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THE ROYAL WE:
YOUR NEW ADDICTION!
By
Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan.
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At a first glance, the attempt to fictionalized ruling royal house of England seems tad ridiculous. Book claims it's House of Lyons, circa 2007; one checks to see if date of publication is prior - it isn't, it's 2015!
Why this false fictional detail for something all too well known, rather than an undated time or a little known remote country, or a fictional one, is far from clear.
Or is this another attempt to whitewash a murder that was camouflaged as an accident, post which the seniors of the family never recovered, despite all too many filthy attempts - on their behalf, by the family bureaucratic machinery - to glamourise an adulterous older couple while ridiculing a far younger, innocent, beautiful young woman popular throughout the world regardless of any formal titles, is unclear.
Unless, of course, it's about history all too well known, merely with change of dates and names? Prologue would have one speculate so.
And here's additional such detail -
" ... they thoughtfully left the life-size portrait of Queen Victoria I that sits, unnervingly, right inside the shower behind thick safety glass ... "
'Victoria I', for heaven's sake?
" ... Nick and me. I love that picture, which is lucky, because it’s for sale the world over on thimbles, wastebaskets, tea towels, paper dolls, condom boxes, and—my favorite—actual condoms. If she were cheekier, Her Majesty would have put those items on the piano. As it stands, I’ve never heard any of the senior royals even say the word condom, although I suspect Eleanor would pronounce it like my own grandmother did: as if it’s the nickname of the local cad who scandalizes all the gossips in the retirement village. (“Did you see Con Dom at the grocery store? He was buying six boxes of wine and a frozen burrito. What does it mean?”)"
" ... I look like I hate Cinderella, yet now, to the world, I am Cinderella. The headline writes itself, and so does the karmic warning: Be careful what you pointedly don’t wish for, because one day you might find yourself getting armpit Botox to avoid headlines like THE DUCHESS OF SWEATSHIRE. ... "
We're all aware of the long list of aspirants who didn't make it, and the innocent, kind young woman who was railroaded into the position, as per plans of the two grandmothers - plans agreed upon between the two, right as she was just born!
" ... I cannot disappoint, I cannot bend, I cannot break, because two billion people will be watching (one of whom might even be that tired, retired Cinderella, who hopefully won’t recognize the kid who once regarded her with so much skepticism). ... "
Elder sister there?
No, actually, as it turns out, only a minute younger twin!
" ... We never deliberately froze anybody out, but it was challenging for other people to get very close. Scientists needed fifty years to split the atom. Our classmates didn’t stand a chance.
"Neither had boys. ... and I’d drift along with whatever plus-one of his she fixed me up with, and inevitably our double dates would turn into them staring awkwardly off into space as Lacey and I monopolized each other’s conversation. In fact, our classmates voted us Cutest Couple, and I don’t think it was a joke. I even dumped my freshman-year boyfriend at Cornell when I overheard him referring to Lacey as The Trojan, because, as he disparagingly told his fraternity brother, she was around so much that she was the world’s most effective birth control."
" ... In fact, generations of men like Clive had spent their lives making sure their own Nicks didn’t get snookered by opportunists or social climbers or enemies, nor poisoned, nor impulsively married to the peasant girl selling flowers on Tottenham Court Road. Whether Nick wanted to be or not, he was the sun, and everyone revolved around him. And anyone who resented this arrangement had the very fabric of the universe working against them: Like me and Lacey, like gravity itself, it simply was."
There it is, mass and devotion at the alter to royalty.
One must admit, nevertheless, that descriptions of England are fascinating, even when about stupidity particularly English.
"The colleges at Oxford are creative and saucy in their social traditions. Worcester College used to do a Half-Naked Half Hour every Wednesday in the library. In late October, on the day British Summer Time changes to Greenwich Mean Time, Merton College holds a ceremony in which students claim to mend the space-time continuum by walking around backward in formal dress while drinking port. And legend has it that Lincoln College, physically linked to Brasenose College by a locked door, centuries ago barred entry to a Brasenose student who was fleeing a mob; as a faint apology for getting that person brutally killed, Lincoln opens the door to Brasenose for five minutes on Ascension Day during Easter week and serves any incoming students free beer… that has been lightly poisoned with ground-up ivy, because why not.
