My Best Friend's Royal Wedding

by Romy Sommer

  Adam and I hang back, allowing the crowds and the photographers to have their moment. Max kisses Phoenix, sweeping her into a graceful choreographed backbend. She’s laughing when they break their kiss.

  The soldiers lining the stairs raise their bayonets, or whatever they are, and suddenly there’s a bang, and gold glitter rains down over the royal couple. Phoenix does a double-take, the crowd explodes, but Max is laughing. I can’t help it. I start giggling too.

  This wasn’t on the official schedule, but it’s the perfect touch. Glitter guns, just like we had in that Vegas chapel, except then it was Calvin and me firing glitter all over the newlyweds.

  Phoenix shoves Max with her shoulder and she’s laughing too, and I can’t imagine what photographs are going to make the front pages of tomorrow’s newspapers, with the bride and groom both in stitches. The flower girls and page boys flock around to see what the excitement is all about, while the ushers try ineffectively to marshal them back into line.

  I struggle to get my giggles back under control, and Adam looks at me, bewildered.

  “Inside joke,” I say as we step out the doors and follow the bridal couple down the stairs.

  Max leads his bride down to the waiting carriage, the same open landau he and Adam arrived in. They drive off, waving to the crowds, and the Rolls-Royce Phantom pulls up in its place.

  Adam holds my hand as we walk down the stairs to where an officer is holding the car door open for us. He doesn’t let go as he did yesterday when we emerged from the city hall. He doesn’t let go until we’re seated and the door is closed, and I pull my hand out of his so I can strip off my heels.

  “Ah, that’s better!” I stretch my cramped toes, and Adam smiles. My insides turn to jello.

  We wave to the crowds as the car slowly makes its way down the long avenue of flag-waving spectators, and no one outside the car would know that inside our fingers are again entwined.

  Surely any moment now I’ll wake up.

  Chapter 21

  Adam

  Khara no longer seems to be mad at me. I have no idea what changed, but the temptation she offers is irresistible. I’m like a runaway train, storming down the tracks, knowing that the light up ahead isn’t the end of the tunnel but an imminent train wreck. I don’t think I can stop it. I don’t want to stop it.

  But I can’t manage to get a moment alone with her either.

  The bridal party, including Max’s brothers and their wives, his grandparents and a whole bunch of extended family, gather on the balcony outside the Yellow Drawing Room, the same balcony where Khara and I had our fight last night. Our first fight and we haven’t even had sex together – yet. That’s something of a novelty for me.

  While we wave to the crowds that have gathered in the palace forecourt, I have to be on my best behaviour. I can’t touch her, can’t even hold her hand, though the temptation to put my hands all over her is overwhelming. Especially when I catch a glimpse of the trainers peeking out beneath the hem of her bridesmaid dress. Who’d have thought a pair of ordinary trainers could get my heart thumping like a jackhammer?

  The balcony appearance seems to go on forever, though in truth it’s probably not much more than twenty minutes. All this posing and pageantry is new to me. Erdély’s way more relaxed. In all my years as the grandson of the Fürst, or hanging out with Nick, I’ve never once witnessed this kind of rabid attention. Admittedly, maybe that’s because I haven’t been there since I was a kid. Will I be greeted there with flag-waving fans, with angry protestors or with indifference? I’ll find out tomorrow.

  After the balcony appearance, we gather in the private drawing room for the official photographs, with the same photographer who took Khara’s portrait pictures. There are hair and make-up artists on hand to ensure we look our best for the pictures. The attention to detail is mind-blowing; Claus deserves a knighthood for putting this wedding together.

  Then, just when I think I can get a moment alone with Khara, she’s whisked off on bridesmaid duties, she and Phoenix disappearing up to the private apartments to change outfits.

  The pre-reception drinks for today’s event are on the Orangery Terrace. The Orangery is a long conservatory at the rear of the palace which opens onto the formal garden. With its skylights and wall of French windows, the room is flooded with late afternoon sunlight. I stride between the round tables, set ready for the informal dinner that will take place before the ball, and head to the terrace where Champagne is being served.

