“Sometimes it’s the same thing.”
She laughs, bells tinkling. A half dozen set of eyes use the sound as an excuse to focus on her, but not my brother, the future king.
“Blair,” my mother sweeps in, smiling. “Let me introduce you. It’s been a while since you were at a dinner like this.”
It hasn’t been long enough.
Six weeks in Australia, four weeks in America. Ten weeks away. Meeting people, opening hospitals, schools, visiting charities, hospices, meeting dignitaries. All with a smile on my face and gracious words even when I was crippled with period pain or struggling with a migraine, because I didn’t have the right to feel like that. Princesses didn’t bleed or throw up or fuck or scream.
We work the room. I meet politicians and advisors, titled gentry, business owners. People whose own personal wealth depends on the matrimonial settlement between two countries who were together for so long.
There’s a man with brown hair that falls over his face as if he’s forgotten to style it. His eyes are blue and small, his cheekbones sculpted. He should be attractive but he’s not.
He holds out his hand. “I’m William.”
I know who he is. The world knows who he is.
“Blair.” I take his hand.
“I think I’m supposed to bow or something.”
“Curtsying would be far more humorous.” I said that to a man once and he did.
William laughs. “I’d probably fall over. More than likely I’d knock you over. Imagine what the press would say about that. ‘Prime Minister fells Scotland’s princess.’”
Because he’s the new Prime Minister of England, recently chosen by his party to lead his country forward. Forward into what, no one knows.
“You can keep your curtsy then.” I smile, the sweetly knowing smile my mother taught me when I was eight.
He gives me a nod. “I hear you spent some time in Cuba. How did you find it?”
He’s been briefed, just like every other statesman in the room. I’m not the heir to the throne, I have no influence, so unlike Lennox and my father, I don’t need to be wooed with impassioned speeches and quiet affiliations.
“Cuba was beautiful.” Standard response. “The culture is superb.” And the men were talented in more than just dancing.
“How long did you spend there?”
He knows the answer to this.
“Not long enough.” The nights in Havana had been cloaked in music and steam, the people not knowing who I was so I could be eaten by the crowds and meet a man who thought I was just another blonde on vacation, looking for an easy fuck.
“You’d like to go back?”
Tomorrow. But that isn’t in my diary, which is planned for the next eighteen months. Maybe longer.
“Hopefully. I spent some time in the schools there. It would be nice to go back and see how the children I met are faring.”
William smiles and nods. Asks more questions and I smile and nod back. He’s the youngest Prime Minister to lead England, not yet forty. He’s been linked with models, actresses, all very discreet of course, and well-chosen. A game of political chess.
“How are you finding your new job?”
His smile is genuine. Flustered. He pushes a hand through his hair.
“It’sdifficult.”
My laugh is quiet and real. “Did you expect anything less?”
He shakes his head. “No. I didn’t.” Then there is the smile that I know is rehearsed, one for the ladies and the men who prefer their partners with biceps and pecs.