"One could argue Pembroke’s indulgence in insanity, The Glug, also constitutes attempted murder by alcohol. The legend goes that in 1878, a surprise two feet of snow began falling during Pembroke’s traditional Second Sunday Party on the quad (at the beginning, accordingly, of Second Week—celebrating being that much closer to the end of term), and The Glug was invented as a way to get hammered quickly and stay warm enough to continue the outdoor party tradition. It involves teams of five competing elimination-style to see who can guzzle the most from their upended jug of Pimm’s without breaking lip-lock with the straw, vomiting, or passing out cold—like the posh English cousin to a keg stand. Once you tap out, by choice or biology, you then have to pass The Reckoning: a full thirty seconds without falling. It is the kind of insane, irresponsible, potentially fatal activity that is catnip to college kids, and Joss—who’d thrown up three times last year—seemed glad to retire. Lady Bollocks refused to participate entirely."
More spicy, but also courageously true here -
" ... Nick’s great-grandmother, Marta, the Queen Mum, once asked me if I was nervous about—and I quote—losing my maidenhead on our wedding night. I snickered before I could catch myself, and she playfully wiggled the scotch in her hand and said, “Too right. A woman can’t bloody well pick her signature drink without sampling the whole bar.”
"Not looking to fall in love didn’t mean I didn’t want to sample the cocktails, so to speak, but at Oxford, the bar wasn’t as open as I’d have liked. Half the men we met wanted an in with the Crown, were prone to spouting off on the plight of the landed estates, or just wanted to ask endless conspiracy theory questions, like whether the Queen ever rigged the horse races (no) or requested certain Coronation Street storylines (she says no, but I don’t believe it). Any promising guys without Nick-related agendas lost interest in me once they got wind of who my friends were, and decided I wasn’t worth the fuss. ... the instant the grapevine gleaned that I had gotten tight with Nick, polite nods and interest in the American newcomer gave way to under-the-breath jokes about my nationality, or snickers about the origin of my family’s money. Assumptions about my motivations had been made, and I was being assessed and found wanting."
Is Freddie modelled on a real spare?
Charming descriptions here:-
" ... Compared to some of the other state holdings, Kensington Palace looks the most like a regular old manor: The careworn, faded brick main building houses a museum, and fronts a village of well-concealed, sprawling private apartments for a variety of royal relatives. And given that the green space around it is now royal parkland, gawkers get a whole lot closer than you’d expect. Imagine if you could walk right up to the White House lawn and sunbathe topless while the president looked out of his window. It wouldn’t happen, and yet right now there was a girl in Kensington Gardens stretching in the most perfunctory of shorts."
" ... you can take the Howard Bedroom.”
"He escorted me to a cozy, wood-paneled chamber with deep-set windows overlooking a private courtyard, and an intimate seating area with fresh flowers and magazines scattered artfully on an end table. Against the opposite wall was an imposing four-poster bed, begging me to flop onto it. I am a world-class flopper. I can heave myself onto a couch so hard it’s still vibrating five minutes later."
" ... Our tea was a strategic prelude to make sure Mom felt properly civilized, and my dad properly fed and watered. The Dorchester’s Champagne high tea is as elegant as its marble-floored lobby dining room, which was infused with the gentle tinkling of utensils on fine china. ... "
" ... I wanted her to love London, but this felt more like trying to conquer it."
And, after the couple has been discovered by paparazzi -
" ... Two of my coworkers loudly discussed how my gray suede kicks had sold out online since being featured in heat, and even the usual din from Piccadilly Circus—a constant soundtrack of roaring buses and honking horns—wasn’t drowning them out. ... "
"Freddie shrugged as he took a seat at the head of the table, spinning in the chair like a child. “Don’t tell, but this area is so full of tourists that I often wander around by myself and nobody notices,” he said. “They never think to look. It’s quite relaxing.”"