  Years of training kick in. Armed with a glass of Champagne, I circulate among the three hundred plus guests who’ve been invited to the reception, greeting old school friends, polo friends, diplomats, business moguls, celebrities, aristocrats and royals. And yes, I know and have met almost all of them at similar events over the years. I smile as I think of the game Khara and I played in Chantilly, when she tested my knowledge of the guests. Given the chance to attend a few more of these functions, she’d probably get to know most of them too.

  Most of my extended family are here, even Mátyás, though I go out of my way to avoid him. I don’t think that’s cowardly; it’s strategic. It’s while I’m avoiding him that I bump into Jemmy.

  “Hey, bro!” She greets me with a hug and a kiss. “I hear you’ve been keeping busy?”

  “Am I the only one in this family who doesn’t have access to some top secret intelligence network?”

  She laughs, linking her arm through mine. “Mum told me you’ve been working with Max. Does that mean you’re seriously considering becoming crown prince?”

  “I promised her I’d consider it. I’m travelling to Erdély tomorrow to check the place out.”

  “How does the bridesmaid feel about that?”

  I stop walking to look at her. “Did Mum tell you that too?”

  Jemmy grins. “Nope, the morning papers did.”

  “What?”

  “This morning’s cover photo in the local papers was of Max and Phoenix on the steps of the city hall. And there, in the background, probably only recognisable to those of us who know you, you and the bridesmaid are holding hands.”

  “Her name is Khara.”

  She looks at me strangely. “You usually don’t bother with their names. It’s their bra size that interests you.”

  I drop her arm and glare at her. “I am not that shallow.”

  She arches an eyebrow.

  “Okay, I was that shallow. But I’m trying to be a better person.” Or at least I was until Khara looked at me in the cathedral today as if I was the last drink of water on a hot day in the desert.

  “If she’s Phoenix’s friend, I’m going to assume she’s not your usual type. Just be careful with her, okay?”

  “She’s not a gold-digger.”

  “I didn’t mean you should be careful about her hurting you. I meant you should be careful you don’t hurt her. Have you considered what it will do to your friendship with Max and Phoenix if you break her heart?”

  Nope. I rub my head. Doing the right thing stinks.

  But I’m not sure I can walk away from Khara now. I’ve waited more than two weeks to see that invitation in her eyes, and now that it’s there I’m probably going to prove her right, that I am just as big a douche as she always thought me.

  Jemmy shakes her head as if she can read my mind. “I’m not saying you can’t have something with her, just that maybe you need to rethink your usual MO of being a bastard afterwards.”

  “It’s not like I try to be a bastard.”

  She grins. “So it just comes naturally to you? Your problem is that when you see something you want, you go after it like a heat-seeking missile. But once you’ve got it, you lose interest. Clients, cars, women. Just once, why don’t you try seeing something through? At the very least, please promise me you’ll be careful with this one?”

  “What is it with everyone in this family wanting me to make promises?”

  Jemmy doesn’t back down. She holds my gaze, and I’m the one to look away fir
st. “Fine. I promise I’ll try not to be a bastard.” I’m just not sure how. I haven’t had much practice at it. “But don’t get your hopes up. This isn’t going anywhere. I’m leaving tomorrow. And in less than a week she flies back to the States.”

  “For someone as bright as you are, you can be really dumb sometimes. There’s always another option.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “You know, you and she have a lot in common. You both give me a hard time.”

  She laughs and links her arm through mine again. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

  ***

  The dinner seating plan is a work of genius. There is no head table at this dinner, and seating at the round tables has been determined not by rank but with an eye to everyone’s enjoyment. I’m seated at a table with a Middle Eastern sheikh I was at school with and his Oxford-educated wife, the head of the European winegrowers association, and one of Max’s cousins and her German prince husband, both of whom work in mountain rescue. Ours is a lively table, and the only thing missing is a certain mermaid-haired waitress. Want to guess where she’s seated? Next to my sister.

