by Jerramy Fine
I had no idea why a rugby event was being held at a cricket ground, but at least I vaguely knew my way around the venue. One less thing to worry about.
As I walked shakily into the hospitality suite, I was overjoyed to see that the bar was already open. I wasn’t going to risk having more than one or two, but my God did I need something to calm my trembling limbs. That gulp of Conrad’s gin didn’t quite cut it.
I held onto my glass of wine with both hands (begging it to grant me strength) and attempted to mingle with the other media types. Everyone was pretending to take notes or write serious things on their clipboards but it was obvious everyone was there to meet the England rugby squad112 and get a few free drinks. The rugby players themselves were just as expected: sturdy, stocky heartthrobs with big smiles and even bigger thigh muscles. But I didn’t pay them the slightest bit of flirtatious attention; my eyes constantly scanned the room for one guy, and one guy only.
Still, in spite of the friendly banter surrounding me, my stomach continued to churn with a lifetime’s worth of nerves and my heart was pounding so hard I thought I was going to choke.
And then—I saw him.
He was standing casually at the bar, bottle of beer in his hand. And wearing a black dinner jacket. Exactly like the one in my dream.
Friends told me I might meet him this way or that, but when the moment arrived, he just appeared. And I was extraordinarily calm.
Everything around me moved into this lucid, luminous, almost dreamlike focus. Colors were brighter. Sounds were clearer. My whole being was attuned to the task ahead and it amazed me that there was a time when I was at all frightened or nervous about any of this. I knew exactly what to do. The instructions for that moment had been etched, eons ago, into my heart. All I had to do was follow them.
I made eye contact effortlessly.
Peter held my gaze.
And as his blue eyes locked onto mine across the crowded room, I could feel the chains around my heart unwinding. And slowly, joyously releasing.
There were no magical lightning bolts, no cosmic fireworks. It was simply as if I had always known him. Just like in my dream, the only thing that went through my mind, the only thing I wanted to say was, “Oh! There you are!”
Still inexplicably calm, I turned and walked confidently onto the long empty balcony overlooking the cricket pitch. Gradually, others began to join me in the open air and soon I was happily chatting away with four or five rugby players.
He will come to you, my heart whispered.
And he did.
Peter stepped onto the balcony and suddenly the boy I had cut out of a magazine and Scotch-taped to my wall was standing right beside me. Inches away.
I reached out and touched his arm lightly with my fingertips, having no idea what I was going to say until I heard myself say it. “Did I see you at The Ship in Wandsworth a few weekends ago?”
“Why, yes,” he replied. “I was there.”
“I knew you looked familiar,” I smiled.
He smiled back. “Hi, I’m Peter,” he said, extending his hand.
I took it. “I’m Jerramy.”
He didn’t let go. “Delighted to meet you.”
If anyone was watching me, I appeared utterly composed. But underneath the serene façade was my heart. And it was roaring with happiness.
We chatted, easily and naturally, about everything: loving late nights, despising early mornings, how we secretly missed college, how we couldn’t stand the silly stereo types of north and south London. We talked about cricket, the Rocky Mountains, and the Scottish Highlands. I drank in every second; acutely aware, even as it was happening, that soon it would be no more than a memory.
Not once did I mention my screensaver or password. Not once did I mention that I found him in a library book when I was six years old. In fact, through it all, I pretended like I had no idea who he was.
Part of me worried that he might be different than the boy I had fallen in love with as a child. But there were no surprises. Peter was exactly as I knew he would be. What I had always known he would be. Same voice. Same rosy cheeks. Same height. Same impeccable manners. Same quiet sense of humor. And as we stood above Lord’s Cricket Ground, shoulders touching, eyes locked, I could feel all these little mysterious pieces inside of me falling back into place. I know it sounds weird, but it’s like I could feel my soul repairing itself. The chains that always held my heart so tightly and inexplicably to this one person and this one country were releasing. My heart was free.
And I was becoming whole again.
Nearly an hour had passed before Peter and I realized we were the only ones on the balcony. Our entrancement was such that we hadn’t even noticed the others leave and we laughed at our mutual oblivion.
But the newspaper photographers weren’t oblivious. They soon took notice of the starry look in our eyes and started snapping away. In their professional opinion, this was a royal moment worth capturing on film. And with Peter at my side, I smiled for the cameras like I never smiled before.
“Get closer,” they kept telling us. But they were fighting a winning battle.
In my mind, the world was standing still, but outside it was flashing by—the reception was ending, the hospitality suite was closing down, people were leaving, and suddenly we both knew that it was time to go our separate ways.
“May I have your number?” Peter asked shyly.
My heart leapt.
“Sure,” I answered breezily.