"I ripped a page off my notebook, crumpled it up, and threw it at him.
"“You always make me miss my PPOs, Killer,” he said, swatting it deftly. Then he cocked his head. “How are you handling all of this?”"
" ... “I’m getting by,” I said. “The paparazzi itself isn’t even that bad, honestly. It’s how much Nick hates it that makes it tough.”"
"“I’ve never seen you worried like this.”
"“Don’t look at me all misty,” he said. “This isn’t entirely selfless. I’m also bored of him staying in all the time, so I want you to fix him, and then we can all go to Hell.”
"I laughed. Hell was Tony’s latest enterprise, full of drinks laced with spicy peppers, music that only had the words hot, warm, or burn in the titles, open-flame light sources that I knew did not have the proper permits, and no air-conditioning. It was quite literally London’s hottest club."
And this might seem tad familiar:-
" ... It seems unfathomable that Nick was conceived at all, other than out of the strictest sense of duty. Freddie came mostly because Emma viewed Nick as her best friend, and she wanted to build a team. But if she hoped delivering the expected heir and spare would also decrease the scrutiny, she learned quickly that it actually made her a bigger target. Demand for photos in the pre-Internet age was so astonishing that a photographer snuck into the hospital on the day of Freddie’s birth, and a nurse cracked him over the head with a bedpan. Emma grew so paranoid that she came across as shifty, and the mounting strangeness of her every public appearance with Richard, as if they were uncomfortable touching or perhaps never truly had, ignited a buzz that never stopped. She clammed up, and then shut down, sunny one moment and a total eclipse the next; provoked shouting matches, jealousies, and accusations, and then welt and wilted under them. She stopped going outside, closing all the windows and curtains in their Kensington Palace apartment and refusing to let in the daylight. By the time Nick turned five, she was lost to them, and then buried under a carefully scripted fiction that the Palace thought was less troublesome than the facts."
" ... “Besides, I don’t want them to have the satisfaction.”
"“The press,” I translated.
"“They hounded her,” he said. “My mother was the biggest celebrity in the world. The Guardian did a special edition about her wedding that still holds the record for the most papers ever purchased in the UK. Two girls in Devon died waiting overnight in winter just to meet her. The press hid in the bushes, tapped the phones. They paid off bodyguards and cooks and one of our nannies. The press was the trigger for all of this, for everything that went wrong for her, ... "
There are heartbreaking bits:-
"Gaz had lost about thirty pounds under the influence of his girlfriend, Penelope Six-Names—who’d redeemed her Oxford faux pas one night by helping Freddie avoid a fight between his latest fling and a weeping ex called Mauritius he’d hooked up with in Aruba (or was it a girl named Aruba he’d slept with in Mauritius? Freddie should come with CliffsNotes)."
" ... this is the antithesis of someone as free-spirited as Bex is,” Dad said to her. “Or used to be, anyway. And I worry about that.”
"There was a moment of silence among the three of us. My mother looked thoughtful.
"“I really do love him, Dad,” I finally said.
"But as I watched my parents disappear down the Grand Staircase, I chewed on what Dad had said. I’d had to swallow an awful lot of irregularities to be with Nick, many of them hurtful, and all of them starting to chip away at my core."
"Nick was dancing loosely with a cluster that included India Bolingbroke and Gemma Sands. His bow tie swung open and carefree, his eyes not searching for mine the way they would have a year ago, and I knew there would be no covert rendezvous later. I leaned against the pole with Gaz, my partner in feeling inconsequential and insufficient. The room was buzzing with energy and people and revelry, and even as I looped my arm around my friend, I had never felt so alone."
And truly endearing bits throughout, such as this:-
"“This Soane chap really was a nutter, eh?” Freddie said, the floorboards creaking under his feet as he took in the sheer quantity of stuff—no, Stuff—all around us. “I only own one piece of art. It’s a photo of me scoring a goal past Father at a polo match, and it’s priceless.”
