fantasy was on the very brink of fulfillment, and I had no idea (no idea!) how I was going to get through it.

  My one and only consolation was that Conrad would be there with me. At least he could catch me if (or more likely when) I fainted.

  I was still awake and staring manically at the ceiling when my alarm went off. But compared to everything else racing through my frazzled and panicky brain, getting dressed that morning seemed almost easy. I decided on my black crepe suit; it had a slightly flared pencil skirt and an elegantly cropped jacket, which I wore over a fuchsia camisole (which revealed the tiniest glimpse of cleavage).

  Still, my hair was simply refusing to cooperate with me and combined with my sleep deprivation and the billions of butterflies in my stomach, by the time I made it to work that day, I was a basket case. A queasy, quivering basket case with crazy hair and swollen red eyes.

  When Conrad told me that he couldn’t make it to the media reception after all and I’d have to go on my own, I really started to lose it. I was counting on him and his vast rugby knowledge to help me break the ice! The only thing I knew about rugby players is that they had big muscley shoulders, were always getting injured, and liked to iron urine into my carpet! That afternoon Conrad sat down with me and tried to explain the basics, but it was no use. Everything he said about mauling and rucking and scrums went right over my head. And when he started talking about something called a “blood bin” I completely gave up. There was no way I was going to become a rugby expert by 5:45 that evening.

  “You can always just take a few swigs of gin and fake it,” Conrad suggested.

  I nodded hysterically, visibly shaking with nerves. “You’re right.”

  I couldn’t believe I was going to be in the same room with Peter in less than two hours yet I was on the verge of a bonafide panic attack.

  “Looks like you could do with a few swigs of gin anyway,” Conrad said, discreetly pulling a flask out of his desk drawer.

  I gratefully took a few gulps.

  “Jezza,” Conrad continued, “you’ve been to millions of these crazy media events. Just because Peter Phillips will be th
ere doesn’t make it any different. He’s just a normal bloke. You’ll be fine.”

  I begged to differ about the normal bloke part but I nodded again, trying desperately to calm down.

  “Just don’t tell him that he’s your screensaver, okay?”

  I smiled weakly and took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  Around 4 P.M., I quietly left my desk, went into the ladies bathroom, and locked myself in one of the cubicles. Leaning my forehead against the cold metal wall, I held my throbbing temples, closed my eyes, and tried to regulate my breathing.

  This is too important, I told myself.

  You can’t be nervous. You can’t panic. You must take control.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I began to visualize exactly how I hoped meeting Peter would take place—the eye contact, the smiles, the easy conversation, absolutely everything. I made myself feel every sensation and every detail as if it were already happening to me. And then I played the scene over and over again in my mind’s eye until both my brain and my body believed it was real.

  Then I retouched my makeup, put on my coat, hopped in a black cab, and headed to Lord’s Cricket Ground.

  I’d been to Lord’s several times before. You might have noticed that I’m hardly the sportiest girl in the world, but I actually enjoyed going to cricket matches. And the beautiful, Victorian setting of Lord’s was home to some of the most famous matches in the sport’s history. Admittedly, the rules of cricket are a minefield if you haven’t grown up with them (from what I can tell, one player’s sole task is to hold onto his teammate’s sweater for safekeeping), but what I loved most about cricket is that people dress up for it. On summer days, the stands of Lord’s are filled with spectators in floral dresses and linen suits—leisurely reading The Sunday Times, munching on delicate finger sandwiches, sipping pitchers of Pimm’s and lemonade, and stopping only occasionally to glance at the scoreboard to see how England is progressing. And of course the game pauses at 3 P.M. sharp to allow for afternoon tea. You can see why it’s my kind of sport. Believe me, if baseball involved a semiformal dress code and a civilized tea break, I might be more of a fan.