Royal Holiday

by Guillory, Jasmine

  M—Thank you! I’m so glad you’re thrilled for me. It really helps. People keep acting like I made this decision on a whim, but I think this was one of those decisions it took my whole life to realize. Shamefully, I don’t even have any champagne in my house, but I should remedy that ASAP.

  V

  Her eyes landed on his postscript. What in the world could that mean? “Watch the post” could mean anything: A pile of postcards? A letter? A present? She smiled. She could hardly wait to find out.

  She didn’t have to wait long. Two days later, she walked up to her front porch just as a deliveryman left a note on the door.

  “Is that for me?” she asked him.

  “It is if you’re Vivian Forest,” he said. “Sign here.”

  She signed, then grabbed the package and opened her front door. She told herself not to get too excited—it could just be something she’d ordered online and forgotten about. But when she glanced at the postmark and saw it was from London, she let all pretense fall away and used her keys to slit open the package in a hurry.

  The note was the first thing to fall out of the box.

  Vivian—Congratulations again on your decision; I’m so happy for you, and glad I could play a small role in it. I’m sorry I couldn’t break into the V&A and get you the real one; maybe next time. On a serious note: you are a treasure, and I hope this helps you celebrate yourself. I love the joy you find in the world.

  Malcolm

  What could he have sent her? She took a bubble-wrapped object out of the box, and pulled off the layers of bubble wrap. Then she gasped.

  It was the tiara. Obviously not the real one, but a delightful little replica of that tiny sapphire and diamond tiara.

  She put it on top of her head, looked in the mirror, and laughed out loud. She loved it so much. She felt very silly, though—wasn’t she a little too old to be dressing up like a princess? She grinned at herself in the mirror again and shook that off. Who cared how old she was?

  She pulled out her phone and immediately took a selfie. She scrolled through her phone to Malcolm’s name, then hesitated. They hadn’t texted each other since she’d gotten back—all of their contact since she’d waved good-bye on January 1 had been strictly via postcard. Should she open that back up now?

  She looked back at the selfie. She looked really good in that tiara. It would be a shame not to share it.

  And with one click, there it went, whizzing across the continents to him.

  A half second after she sent it, she realized it was the middle of the night in London. Oh well, hopefully her fabulous picture either wouldn’t wake him up or would give him sweet dreams if it did!

  Just then, there was a knock at her door.

  “Hey, Mom, it’s me!”

  Oh, that’s right, Maddie was bringing her a dress for her great-nephew’s christening. She paused on the way to the door. Should she take the tiara off before Maddie came in? Hell no—no one would share her enjoyment about this as much as her daughter would. She ran to the door and opened it.

  Maddie took one look at her and a grin spread across her face.

  “Where did the tiara come from?”

  She turned in a circle to model the tiara.

  “You’re going to get all . . . you about this, but Malcolm sent it to me. We saw the original at a museum when I was in London. I sent him a note when I decided not to apply for the job; he sent this to me so I could celebrate.”

  Maddie’s face was triumphant.

  “Mmmmmmm.” She pursed her lips and her eyes danced. “Malllllcolm sent it to you, hmmmmmm?”

  Vivian laughed and rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t Mmmmmmm me, I’m the queen of Mmmmmmm. There’s nothing to Mmmmmmm about here.”

  Maddie shook her finger at Vivian.

  “I don’t think that’s true! Vivian and Malcolm sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S . . .”

  They were both laughing too hard for Maddie to keep singing. Finally, Vivian caught her breath.

  “Stop it. We’re just friends, okay?”

  Maddie dropped the garment bag she was carrying onto the couch and sat down.

  “No, seriously, Mom. This all seems awfully romantic to me. You send each other notes? He sent you a tiara?” Maddie looked at the flowers in the vase on her counter. “Did he get you those flowers, too?”

  Vivian adjusted her tiara.

  “No, I bought myself the flowers.”

  Maddie’s eyebrows went up.

  “You bought yourself flowers? That’s unlike you, in a good way. Anyway, I think this guy is seriously falling for you.” She stared at Vivian, all mockery gone from her face. “Are you falling for him?”

  Vivian didn’t let her smile flicker.

  “Madeleine. I’m not a ‘falling for a stranger on vacation’ kind of person. You know that.”

  Maddie sighed.

  “I know, I know. I just want you to be happy, Mom.”

  Vivian hugged her daughter.

  “I know you do.”

  But when Maddie left, Vivian sat back down on the couch with a thud.

  She couldn’t be honest with Maddie, but she had to be honest with herself.

  Yes, she was falling for him. Even though she wasn’t a ‘falling for a stranger on vacation’ kind of person. Even though he was over five thousand miles away.

  She thought of the note he’d included with the tiara and smiled to herself. Maddie didn’t know the half of how romantic it had all been. But it wasn’t just the tiara and the notes. It was the way he saw her, for who she was. The way he listened to her. The way he celebrated her.

  Well. She was doing what made her happy now, wasn’t she?