  They don’t seem to stop talking. I would give anything to overhear that conversation. Or at least to be able to moderate it. Who knows what nonsense my sister is filling Khara’s head with?

  Khara has changed out of the body-hugging ankle-length bridesmaid dress, into a shorter, flirtier cocktail dress in the same shade of royal blue, the same colour as her hair and her eyes. She no longer wears the crown of flowers and tendrils of hair have started to escape her fancy updo. My gaze keeps drifting back to her, no matter how hard I try, as if she exerts a gravitational pull on me.

  The dinner itself is a modest four courses: soup, starter, main and dessert, and the portions are far more generous than most official banquets. My constant glances reassure me that Khara looks poised and at ease. She’s fitting in beautifully. Better than that, she looks like she’s having a good time.

  My chest tightens, and it takes me a moment to identify the baffling feeling. It’s pride. And possessiveness.

  Neither are emotions I’ve felt towards any woman before.

  What makes her so different from other women? On the surface, she’s no different from a million other women, apart perhaps from her aversion to men with money. Am I only drawn to her because she’s the one in a million who hasn’t fallen at my feet?

  Then Sayid says my name, drawing my attention back to my own table.

  Once the last of the plates have been cleared away, it’s time for the speeches. The newly elected Prime Minister makes a surprisingly heartfelt tribute for a politician – and a mercifully short one. Then it’s Phoenix’s turn. God, this woman is amazing; if she had a clone, I’d marry her. Her entire speech is in the local Westerwald dialect, and the translation is shown in three languages up on the two large screens.

  “The day I met Max, I knew he was someone special. I knew he was someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. What I didn’t know was that marrying him was going to take me on the biggest adventure of my life. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that this was what our future would hold.” She sweeps her arm to take in the room filled with beautiful, glittering people, royalty, celebrities, diplomats and senior government officials from across Europe. “But even if I were to wake up tomorrow and discover that all of this was just a dream, Max is still the man I’d choose to marry.” She turns to her new husband and blows him a kiss. “I love you more every day, Max.”

  When Max stands to talk, he has to clear his throat to speak. “If I look overcome with emotion, it’s because I am. I am a very happy man today, and I have to thank my wife for that.” He looks out into the distance, as if making eye contact would be more than he can handle in this moment. “Years ago, my father told me something I’ve never forgotten. He said that I’d know when I meet the right person for me because it would be the person I love in the same way I want to be loved. The day I met Phoenix I knew she was my person, because I wanted her to be loved and happy more than I wanted to be loved or happy.”

  There’s hardly a dry eye in the room when he’s finished, though luckily they’re mostly tears of laughter.

  Unlike the British weddings I’m used to, the cake isn’t cut before we dance. That ritual only happens at midnight so, when his speech is done, Max invites us to move to the ballroom. My pulse kicks up a notch as the guests move across the domed vestibule to the ballroom. Tonight, this room looks nothing like the empty, cavernous space where I taught Khara to dance. The room glitters with the light of a thousand tiny fairy lights and the heavy scent of flowers fills the air. I move through the crowd, just like that heat-seeking missile my sister called me.

  Khara and Jemmy still have their heads bent together.

  “Don’t believe anything she tells you,” I say as I come up behind them.

  Khara blushes, but Jemmy just grins.

  “Ready for our moment of glory?” I ask Khara.

  “No. But maybe I’ll get lucky and twist my ankle or something on the way to the dance floor, and be spared the humiliation.”

  “You’ll be great. After all, I taught you.”

  Jemmy rolls her eyes. “You’re both doomed then.”

  “Ha ha.” I turn to Khara. “Remind me to tell you the story about the time my sweet little sister gate-crashed her ex-boyfriend’s wedding.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Jemmy smacks my arm. Hard.