"“I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure you own a lot more art than that,” I said. “How did you get in without anyone freaking out?”
"“A lady named Maud let me in the back,” he said. “She’s a firecracker, that one. Told me she’s knitting trivets as a wild change of pace from scarves. If you’re keeping score, that means changing from a rectangle all the way to a square.”
"“That’s our Maud,” I said affectionately.
"“I hope to be a steadying influence on her, in time,” Freddie said. “But first, come have a long lunch and a pint.”
"“I can’t blow off work anymore, Freddie.”
"“Aha, but I told Maud I was on a fact-finding mission about fundraising.”
"“Is that true?”
"“Perhaps,” he said. “And if Maud thinks you chucked a potential patron, she’ll never speak to you again about how the bridge tips from the Sunday Times are working.”"
And here's the scoop on just how controlled the news, even gossip, is over 'across the "pond"':-
"Marj let Clive print a rumor in the Recorder that I would be attending Nick’s first match, as a thank-you for his discretion regarding Richard and India. Smelling his big break, he broke up with Davinia—“a good investigative reporter must be unencumbered”—broke the story, and broke the proverbial seal. The game was afoot. For three months I was documented as Nick’s loyal yet restrained public supporter. I gave him chaste hellos; I pet his horse, Elton John, so named because he’d lost a bet with Freddie; and I chuckled with Bea and Gemma, helping carefully rebrand the latter as Nick’s unthreatening chum. The gossip kindling piled up all summer, and in the fall, Marj dropped in the match: Nick and I arrived together at the union of recent Strictly Come Dancing runner-up Penelope Six-Names and Maxwell, son of Baron Something-Something."
No wonder they had to silence every free spirit that didn't march to orders, from Bhagat Singh and Subhash Chandra Bose to the Queen of People's hearts!
Wonder if Meghan felt this.
"Practically overnight, I went from being vaguely recognizable outside Great Britain—like an itch you can’t quite scratch—to being very famous. Aggressively famous. The kind of famous where I looked so glossy on the covers of People and OK! and Hello! that I found myself abstractedly intrigued by that shiny celebrity with the friendly face and the well-groomed eyebrows. Vogue featured a lengthy but still only half-accurate piece about my background; lesser magazines dissected The Mysteries of Bex abetted by people I barely knew who crawled out of the woodwork with old yearbooks and apocryphal stories and colorful descriptors like brash and ballsy, and giant raging bitch. SHE WASN’T EVEN QUEEN OF HER PROM, shrieked Xandra Deane, as worked up about our impending matrimony as if I’d been dispatched specifically to seduce Nick and then take down the monarchy as the final and very delayed parting blow of the American Revolution."
About distance that results, due to strictures of required formalities, between oneself and one's own -
" ... By May, our conversations were just laundry lists of items she’d bought, restaurants she’d gone to, or men who were secretly in love with her, and she never, ever asked me anything. Not about how I was doing, or how Nick was, and not even razzing me about my thickening hair. Lacey was as finely attuned to my scalp as musicians are to their instruments, and she was the one person I’d counted on to tease me about the six hours I would spend letting Kira fuse bundles of a vegetarian Indian girl’s hair to my own inferior head. It was tedious and weird—before they were trimmed, they came down to my elbows, making me look like a cut-rate reality-TV star—but I didn’t want to bring it up for fear of looking like I was all me, me, me."