  She poured herself a glass of wine and picked up a pen.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Malcolm pulled into his garage after a long day at work. They were in the midst of plans for Trooping the Colour in June, in addition to monitoring the daily ups and downs of Parliament, and all the other regular government business. Speaking of, a hilarious thing had happened that day in an ambassador’s audience with the Queen that he dearly wanted to tell Vivian about, but it was too sensitive for a postcard.

  She’d texted him that fantastic photo in her tiara last week in the middle of the night, and the next morning, he’d told her how fabulous she looked and how he was glad it looked like she was enjoying her gift, but she hadn’t responded to that. He hadn’t exactly expected her to; the two of them weren’t much for texting. But the tiara picture was a special occasion; maybe his bit of gossip he couldn’t share with anyone else could be one, too?

  When he reached into his mailbox, he felt the corners of the postcard there and smiled. Maybe her postcard would give him another excuse—not excuse; reason, he meant—to text her.

  He walked in the door of his flat and sat down on the couch.

  Malcolm—Thank you for the tiara, and everything you said. Since I made one big leap of faith recently, I’m going to make another one now: I’m falling in love with you. It feels ridiculous to say that—we’ve only known each other for a couple of months, after all. But now you have me thinking about what makes me happy—a dangerous thing to think about!—and I realized one of the answers is you.

  Vivian

  He must have read that too quickly. He must have gotten it wrong. He read the postcard again and dropped it face up on the coffee table.

  This was impossible. Why did she tell him this? What did she expect him to do with this? They lived over five thousand miles away from each other. How was he supposed to handle this?

  He went into his kitchen and poured himself a finger of scotch.

  She couldn’t have fallen in love with him. She liked him a lot, sure; he liked her a lot, too! That’s why his original idea that they visit from time to time and have a fun week of adventure and good food and excellent sex was such a good one!

  Why did she have to spoil everything by bringing emotions into it?

  And no matter what he felt for Vivian, he
couldn’t uproot his life! He was too old for that! He had a job, and a flat, and a car, and a nephew who still needed his guidance. People like him didn’t just do things like “fall in love,” especially not after a Christmastime holiday with a visiting American. The whole idea was ridiculous.

  He dropped a magazine on top of the postcard so he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore.

  Two weeks later

  Malcolm walked into his flat with Miles. They were having one of their old-style weekend days—they’d spent the morning playing tennis and planned to watch a football match later this afternoon. For now: lunch.

  He’d stopped to check the mail on the way into the building, but there was nothing from Vivian. Every day, he hoped he’d get another postcard from her, one that said she’d been joking, she hadn’t meant it, or better yet, pretended she’d never said it in the first place, and was just another one of her funny, warm, heartfelt postcards, and they could continue on like they had been. But it had all been silence.

  He hated that now every time something happened throughout the day that he wanted to tell her, he had to catch himself and remember that he couldn’t. He was angry at himself that life felt so stale, flat, and unprofitable without Vivian to write to and think about and plan for. He still caught himself sometimes; he’d slow down as he walked by postcard racks, searching for one he didn’t already have, before he remembered.

  He wished there was something he could do to make it go back to the way it was.

  He sighed and dropped their sack of sandwiches and crisps on the kitchen counter.

  “Beer?”

  Miles flopped on the couch like he was boneless, in that way teenagers did. From looking at him, you’d think he was completely exhausted, and not like he’d beaten Malcolm in two out of three sets, and had pushed for more.

  “Do you even have to ask?”

  Malcolm laughed and shook his head. He didn’t, as a matter of fact, even have to ask. He opened two bottles and brought them over to the living room, along with the food. And a stack of napkins.

  They turned on the football match and ate while they both looked on and off at their phones, and Miles flipped through one of the magazines on the coffee table. They didn’t say much, but it was a good silence.

  In the past couple of months, they’d talked a lot. He’d asked Miles challenging questions, about what would happen if he failed, about what his backup plan was, about how he would support himself in the years to come. But Miles had had answers, thoughtful answers, to all of those questions. He hadn’t made this decision on a whim; he’d thought a lot of these details through, he knew what the dangers were, and he was ready for them.

  Malcolm’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and shook his head at the news alert, then sighed when he clicked on it and read the whole article. Parliament couldn’t just take a break on the weekends, could they? This was going to make his week much more complicated.

  “What’s this?”

  Malcolm looked up. Miles had Vivian’s postcard in his hand.

  Fuck.

  Malcolm reached for it, but Miles was faster than him. He jumped up and kept reading as Malcolm tried to snatch it away.

  Fuck fuck fuck. Why had he left the postcard on the table in the first place? He knew why—he didn’t want to pick it up and have to see it again, so he’d just left it there and covered it with more and more magazines. When did Miles decide he was so interested in reading magazines that he got to the bottom of that stack?

  Miles grinned at him over the postcard.

  “Go, Vivian! Brilliant, I really liked her. What did you say? You love her, too, don’t you? Is she coming back soon?”

  Malcolm sighed.

  “No.” He looked over at the book Vivian had finished while she was there and left on his end table for him to read. “No, she isn’t.”

  Miles dropped the postcard on the table.