  The evening’s entertainment is as unusual as the bride and groom: it’s a famous American rock band Phoenix knows from her days on the road with her musician father. The bride and groom take their places in the centre of the dance floor, and the crowd forms a wide circle around them. The music starts, a chart-topping rock ballad from our youth, and Max and Phoenix start to move, eyes only for each other. Even a cynical heart like mine can’t help but be moved.

  When the song ends I hold my hand out to Khara. She places her hand in mine and I lead her out onto the dance floor to join the bride and groom. The next song is another of the band’s most famous hits, but they’ve slowed the tempo into a romantic rumba. I turn Khara into my arms with a little spin and place one hand on her waist, holding her other. “Remember: keep looking at me. Don’t look at your feet. I’ve got you.”

  I lead her into the steps, our thighs and hips brushing as we sway together through the dance. She keeps her gaze on my face, and I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to.

  I’ll admit, I’ve seduced a lot of women, and I’ve been seduced. I’ve danced in far more romantic settings; I’ve practically made love to a woman on a dance floor. But no moment I’ve ever experienced is as sensual as this one, or as all-consuming. The slide of her silk dress beneath my fingers, her subtle rose perfume, her pupils so dilated they’re like pools of ink, and the rise and fall of her breasts as we glide together. I’m barely aware of the other couples on the dance floor: Max and his mother, Phoenix and Max’s grandfather.

  I only realise the song is over when applause breaks through the bubble that seems to surround us.

  We stop moving and I lean close to whisper in her ear. “I want you.”

  “Yes.” Her breath is warm against my cheek.

  Then she spins away with a soft laugh, holding her hands out to Max’s grandfather. With a sigh, I remember my own duty and move to dance with Anna. This time as we dance, a more sedate foxtrot, I’m barely aware of my partner. I’m just going through the motions, my entire awareness focused on Khara, who looks so confident and so poised with the old man that I think she’d win the glitter ball if this were Strictly.

  Other couples are joining us on the dance floor now. “Go claim your girl.” Anna laughs, releasing me.

  But it’s not as easy as that.

  This is a royal ball, after all, and there are people who want a piece of me. A piece of Khara too, it seems. Over the shoulder of the Crown Prince of Norway, I see her dancing with Mateo, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to be r
ude and cut short our conversation so I can interrupt their dance.

  I manage to smile and make polite conversation to any number of dignitaries, before my mother rescues me and insists I dance with her. “Lajos tells me you’re going to Erdély tomorrow,” she says, not wasting time on small talk as we circle the dance floor. I merely nod, too busy searching the ballroom for Khara. I finally spot her by the bar with the lead singer of the rock band.

  “I’m very proud of you,” my mother says softly.

  I flick my attention back to her.

  “I know this isn’t an easy decision, and I know what we’re asking you to give up, but I’m proud of you for making the effort and for at least considering Lajos’ offer. Whatever you decide, we’ll support you.”

  “Dad too?”

  “Him too.” She sighs. “We just want you to be happy.”

  By midnight, I can safely say that I’ve done my bit as the dutiful son and potential heir. I’ve talked to so many people that I haven’t had much time to either dance or drink. This might be the first wedding I’ve attended since I turned eighteen at which I haven’t been drunk by this time.

  The DJ who replaced the band some time ago stops the music, the dancing ceases, and we all gather around the cake which is carried to the edge of the dance floor by two liveried footmen. Together, Max and Phoenix cut the towering croquembouche cake with a ceremonial sword, though it’s more for show, since the creation of puff pastry balls is held together by nothing more than a delicate web of spun caramel threads.

  They feed each other cake, then the footmen start to serve the guests. With this important ritual over, the ballroom gradually empties as many of the older guests leave, and I finally get a moment alone. I take a seat at an empty table, helping myself to the remnants of the bottle of Cristal, and watch Khara twirl around the dance floor with a famous American stock car racer, looking every bit as if she’s having the time of her life. She’s lost her shoes and dances barefoot, and that possessive feeling is back, holding me in its vice grip.