My Best Friend's Royal Wedding

by Romy Sommer

  When I step into the state dining room, Khara is already there, haloed in the pool of sunlight falling through the tall windows. The long table has been set with just two places and the butler hovers nearby. He nods at my approach, confirming everything has been arranged as I requested. I take the seat opposite Khara and she sets aside the book she was reading, a dog-eared Faye Kellerman mystery. She has changed back into her jeans and sweater, and somehow looks younger and more fragile in her casual clothes with her damp hair loose.

  Lunch is not so much a meal as a lesson. I hadn’t realised just how many ‘don’ts’ I’m hemmed in by until I start to teach them to her. There’s all the usual stuff: take small bites, don’t talk with your mouth full, don’t lean your elbows on the table, don’t cut bread rolls but rather break them with your fingers, don’t hold your knife like a pen. And then there’s a whole bunch of other unspoken rules that are completely outdated but woe betide anyone who ignores them, like following the host’s pace to eat, never handling the plates or serving dishes, standing every time the hostess or guest of honour stands, making conversation with the person seated to my right during the first course, then alternating with the person on my left for the next course, and so on. I’m only just beginning to understand how excruciating last night’s dinner must have felt for Khara.

  “What was with the tiny portions they served?” she asks. “And I used to think our hotel restaurant served small portions!”

  “Formal dinners are more about the social interaction than about eating,” I explain. “Since eating and drinking get in the way of making conversation, the courses are more an excuse for people to be there than for sustenance. That’s why you should never come hungry to a banquet or dinner party.”

  It’s clear she’s trying very hard not to roll her eyes, and I completely agree. Though for me it’s not the food that’s in short supply. There’s never enough alcohol served at these shindigs for my tastes. When you spend over an hour making polite conversation with a dowager whose sole preoccupation is her latest charity fundraiser to benefit people she’s most likely never come within spitting distance of, a half glass of wine per course just doesn’t cut it. You don’t want to know some of the conversations I’ve endured in the interest of being polite and engaging.

  ***

  That night, over a quiet dinner with Max and Phoenix in their apartment, we teach Khara how to shake hands and how to curtsey, the correct way to air kiss (but never hug – that’s too informal), and how to address titled guests. As we’re served coffee and a cheese platter, Max explains the complicated seating arrangements and order of precedence at formal dinners.

  Khara turns a thoughtful frown on me. “So when the protocol secretary wanted to seat you closer to Max’s end of the table, it must mean you’re pretty important?”

  Both Max and Phoenix stay quiet, watching us. I avoid their gazes. “I’m not really important, but my mother is,” I hedge.

  Max’s eyebrow arches and I can practically hear his speculation. He’s wondering why I’m not being more forthcoming. But I learned enough about Khara today to know that while she somehow doesn’t hold Max’s title and wealth against him, in me she sees those same qualities as a major personality defect. Heaven only knows what I did to deserve that prejudice. And, far from impressing her, as it would other women, the revelation that my mother’s a princess is more likely to send Khara running than impress her.

  And I don’t want her to run. Not yet. Despite the way she makes me feel hot and desperate and uncivilised, despite the fact that whatever is stirring between us is far more complicated than I’m prepared for, I don’t want this to end.

  She’s not shallow, she’s not easy, but I want her more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time.

  And it feels so good to want something again.

  So I behave like the perfect gentleman all through dinner, treating Khara the same way I treat my sister, the same way I treat Phoenix. Max’s sidelong glances, as if he’s waiting for me to step out of line, are insulting. He should know me better. I may be a cad, but I’m also my mother’s son. I know how to behave in any social situation, I know how to do what is expected of me. And I know how to seduce a woman, even if I haven’t had to do it in a while.

  When we finally rise from the table and I offer to walk Khara back to her room, Max sends me one of his sidelong glances. “There’s the move I was waiting for,” he mutters smugly.

  I don’t deign to give him an answer.

