Page 120 of The Unlikely Heir
ChapterThirty-One
Callum
This is one of the worst things I’ve ever done.
It’s up there with the time in second grade when I fed my half-completed homework to our dog, Anchor, so I could blame him for not handing it in, and he threw it up on our new couch.
When Raymond told me he’d found me a date, I couldn’t get the truth, “but I’m secretly in love with the prime minister”past my lips.
So now I’m sitting across the table from Rose, who, from our conversation so far, appears to be a lovely person. She’s beautiful, funny, and works for a charity providing mental health services to young people. But then, I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that she’s absolutely perfect. She’s been through Raymond’s vetting process, after all.
This is not fair to her. It’s not fair that she got all dressed up in anticipation of our date, that she’s looking at me like I’m someone she’s interested in getting to know.
As I make small talk with Rose, I can’t help remembering the last date I went on. The aborted date with Emily, right before my life changed.
This is going much more smoothly than that date because Rose is laughing at everything I’m saying. The cynical part of me wonders if Emily would have found me more amusing if I’d been heir to the throne.
But I’m also better at small talk and keeping my hand expressions under control now, so perhaps it’s unfair to compare.
I keep the conversation focused on Rose, learning new things about mental health and her hobby of running half-marathons.
It’s not until dessert—lemon pie for her, Eton Mess for me because I’m still trying to enhance my Britishness, and a mixture of strawberries, meringue, and whipped cream is a delicious way to do it—that Rose turns the conversation around to me.
“I read today in the papers that your investiture as the Prince of Wales is coming up.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
I can almost guarantee the article she read was the one complaining about how much money it will cost the British taxpayers, which seems to be the main focus of the media coverage at the moment.
“Are you excited about it?”
I fiddle with my wine glass. “Yeah, I guess. It’s an ancient ceremony where I pledge my allegiance to serve the people of Wales. But I’ve been reading more about it, and I can see why it’s controversial to some Welsh people.”
“How is it controversial?”
“Well, since 1301, the Prince of Wales has been the heir to the English throne. The title itself has a complicated history. The original native Princes of Wales were rulers of independent Welsh kingdoms. But then the title was usurped by the English monarchy after Edward I conquered Wales and named his son the Prince of Wales as a symbol of English dominance over the region. So I can totally understand why there is still resentment among the Welsh that the Prince of Wales title is held by the heir to the English throne.”
“Oh, right,” Rose says.
“The term for the Prince of Wales in Welsh is Tywysog Cymru. The last Welsh Prince of Wales, Llywelyn the Last, died in 1282. Although Owain Glyndwr did hold the title during the Welsh revolt in the 1400s.”
As I talk, I can see her eyes glaze over, and it causes me to have a sharp pang in my chest for Oliver. Oliver, who listens to this kind of trivia and asks me follow-up questions. Oliver, who never seems to tire of the random things I want to talk about.
This is why going on a date is so wrong.
I’m not looking for my other half, the person meant for me.
I’ve already found him.
* * *
I’ve bid Rose a polite farewell and barely made it into the waiting car before I’m on my phone, sending Oliver a message.
Can you come see me tonight?
We haven’t spent a night together for two weeks, although I saw him a week ago at the comedy charity night.
Out of necessity, I’ve had to overcome my cringe factor of messing around with him over video. It turns out Oliver does actually find my ramblings sexy, which is a very good thing in the context of our sex life.