  “No? Why not? Wait.” Miles gave him that superior teenager look he hated. “What did you do? How did you manage to screw this one up? Did you even answer her?”

  Malcolm glared at his nephew.

  “None of this is any of your business. You shouldn’t be reading my private correspondence anyway.”

  Miles rolled his eyes.

  “Well, you shouldn’t be leaving your ‘private correspondence’ around for the whole world to read, especially if it’s on a postcard!” Miles shook his head. “I can’t believe you did this to Vivian. I thought you liked her! You certainly talk about her enough.”

  He wanted to wipe the smirk off the little jerk’s face.

  “I do like her. Unfortunately, I’m an adult, not a teenager. Just liking someone—even loving someone—isn’t enough to change your whole life. She lives in California, I live in London, there’s no future for us. We shouldn’t have gotten this entangled in the first place.”

  Miles sat down next to him.

  “That’s your only reason? Are you forgetting airplanes exist?”

  Malcolm sighed.

  “Miles, it’s not just about the distance; that was only one example. We’re just very different people, and the whole idea is impractical. It’s too risky.”

  Miles laughed.

  “Risky? What are you risking here? Ooh, is it your feelings?”

  He needed to throw his nephew out of his apartment.

  “I told you, this is none of your business.”

  Miles took another sip of beer.

  “So what, then, you’re just going to live the rest of your life knowing that you love her and she loves you but you’re too scared to just go for it?”

  “I’m not scared, and I didn’t say I loved her!” Malcolm said.

  Miles smirked again.

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Malcolm stood up to get another beer. And to get away from this conversation. Miles glanced in his direction, opened his mouth once or twice, but didn’t say anything else.

  For the next hour, Malcolm tried to concentrate on the football match, but instead he stewed about his conversation with Miles. There were plenty of reasons he hadn’t responded to Vivian. He wasn’t scared; he was just practical. They lived in very different places, they had very different careers, she was direct and effusive and chatty; he was the opposite of all of those things, and it would never work between them.

  “You’re right: it’s none of my business,” Miles said out of the blue. “But . . . you’ve said a lot lately about how I should have a baseline of success and respect from the world before following my dreams. But you have that! People respect you more than anyone I know, and instead of taking advantage of that now, it seems like the rest of your life is standing in your own way.” He shrugged. “I just . . . I really liked her.”

  Malcolm sighed.

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  But that was a lie. He knew it was a lot more than that. He just had no idea what to do about it. It all seemed impossible. Too hard, too risky, too complicated. And it might be useless—what if he tried, and it didn’t work out between them, and they’d both sacrificed for no reason? What if she was so angry at him for ignoring her for weeks that she’d realized he wasn’t the person she thought he was?

  But what if it was all worth it?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Vivian had never been one for wallowing. She’d always been in the “let yourself have a good cry and get it all out, then move on to the next thing” camp. At least, that’s the advice she’d always given to Maddie, and to various patients and friends.

  She’d tried hard to take her own advice, over these past three weeks since she’d sent that postcard to Malcolm. But the tears just wouldn’t come.

  They’d hovered, so close she could feel them, ever since she’d dropped that postcard in the mailbox. When she sent it, she’d hoped he’d call her as soon as he got it, time difference or no time difference, to tell her he was falling in love with her, too. She’d thought she had reason to hope; that the tiara was a symbol of how he
felt for her.

  But then she worried she’d read it wrong, and that he might send her a card back to say he had feelings for her, but that their lives were too different and far apart to do anything about how they felt. And of course, at three in the morning, she thought he’d say he’d had a great time with her over the holidays, but love didn’t come into it, or sometimes that he’d send her a postcard and not mention her declaration at all.

  She didn’t, however, think he might just leave her in limbo like this. Forever.

  It had taken her a while to realize that was what he was going to do. For the first week, she’d checked her phone and her mailbox obsessively. After a week had gone by, she’d gotten worried, that maybe something was wrong, that something had happened to him. But no, that was the useful thing about him being an actual public figure—she’d googled him, and everything seemed fine. Then she wondered if he’d never gotten her card at all, and that’s why he hadn’t responded to it. But she’d rejected that idea; he would have kept writing to her if that had been the case. No, this silence seemed pointed.

  She’d thought he was better than this.

  She knew she deserved better than this.

  At least she was glad he’d helped her realize how much she loved her job. She was still the interim director until they hired someone permanently, but she’d gotten called in to deal with a tricky case earlier that week, one that had made her proud of the work she’d done, and happy she’d get to go back to that work full-time soon. She’d helped a family deal with the aftermath of a car accident, navigated the various services that applied to them, and repaired a few relationships between family members on the way. She didn’t flatter herself that those relationships would stay repaired forever, but at least it was a step, and the whole family had seemed genuinely grateful to her for her work with them. The teenage patient had been released that day, and she hoped he’d come back to visit, in maybe a few months, or a year, and let her know how he and his family were all doing.

  She knew she was doing the right thing, she knew she was in the right place, she knew she’d made the right decision about that job. This was her talent, this was her skill, this was what she loved to do.