  Like the gentleman my mother raised, I say a polite goodnight to her at her bedroom door, careful to keep a safe distance between us, to avoid all temptation. But by the time I reach my own room at the far end of the corridor I could really use a drink, something much stronger than the dry, fruity local wine Max served during dinner.

  It’s only when I’m sipping on a Scotch, looking out at the city lights, that I realise with a jolt that I haven’t thought of Charlie or the memorial dedication all day. I raise my glass in a silent toast.

  ***

  I’m woken by a sharp rap on the door. Coffee.

  But it’s not a palace servant with my coffee. When I open the door, dressed only in my boxer shorts, it’s Max.

  “Good morning!” He sounds way too chipper for this hour of the day.

  “Don’t you have better things to do than provide wake-up calls for your guests?” I ask grumpily, roughing up my hair in an attempt to get the blood flowing to my sleep-deprived brain.

  “I didn’t want you to miss our meeting.”

  “What meeting?” I shut the door and trail behind him to the sitting area of the room. God, I could kill for caffeine.

  “You promised me financial advice in return for bed and board, remember? This morning we’re meeting with the finance steering committee to discuss how to improve public sector efficiency.”

  “Sounds thrilling.” I move to the table in the corner of the room, where there’s a kettle and mugs. It’s only instant coffee, but it will have to do. When the kettle boils, I make two cups and carry them across to the sitting area, where I hand one to Max. He looks insultingly wide awake and put together. If I were to accept Uncle Lajos’ offer, would I also have to get up early and look as if I’ve just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue? Because I can’t do it.

  I flop down on the sofa and drink the coffee as quickly as I can without scalding my tongue. “Though it breaks my heart to turn down such a tempting invitation, I have better things to do today.”

  “If those ‘better things’ include Khara’s etiquette lessons, you’re off the hook. The ladies have their spa day today, remember?”

  Damn. Now I have no other ready excuse to get out of what is likely to be a very dull meeting. A suspicion forms in my mind. “Did my sister put you up to this?”

  Because it would be just like Jemmy to recruit Max to both keep an eye on me and speed up my decision. Not that I’ve given Erdély or my uncle much thought since I met Khara. I suppress a twinge of guilt.

  “No, you did. You said your decision was easy because you don’t want to think about anyone but yourself. I figured you needed to see the flip side of that: the difference you can make in other people’s lives.”

  I don’t bother to respond. He’s wasting his time. I’m not going to swap one deadly dull job, which at least offers me the perk of skiving off whenever I can, for another deadly dull job. Even if it’s the noble thing to do.

  Max empties his coffee mug and stretches as he rises from the armchair. “Get dressed. You’ll give my Minister of Finance a heart attack if you show up in boxers. I’ll be waiting downstairs for you in my office. You remember where that is?”

  I nod.

  Twenty minutes later, showered, shaved and dressed, I walk into Max’s office. It’s a spacious high-ceilinged room with tall sash windows that overlook the woodland area of the gardens. Aside from the view outside the window, it looks a lot like my corner office in London. His assistant brings us pastries and proper
bean coffee, and I sip gratefully as I read the report Max gives me, on the increasing gap in fiscal sustainability, with population growth and increased welfare spending driving up government debt.

  The finance meeting is held in the adjacent cabinet room, and isn’t as boring as I thought it would be. The challenges the committee faces aren’t that different from those faced by many of our company’s clients, but the stakes are so much higher, affecting way more than just shareholder profits. If the government doesn’t make its spending more efficient, social services will need to be cut. Real people’s lives will be affected.

  When we leave the meeting five hours later, with some workable suggestions in place, I have to admit I feel a deeper sense of satisfaction than I’ve felt in a very long time. Not that I’ll admit to it.

  “Was that so bad?” Max asks smugly as we grab a quick sandwich in his office.

  “You got my expertise for free,” I grumble. “Do you really need me to like it too?”

  He laughs.

