“Yeah, I am.”
“Could it be that being a working royal is beginning to grow on you?”
“Maybe? I don’t know.” I stare at my hands, folded on my lap. “All I can say is that right now, I don’thateit.”
I had it in my head that each appearance I made would involve making speeches in front of hundreds of people and posing for photographs for the press, but as I’ve come to find out, that’s not it at all. Most of my appearances have been low-key, without much press, save the palace photographer.
The people I speak to are usually families with children who live in the local village or community. They’re easy to talk to, like when I’m speaking to Angela or Art. I don’t have to put on an act and pretend to be Princess Alice. I can just be me.
“I’m so confused. If you were me, Art, what would you do?”
“It’s not really my place to say anything.”
“Art,” I whine. “I thought we were past this. I’m asking you as a friend for advice.Pleasetell me what you think I should do.”
“Do you really want to know what I think?” He chuckles.
“Yes,” I huff.
“If I were you, I’d finish off your public appearances for this week, then take the weekend and have a long, hard think, weighing out all the pros and cons. Make next week your deadline for how you want your schedule to look during the school year. It’ll just get more difficult the longer you put everything off.”
Yet again, Art’s right. The longer I postpone speaking to my parents, the bigger the proverbial elephant in the room becomes.
“Does that help?” He glances back at me.
“Yes. It does. Thanks.”
Art turns down a busy road. One side of the street contains railroad tracks, and the other side is lined with three-story, red-bricked buildings. Working his magic, he squeezes past a double-decker bus and parks in a spot under a billboard advertising a storage unit. It looks like we’re in a residential area.
“Where are we?”
“Queenstown Road on the edge of Battersea.”
“Interesting location for a date. What do you have planned?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
Frustratingly, his tone gives nothing away. He steps out his car door and jogs around the vehicle to open mine. It’s noisy. All I can hear is the sound of cars honking and trains passing over the tracks, their wheels letting out a high-pitched squeak. He points to a shop that says Corner Café.
“We’re getting coffee?”
“Nope, our destination is the first floor of the building.”
We enter a side alley, squeeze past the shop’s rubbish bins, and ascend two flights of narrow steps. Removing a set of keys from his pocket, Art inserts them into the first door on the right and unlocks it. The moment the door opens, a flash of orange darts past us.
“Darn it. There goes Peppermint.” He groans. “Wait inside, Ali, I’ll be right back.” He doesn’t wait for an answer as he rushes down the hall.
I enter the room. My pulse beats with a steady staccato drum. I’m in Art’s domain. He’s brought me to his flat. He’s always joked about living in a tiny place and he wasn’t kidding. Everything in this room is compact and minimal. A single bed occupies the space under a small window. On top of the covers, a black-and-white cat is curled up tightly, asleep. I smile—that must be Cinnamon.
As I turn my gaze to the wall on the right, I see the kitchen setup. There’s a miniature refrigerator, a microwave, a sink, and a half-sized oven. The only cabinet is stark white. Tucked into the space under the sink is a rolling cart that contains a few dishes and utensils. I’m guessing that must be Art’s dining table too, because aside from a wardrobe, all the other furniture in the flat belongs to the cats. There’s an oversized cat tree, two scratching posts, feeding bowls, and a litter box.
I’m struck by the fact that this is more of the cats’ flat than Art’s. He hasn’t managed to put any personal touches in here. It’s like a room in a youth hostel—sterile and almost depressing. There’s no art on the wall. Nor are there any photos anywhere, at least that I can see. If he were to add a plant, a photo of his cats, even a calendar, it would bring a little life and color to the place. I wonder why he hasn’t made an effort to do the flat up.
“Sorry about that,” Art grumbles, coming back in and setting the large feline down. “This one is an escape artist. If we’d taken him to theescape room, he would’ve figured it out in less than a minute.” He runs a hand through his hair. “So, um... it’s not much, but this is my flat. For our date this afternoon, I thought it might be fun if we did a little baking.”
“Art, I’d love that. Except do you have the room for it?” Peppermint walks straight up to me and is immediately interested in my shoelace. I lower my hand to allow him to sniff it. “I mean, I saw the rolling cart, but you don’t seem to have any extra counter space... or chairs... and, er, do you even have a loo in here?”
Art cackles with laughter. “Everything is put away so the cats don’t get into any extra mischief when I’m not home. They’re circus artists. And yes, there’s a loo. It’s through here.” He points to the door directly off the entryway. “You just can’t open it and the front door at the same time.”