I handed him my card and he smiled sheepishly. I looked at him and right then and there I made a conscious effort to always remember that smile, to imprint it within my psyche forever.
“Good-bye,” he said.
And then he kissed me on the cheek, and I watched my prince stride across the green grass of the cricket ground and disappear into the hazy London sunset.
Epilogue
“There is nothing noble in being superior to others. True nobility lies in being superior to your former self.”
—UNKNOWN
You know what the silliest part of this whole story is?
Peter Phillips is not a prince. He doesn’t even have a title.113 In fact, he was the first royal baby to be born a commoner in nearly five hundred years. Of course when I was six years old and found him in that family tree, I didn’t realize this. And once I made up my mind about what I wanted, there was no stopping me.
But for all intents and purposes, Peter was just an ordinary guy—whose grandmother just happened to be the Queen. And the thing is, I could have made my mind up about anyone, about anything or any place and if I had gone after it with the same ferocious hunger, I would have had the same result.
Five years later I look back at that surreal and enchanting rendezvous and I am filled with wistful dreaminess—not because I finally met my childhood crush or collided with a cosmic soulmate—but because, well, it is the moment I grew up.
I still live in my beloved London and I still think it’s the most breathtaking and beguiling city on the planet. I still believe, quite fiercely, in the power of dreams, and I still wouldn’t touch the real world with a barge pole—but slowly, ever so slowly, I’ve begun to realize that when it comes to guys, royalty isn’t everything.
Despite my “wise” middle name, I guess it’s taken me longer than most to recognize this simple truth. But, bit by bit, I’ve come to accept that my personal fairytale (at least in this life) is not only about finding romance in a faraway kingdom, it’s also about the majestic adventures, the splendid characters, and the valorous lessons that I encounter along the way.
I know you’re dying to ask, so I’ll tell you: No, Peter never called. He may have been well versed in royal protocol, but when it came to dating etiquette, Peter was just as hopeless as any other guy. I’d spent my whole life tracking down what I thought was the perfect male specimen, only to realize that he was still just a guy! I was so bowled over by this incredible realization, so liberated by it—that I practically threw a
party.
Still, as I watched Peter walk away that evening, something inside of me said, “You know, if he doesn’t call, I’ll be okay.”
And that’s when it hit me: I will always be okay.
Royal or otherwise, I didn’t need a guy to complete me. So I stopped looking for one. And as every girl knows, the minute you stop looking is the minute you find exactly what you’re looking for.
Yes, this new boyfriend is English (I haven’t totally changed in that respect!) and while he’s not a prince, I have to say that he certainly acts like one. He treats everyone he meets—regardless of their class, their background, their accent, or their nationality—with exactly the same courtesy and respect. (Even if they happen to be hippies.) He always makes sure everyone else’s needs are attended to before ever thinking of himself. He is handsome and romantic and generous beyond mea sure. And when I suddenly and without warning found myself battling a fierce, dragonlike foe bent on my destruction—he rescued me, and looked after me, until it was over.
It’s been a rocky ride (and in some ways it still is), but my unique transatlantic journey has taught me that kindness and compassion are far more regal than pedigree and charm, and that happily ever after doesn’t magically occur the minute you find yourself a prince or palace. I’ve learned that happily ever after is a state of mind that you have to create—every day, every moment—for yourself. And it is that noble knowledge, that enchanted power, that can turn any girl into a princess.
As I look back on my childhood, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve spent my whole life running away from something that was never really chasing me.
I wasn’t allowed to watch TV, but because of my parents I could read almost by the time I could walk. Because of my parents, I was at the local library almost daily, and it was there that I checked out that fateful book containing the royal family tree. My parents may have embarrassed me to no end; they may have walked around the house naked and made me eat tempeh; they may have disapproved of the materialistic and capitalistic life that I went on to create for myself—but even when they didn’t believe in what I was doing, my parents taught me to always believe in myself. They gave me the freedom of possibilities, the gift of an open mind, and the chance to take my life in any direction that I desired. And despite all the tipi and tofu trauma, I always knew that I was loved.
In the late 1960s, my grandfather worked at the Pentagon, while my teenage, bell-bottom-wearing mother joined massive peace demonstrations right outside his building. And this makes me wonder if perhaps my own reactionary tendencies are in the blood. And if so, how will my children turn out? Will I end up with a daughter who hates Barbie dolls and insists on wearing hemp fiber instead of cute little outfits emblazoned with Disney princesses?
It’s certainly possible.
But on the other hand, she could turn out just like me. And if one day she begs to be sent away to English boarding school, I just might send her.
Special Thanks
To Angela Tsuei, Karan Raichand, Heather Bigley, Amy Gray, Lindsay Chamow, Jane Finette, Erin Lettman, and Olivia Vandyk, for crazily volunteering to read so many of my first drafts.