About Ascot -
"The five-day, multimillion-pound Royal Ascot race meet every June is characterized by crazy hats, extremely rich purses—both in terms of prizes, and handbags—and the prestige of Eleanor’s daily attendance. ... "
"Royal Ascot’s dress code already falls in line with the litany of rules I have to obey: Sleeves are mandatory, or at least straps wider than an inch. Skirts must fall no higher than the vaguely defined just above the knee, and hats must have a base of four inches or larger (I wish I’d been present when they decided three inches was too trashy to bear). ... "
"The racecourse was set in countryside as green as my emerald. The crowd hummed with excitement as the bookmakers began taking punters’ money for the day’s races under their colorful umbrellas, and every ten seconds another wonderful, ridiculous hat wandered into view: a bust of David Beckham; a Mad Hatter’s tea party recreated in elaborate clay sculptures, the Cheshire Cat’s tail flicking the wearer’s ear; even a tiny topiary trimmed in the image of Nick’s face. And directly beneath us, a drunk woman was being escorted out under great protest—possibly because her hat, while chaste looking at eye level, from above was clearly a graphic depiction of a vagina. In her defense, it was Ladies’ Day."
"George IV was, by all accounts, a fatuous king and a worse husband, but he had an undeniable knack for pageantry: A lot of the things that are now hallmarks of the monarchy were his initiatives, including the redesign of Buckingham Palace that yielded its current famous façade, at least half the sparkle of its interior, and the Royal Procession at Ascot. The carriage parade begins at Windsor Great Park and winds around onto the racecourse past the grandstand, where a band strikes up “God Save the Queen.” There’s something magical about the rousing, carousing sound of sauced, exultant male and female voices shout-singing that anthem. ... "
And this is likely true about most royal brides, even those born to be matched as per grannies' plans -
" ... communications to the HMS Pembroke were too irregular to talk through the questions that tortured me in the middle of the night. When could I say no to The Firm? Did I have the leverage to fight for myself? When was he going to take this promised desk job? Where would we live? What about our theoretical children? When was I expected to have one? And how would it make friends, if we were boxed in by a gated-off palace? Cruelly, the person who really could’ve understood was Nick’s mother, physically sitting alone in Cornwall but mentally out of reach.
"Planning the Wedding of the Century only exacerbated my unsteadiness, even though all the ingredients were there for it to be a giddy delight: financial carte blanche and the heft of a royal decree. Church closed for cleaning? Finish it early. A groom at sea? Recall the ship. But I myself had very little say. The date was chosen because late April fit Eleanor’s calendar. It had been Marj who’d made the list of designers who could bid for my wedding dress, and selected meaningful flowers for my bouquet. I was told to pick an organist, and flower girls and pages from distantly related blue-blood families I’d never met, and even to pare down the existing guest list to make room for our friends. All of which I did, dutifully, before learning they were perfunctory offers, and Eleanor had already made all those decisions.
"Even the autonomy I thought I had was illusory. The Palace didn’t want me photographed anywhere unauthorized, which meant Stout had to phone in a request any time I wanted to so much as pop out for an ice cream cone, which was such a pain that I stopped going anywhere at all. Shopping, if you could call it that, now took place in a converted room at Clarence House, where I was expected to stand still and silent so that everyone else’s opinions could be heard. Donna and her team bustled around me, dissecting my body with scientific detachment as they whipped outfits on and off my frame, before bagging and tagging clothes with color-coded notes marking what should be mixed and matched, reworn or archived, auctioned or donated. It was busywork, but busywork that required my presence and attention, even though nobody there ever paused to acknowledge that I was me and not just a mannequin. As the months stretched on, I used all my energies to look sparkling during those fifteen-second windows when I was publicly visible, and the rest of the time I diligently obeyed my schedule and studied trivia about our potential guests and jogged on the treadmill Marj sent to my flat (along with an industrial-strength juicer that was louder than my dishwasher). I felt like little more than a prop in a very complicated play—as if I could be anyone, and events would still roll on unchanged."
A slight tour of private quarters in Buckingham Palace -
" ... Footmen and maids moved seamlessly past, merely part of the décor but for their pauses to venerate Her Majesty. It struck me then, and may haunt me forever, that in the royal world the walls are rarely the only witnesses. Even your alone time can have a cast of hundreds.