  The afternoon is no less intense. We sit through an environmental policy meeting to discuss preventing water pollution through pesticide and fertiliser run-off. There are two clear factions in this meeting, those in favour of stricter environmental controls, and those who want to protect business interests. The meeting gets heated and I admire how Max soothes, suggests and seduces the opposing factions into hammering out an agreement. Without ever appearing to pick sides, he steers the meeting towards greater environmental protections, which I happen to know is his personal mission.

  It’s not unlike schmoozing clients and though this topic is widely outside my area of expertise I find myself absorbed. Four hours later, with the beginnings of a new policy in place, Max and I are at last alone. His assistant leaves for the day and Max pulls a bottle of Scotch and two crystal tumblers from his desk. “I think we earned this,” he says, pouring generous shots into each glass.

  “I didn’t realise your job was so hands-on.” I take a sip. It’s damn fine whisky, but what else would one expect from a man who used to make wine for a living? This new job is so far away from his old life in California, and I wonder if he misses it, if he regrets having taken on this responsibility.

  Max shrugs. “I can’t enact any changes without parliament counter-signing, but all new policy and legislation has to pass through this office. I do what I can. Since I don’t have to follow a party agenda or worry about my political career, I can focus solely on this country’s future. That’s what makes our system of government work.” He leans back in his chair, cradling his glass. “Our constitution is very similar to Erdély’s.”

  I should probably know that. But I’ve never read Erdély’s constitution.

  “And you do this every day?” I ask.

  “Not every day, thank heavens. I get time off for good behaviour. Tonight’s the bachelor party, and I thought tomorrow we could head to the polo match a day early. Take the ladies on a slow drive into France, and stop in at a few vineyards along the way.”

  Now that sounds more like my idea of fun. “As long as someone else is doing the driving.” I plan to have a massive hangover tomorrow.

  Chapter 12

  Adam

  When we set out on our little road trip I’m nowhere near as hungover as I’d like to be.

  Firstly, because Max’s bachelor party was so tame we might as well not have bothered (yet more proof, if I needed it, that being royal is deadly dull), but more importantly because I’m sharing the back seat with Khara. And because she’s wearing another of those cropped tank tops that flashes tanned skin at me. My fingers itch to reach out and touch, to find out if her skin is as soft as it looks.

  So I lounge in the rear of Max’s luxury SUV, pretending to sleep behind my sunglasses, but I’m aware of every movement she makes, aware of her subtle perfume, a light rose scent that reminds me of my mother’s garden on a summer evening, when the sun pricks out the fragile scents.

  Max drives and Phoenix is seated beside him, turned in her seat to chat to her friend. If I didn’t know there was a car full of Max’s security people trailing behind us, this would almost feel like the road trip across Europe Charlie and I did the summer after we graduated. I try not to remember those times too often, but I allow myself a wry smile at the memory.

  Khara flashes me a glance when I smile, as if she’s as in tune with my every move as I am with hers.

  Once we’re clear of the city, the road winds along the Wester River, up into the southern hills of Westerwald, where the slopes are dotted with vines. Khara’s excitement as she gapes at the view through the windows is contagious. I give up my pretence of sleep and listen as Max, proud monarch that he is, tells us all about the landmarks and his country’s history. Perhaps that’s why we became good friends; it’s not just a shared love of polo and parties and fine Scotch, but the fact that we were both raised on folk tales and history. And we’re both pretty good at hiding that geekiness.

  Mid-morning, we stop at our first vineyard. The farmhouse looks like a small chateau, a long low double-storey building with half-timbered architecture and a grey-tiled mansard roof. It’s too early in the day for wine, even for me, and it’s soon apparent that Max isn’t here to sample the produce but to talk shop with the winemaker. While he and Phoenix tour the cellar with the owner, Khara and I wait on the terrace that overlooks the steep-sided river valley and sip on strong German coffee.

  “How was your spa day?” I ask in an attempt to make polite, civilised conversation.

