I groan again. “Yes, rather. I’m afraid that’s not a solution. How about stealing her passport? That’s more feasible.” I’m up for a castle caper.
“She’ll have it replaced in a couple of days,” James informs me, shaking his head. “Speaking from experience.”
“Have you considered dating for PR reasons?” Frankie looks at me curiously.
James brightens, gazing affectionately at him. “Ooh, yes. Find a boyfriend for the media to reform yourself, Theo. Brilliant, Frankie.” He leans in for a kiss, while I roll my eyes.
“One thing queers do well is have a network of other queers,” Frankie tells me knowingly. “Right? We’ll match you with someone.”
“Who,” I begin slowly, “would be out of their mind enough to date me?”
“It doesn’t have to be real. Just a cover,” James says soothingly. “And it’s a way to get back at Aidan to prove you’ve moved on.” He gives me an entreating look. “It’s brilliant, actually.”
“Same question stands.” I give him a hard stare and sip some wine, unconvinced. Though getting back at Aidan is highly appealing. “All of you are conveniently paired up.”
“Leave it to us,” James says with an air of authority. “We’ll come up with a list of suitors.”
“I don’t need suitors. I need my sister to come back to her senses. And Aidan too, for that matter.”
There’s a fleeting moment when I think of Stefanos and quash that because it’s completely impossible. He’s a prince who doesn’t need more headaches. Also we tend to spend time in other countries far apart from each other based on our text conversation earlier. Hard to bump into him again at the bar.
“What about Martin?” Frankie offers to the group, scrolling through his phone. “He’s a banker, clean cut, very respectable.”
My mouth twitches. “I don’t know. I may have an aversion to bankers.”
“Nonsense. Or maybe there’s Douglas…” James considers, shrugging a shoulder. “His scandals are far behind him. Aristocratic family and all that.”
“I can fill the scandal sheets all on my own just fine, thanks. I don’t need any help doing that.” I sigh. Douglas Whitby, if I remember, was arrested regularly for public disorder a few years back. It’s true he’s reformed his image, but that took time. Years. I don’t have years if I’m meant to be King like five minutes ago. Or at least I must find some iota of self-respect before the year’s out.
“Why would Aidan do this?” I lament, going back to my other new problem. “I want to know how much they paid him to spill his guts out. I hope it was worth it.”
“Forget him,” Sacha tells me, which is easier said than done. I’m all in on the theory, but my mind keeps wandering back to Aidan, pre- and post-betrayal, like a homing pigeon.
Maybe this talk of passports means getting away, even briefly, is a temporary solution. It could get me away from the tabloids and paparazzi and the media in all forms. Or at least a change of scene before my friends hook me up with some regrettable man. Like a last-ditch, last hurrah of freedom. Even if the fake dating ends up being more regrettable than Aidan, who, incidentally, I met at a friend’s party celebrating something notable which I’ve clearly forgotten. All of this is too much to bear. Truthfully, a change of scene from London might do me a whole lot of good.
Chapter Ten
A few days later, I pick up and put down my phone approximately six times over twenty minutes while seated at the dining table in my flat, attempting to compose the perfect breezy text to Stefanos. It’s a great distraction from trying to make a travel decision. Meanwhile, there are several Mediterranean flight options that appeal on my laptop in front of me, but I keep circling back to Athens on a commercial flight, because I don’t rank at this point to have a private jet ferry me around. And even if I did, there are better ways to spend royal money.
Wintertime is unpredictable in January on the Med, which could include a rare warmish day—which would qualify as proper summer in Copenhagen or London—to stormy bursts of weather with pouring rain and chill winds. The forecasts, though, are promising for a break in the winter weather. There’s the forever draw of the Amalfi Coast in Italy, southern France, and of course, Greece. Where there’s the mysterious allure of Stefanos.
Which brings me back to my phone. I scrunch up my face and rake a hand through my hair. Think effortless. Aspirational. Casual, yet suave. After all, I’m not looking to marry anyone, unlike Freja. I make myself stop fidgeting.
Might be in Athens this week if you happen to be around x
Pretending to be way more chill than I am, I hit Send. Then immediately check I didn’t accidentally send the message to some random person, or worse, Aidan. After triple-checking, it’s gone to Stefanos, but there’s no instant response either.
Shit. What if texting was a terrible idea? At the very least, it’s totally random again. He’ll think, Oh yes, a text from that other royal again who flattened me in the bar, terribly glad to hear from him. I groan. My face heats up.
Unable to sit still, I hop up to drag out my suitcase from the cupboard under the stairs and take it to my room to optimistically start packing, even before I’ve secured a plane ticket. At this point, I’ll take any flight today or tomorrow to get out of here, trapped with my thoughts. I fold shirts and shorts and trousers into my suitcase, choose my favorite cologne, and gather toiletries.
First flight out of town wins. I message Miles to let him know I’m headed on a trip and will need some kind of security arrangements, though this is meant to be a low-key escape.
Don’t be silly. Of course Stefanos has things he’s doing. Probably something really noble. Something grand.
And I’m going full digital nomad this week as I try to escape myself for some inspiration. I tuck my diary and a couple of novels into my bag from my latest run into Barnes Books.
Maybe Saint-Tropez or Cannes would fit the bill.