"The Queen’s private sitting room was surprisingly normal, at least on her spectrum. The ceilings were high, the pale-mint walls adorned with plaster wedding-cake detail, but there was none of the gilt that characterized the rest of the palace, and the furnishings looked forty years old instead of a hundred and forty. It was a comfortingly cluttered mess: stacks of newspapers and magazines, a teacup leaving a stain on some old correspondence, a dog’s chew toys on the carpet. The bedroom we passed into was considerably tidier, like it had been spruced up for company—which perhaps it had, because laid out on a velvet cloth on the Queen’s curtained bed sat six dazzling tiaras, catching the light from the large windows and casting dancing beams onto a nightstand photo ... "
And of days leading up to the event -
" ... I missed him. I missed the whole gang. Most people would handle that by joining a book club, or playing in a recreational sports league, but that is forbidden to me. So I stayed home and shopped online with the pseudonymous credit card I’d been issued—no one will bat an eyelash if a Ms. Prudence Cattermole orders too much saucy lingerie for her sailor fiancé’s homecoming—and crumbled in private. By day, I had Marj feeding me carrots and water like a prize Thoroughbred; by night, where I once consumed booze to get over missing Nick, I now devoured the Internet. The American’t analyzed my level of clavicle protrusion and the caloric value of my shopping cart, whenever Marj granted me passage to the supermarket. That nasty old crumpet Xandra Deane suggested that the ten pounds I’d shaved off was setting an outrageously poor example for girls all over the world (which was mostly frustrating because I privately agreed, and cheated on my diet at every opportunity), and The Royal Flush alleged I am a lifelong anorexic.
"In fact, The Flush was giving Xandra stiff competition as my most persistently negative coverage. At first it mostly published bits and pieces with a whiff of truth, but as its traffic and reputation grew, so did its vitriol. That distaste swelled slowly, like a balloon, and then burst all over my birthday."
And about negative press, consisting of falsehoods, innuendos, gossip and worse -
"This was The Flush’s splashiest piece yet, and its cruelest. It got a lot of attention, and worse, traction; almost overnight, the website that hated me the most became uncomfortably high-profile. Alone in my flat, I went from dismissing the story as rubbish, to being unnerved that it echoed a sentiment Bea had expressed at Klosters, to complete paranoia. By the time Gaz and Cilla’s wedding arrived, my despair had plumbed new depths, and I was drowning."
"The reception, like the wedding itself, was intimate, funny, unexpected. There were six toasts from Cilla’s side of the family and one riotous speech from Gaz’s father, the infamous disgraced finance minister, about how not to handle your joint bank accounts. Cilla danced a comedic tango with her new husband before a lively foxtrot with her dad, which made my heart ache for mine. I caught myself envying my friends. This wedding was deeply personal, with no artifice; Gaz and Cilla could just be Gaz and Cilla, the same in public and in private, a luxury that Nick and I never would have. This ceremony was for them. Ours was for the country, and for the Crown, and I felt a pang for what could have been if Nick had been born anything but what he was—a pang that was as much for him as for me. Instead of cheering me up, the cocktails pushed me deeper into the melancholy I had tried and failed to leave at home."
And this is really evocative of the Queen of People's hearts -
" ... Nick and I have encountered friendly support at the few events we’ve done this year, but this is the first time it’s been on such a massive scale—people who have waited all day for me to arrive at the rehearsal, and will stay overnight to see me come back tomorrow—and as I look back at them, I know the expression on my face is of unladylike shock and delight.
"The little girl bounces and shouts, “Daddy, she sees me!”
"I’m not supposed to engage people yet, but she is darling, missing two front teeth, with golden pigtails and a fluffy pink party dress. She reminds me of Lacey, an eternity ago.
"I scoot over to where she stands. “Freesias are my favorite,” I say, squatting and accepting the bouquet. “How did you know?”
"“I read it in heat magazine. Mummy keeps it in the loo and says I’m not to touch it because it’s for grown-up ladies.” She beams proudly at me. “I was naughty.”
"“I’ll never tell.” I grin back. “What’s your name?”
"“Adelaide.”
"“Can I tell you a secret, Adelaide?” I ask. She leans eagerly into me. “I’m a little nervous,” I confess.