  “Weird.”

  Not the answer I expected. I raise an eyebrow.

  “You don’t really want to know, because any honest answer is probably going to be on the list of forbidden topics.”

  I grin. “Now I really want to know.”

  She sips her coffee, looking out at the view rather than at me. “They do this thing called a body exfoliation, where a complete stranger rubs body scrub all over you while you’re practically naked. After you shower the scrub off, the same person then rubs lotion all over your body. And I mean all.”

  She’s just described every one of my fantasies, except that when I imagined her naked in a shower, I imagined my hands all over her.

  She catches my eye and sends me a withering look, as if she can read my X-rated thoughts. “Where I come from, they have a word for that – and it comes with a jail sentence if you’re caught taking money for it.”

  I laugh. “You Americans are such prudes about your bodies.”

  She bristles, indignant. “That’s what the beauty therapist said when I didn’t want to strip off my bra.”

  “I would have paid good money to see that.” My grin may be cheeky, but my voice comes out a little rough. She sends me another look that could cut through steel.

  “But wasn’t it worth it?”

  “I guess. The facial wasn’t bad. My skin does feel softer and fresher.”

  “You sound surprised. Surely you’ve had facials before?” Even my workaholic sister has a facial every few weeks.

  She shrugs. “I had one once when I was in my teens and my mother worked at a beauty shop. She got staff discount, but after she changed jobs it wasn’t worth it any more.”

  The drive from Neustadt to the polo ground in Chantilly is only four hours, but it takes us the better part of the day as we stop in at another half dozen vineyards before we even cross the border from Westerwald into France. I listen in on some of Max’s conversations with the winemakers. Mostly, the discussions revolve around marketing Westerwald’s wine produce globally, but Max also encourages the winemakers to introduce new grape varietals rather than sticking to the usual Riesling grapes.

  I wonder fleetingly if Erdély has any vineyards, and whether Uncle Lajos visits his farmers.

  Once we’re across the border, we hit the Eastern autoroute and make up time. Max is still driving, but I’m in the shotgun seat now so the ladies can chatter in the back. I mess with Max’s GPS, changing the accent of the voice every few mi
les, but it’s just an excuse so I can eavesdrop on the conversation in the back seat. They talk about climate change, legislation affecting women’s rights, and the books they’ve read recently. For a barmaid, Khara is surprisingly well read. Or maybe a lot of barmaids are well read. Truth is, I’ve never stopped long enough to chat to any; I’ve always been rather preoccupied with other things. Like getting them into bed. That’s an uncomfortable realisation.

  I also discover that Khara is very fond of her brother, who she mentions at least three times, and not so fond of her mother who, according to an overexcited text she receives while we’re circling around Soissons, has just started a new job as a receptionist in a GP’s office. I gather her mother frequently starts new jobs.

  The downside of getting to understand her better is that it’s hard to think of her as just another woman to shag. This is why I prefer not to talk to women. It’s easier to walk away in the morning when you don’t know anything about them beyond their bra size. Another uncomfortable thought.

  No wonder Khara looks at me like she doesn’t much like what she sees. I’m starting to not much like what I see either. And that niggling fear is back.

  Less than an hour north of Paris lies the elegant old town of Chantilly. Though it’s better known for its horse racing and its imposing, heavily renovated chateau, on a large farm carved out of the ancient royal forest is the polo club. Max and I drop the ladies at the hotel on the edge of town, then drive on to the club to check on our ponies. They’re already settled in their stables by the time we get there and I make a fuss of Bonney, feeding her carrots and even sneaking her a sugar lump when the groom’s back is turned. We take the ponies out for a quick run and the exhilaration of being back in the saddle, with the wind in my face, wipes away all my disturbing thoughts. It’s hard to think too much when Bonney and I are flying.

  Max is smiling too when we return to the stables, though for him that’s a default expression. I bet he’s never had to face the unwelcome realisation that he’s a much shittier person than he thought he was.