To Ezra, for always being so sane and supportive.
To my agent, Zoë Pagnamenta, and my editor, Lauren Marino (both of whom know what it’s like to be in love with a prince!), for believing in me and my story.
To Buckingham Palace and the entire Windsor family, for accepting a book like this with such grace and good humor.
And to the incredible (nonroyal) parents who raised me, for teaching me that true royalty comes from within.
Grateful acknowledgment is made
to the following for permission to reprint:
Part of Your World (Reprise)
From Walt Disney’s THE LITTLE MERMAID
Lyrics by Howard Ashman
Music by Alan Menken
© 1988 Walt Disney Music Company and Wonderland Music Company, Inc.
All Rights Reserved Used by Permission
Galileo
Words and Music by Emily Saliers
© 1992 EMI VIRGIN SONGS, INC. and GODHAP MUSIC
All Rights Controlled and Administered by EMI VIRGIN SONGS, INC.
All Rights Reserved International Copyright Secured Used by Permission
Quotes by Marianne Williamson have been used with kind permission.
Chapter 6: Williamson, Marianne, Enchanted Love, Touchstone, 1999.
Chapter 14: Williamson, Marianne, A Return to Love, HarperPerennial, 1993.
Photograph credit:
Peter Phillips photograph © 2002 Steve Wood
All Rights Reserved Used by Permission
1 With the subsequent births of HRH Princess Beatrice (1988), HRH Princess Eugenie (1990), and Lady Louise (2003), Peter has since moved to tenth place in the line of succession.
10 Since the nineteenth century, however, the powers of the House of Lords have been steadily declining, and in 1999, the automatic hereditary right to sit in the House of Lords was removed completely.
100 The royal Court of St. James’s is considered to sit wherever HM The Queen happens to be.
101 The Court Circular is the authoritative, historical record of duties undertaken by members of the Royal Family. An account of the previous day’s royal engagements is printed daily in three British newspapers.
102 Car park means “parking lot.”
103 This was actually a very common U.K. sign-off. Even I had taken to ending most of my personal e-mails and text messages with an affectionate “Jx.”
104 Prior to 1958, young upper-class English girls were formally presented to the Queen to symbolically mark their debut into aristocratic society. This was followed by a string of formal balls and social events (including Royal Ascot and Henley Royal Regatta) known as “The Season.”
105 By the way, several months later, George W. made his first ever trip to England—which included an official State Visit to Buckingham Palace. Needless to say, I never saw nor heard from Nick ever again.
106 Seriously, his constant black eyes and broken bones reminded me of the movie Fight Club.
107 My Google research later revealed that Joseph of Arimathea was a disciple of Jesus. According to apocryphal legend, he was also the Virgin Mary’s paternal uncle and (most interestingly!) a supposed ancestor of many British monarchs.
108 The Akashic Record is a theosophical term referring to a type of universal filing system that records the entire history of every soul since the dawn of creation. Mentions of these Akashic Records can be found throughout the Old and New Testaments and it is said to be traceable at least as far back as the Assyrians, the Phoenicians, and the Babylonians.
109 King Edward VI died when he was only sixteen years old. He had reigned since the age of nine.
11 “Blair’s Babes” refers to the dozens of female Labour MPs newly elected into the Commons in 1997.
110 http:// www.thc-ministry.org. I wish I were joking.
111 Queen Elizabeth II, like all British sovereigns, is “Defender of the Faith and Supreme Governor of the Church of England.” (But she also formally promotes tolerance and understanding of all other faiths and religions.)
112 England went on to win the Rugby World Cup the very next year. Unfortunately, I was so distracted I don’t remember meeting many of the now quite famous players.
113 Royal titles pass only through the male line, and since Peter is a descendant of Princess Anne, he is not entitled to become an HRH. It is widely believed that the Queen offered to make Peter a prince, but Princess Anne declined the proposal, not wanting her children to be unnecessarily burdened. (Moreover, Peter did not inherit a courtesy title from his father, because Captain Phillips also declined a title from the Queen upon his marriage to Princess Anne.)
12 You can legally drink alcohol at the age of eighteen in the U.K.
13 A year off taken by British students after high school before matriculating into full-time university. Most gap-yea
r students go backpacking around the world or gain work experience.
14 A weird British diminutive used for first names where the first of multiple syllables ends in an r. Hence, Karen becomes Kazza and Jerramy becomes Jezza.
15 In the U.K., biscuit means “cookie”—it does not refer to the buttermilk biscuits you’d find at KFC.
16 One never introduces herself or himself to a royal; one must always wait to be formally presented.
17 Barking: as in “barking mad.” British slang used when the person referred to is so completely insane that he or she resembles a mad dog. Although I think rather unfairly used in this context.