"“Mummy bet Daddy ten pounds that you’ll mix up his names,” she says.
"“Nah, I’ll be fine,” I say. “His name’s Harold, right?”
"She giggles. “No!”
"“Yes, Prince Harold Tiddlywinks Cadbury, I’m sure of it,” I say.
"She giggles harder. “You’re very silly. Are you allowed to be silly?”
"I grin. “I hope so, Adelaide.”"
And the wedding before the public event -
"The doors do, in fact, burst open, but it’s just PPO Twiggy and a small, balding man in a crooked clerical collar.
"“Oof, sorry if I bumped into you there, Officer Thingy,” he slurs. “I’m a wee drunky, in point of fact. Usually off duty by now.” He hiccups. “Lovely to see you all. Which one of you is my cousin?”
"Cilla rolls her eyes. “Right here, Cousin Bernard,” she says.
"Bernard eyes the flame-haired Gemma. “You sure it’s not her?”
"“Reasonably,” Cilla says, steering her cousin over to a nearby pew, and sitting him down with a pat on the shoulders. “Bernard, I know you’re half in the bag right now, but do you think you could toss together a quick wedding for my friends?”
"Bernard squints over at us. “Crikey, they’re a bit tall.”
"“Does that affect things, do you think?” Cilla asks patiently.
"Bernard considers it. “Shouldn’t think so,” he says. “It’s mildly frowned upon to marry people when you’re as bladdered as I am, but…” He puts his fingers to his lips. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
"Freddie tries to stifle a laugh, the first sign of real lightness I’ve seen from him all day. “Is it too late to book Bernie for tomorrow?” he wonders. “The look on Gran’s face would be worth more than the entire Abbey.”
"Next to him, Bea huffs, “I suppose I should not be shocked that there is not a more elegant solution to this muddle.”
"“You wanted discreet,” Cilla says impatiently. “There’s nothing better than a man who might wake up tomorrow and think it was all a dream. Besides, this is the only vicar we’ve got. You want to keep faffing around or can we get on with it?”
"Cousin Bernard has scooted toward Gemma. “Shall I take your confession?” he slurs, with a suggestive nudge.
"“It’d make your ears bleed, Father,” Gemma says cheerfully. “And we need to get this sorted. We’re running out of time.”"
And a taste of what seems a sequel, revealing about the spare -
"I come to her rescue. “People can either take a pounding, or give it.”
"She brightens. “Exactly! And Richard is a pounder. A real thumper. I’m so glad we had this talk.”
"I’m about to ask her what she meant by all that—am I supposed to let him pound me because of some One Hammer per Toolbox rule?—but then she gives my arm another uncomfortable squeeze.
"“My dear, you can’t always do what other people want, or what they think you should,” she says. “It hardly ever works out the way you think it will, and it never pleases them the way you hope. You can ride horses and learn the piano and get top marks in school and marry the right titled person even though he’s awful instead of the beautiful stable boy with those hands…”
"Her voice has crept into a slightly hysterical register. I am as impassive and quiet as I can be, filing this away for future retelling to Nick, while Agatha flushes and clears her throat.
"“What I am saying is that if you do everything for other people, then by definition you’ve done nothing for yourself,” she concludes. “Selfishness is a highly underrated virtue, if you ask me. You’re not required to make yourself the nail every single time.”
"The exertions of this speech seem to have taken a toll, as she lets out a firm puff of breath. “Right. Must dash,” she says. “I need to speak to the cook before this meeting starts. He’s serving Tesco tea, and it’s entirely inappropriate.”"
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THE ROYAL WE: YOUR NEW ADDICTION!
By Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan.
454 pages, Hardcover
First published April 7, 2015
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June 05, 2024 - June 21, 2024.
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ASIN: B00YC8BL4A
Publisher: Head of Zeus; 1st edition (15 July 2015)
Language: English
File size: 3101 KB
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Screen Reader: Supported
Enhanced typesetting: Enabled
X-Ray: Enabled
Word Wise: Enabled
Print length: 465 pages
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