Page 36 of The Unlikely Heir
But my Uncle Albert, former Prince of Wales, and my other uncle, James, have clearly sought to use their royal influence for personal gain.
It appears my relatives thought themselves above the law. They obviously haven’t read the Magna Carta closely enough.
So my assassinating Victoria Sponges is a very small infringement compared to my relatives, and it appears that palace communications officers are okay with those stories being the leading headlines.
Besides, those headlines give me the edge in the little competition I’ve got going with Oliver Hartwell. It’s a slightly disturbing contest where we compete over who has generated the most negative and ridiculous headline for the day.
Yes, that’s right. Since the Commonwealth banquet, I’ve been messaging the prime minister most days.
I have to pinch myself that Oliver Hartwell has been taking time from his day to check in with me. It’s normally late in the evenings when I’m guessing he’s finished doing everything on his to-do list for running the country. Or maybe I’m another thing on his to-do list.
Help the new Prince of Wales maintain his sanity as he tries to adjust to life in a new country and in the media spotlight.
“You simply need to cut a ribbon and then talk to everyone at morning tea. It shouldn’t be too taxing,” Raymond continues to brief me.
I nod. “Will Amelia or Nicholas be there?”
I often seem to be paired with Nicholas or Amelia for various engagements. I don’t know if it’s because after the swan debacle, palace officials don’t completely trust me by myself, but I’m not complaining. The royal engagements are far less daunting when I’ve got company.
“Princess Amelia will be there today too,” Raymond replies.
“Okay.” I tug the bottom of my shirt. “Right, let’s get this show on the road.”
“Good luck.” Raymond isn’t coming with me today, so I leave him and head down to where my driver will be waiting for me in the quadrangle, Buckingham Palace’s internal courtyard which enables us to get in and out of cars without the scrutiny of the press.
I’m dressed in chinos and a blue checkered button-down that’s been pressed within an inch of its life. Herbert takes his role of dressing me very seriously—I simply put on whatever he gives me each morning. I’m not sure who decides what outfit I should wear. Maybe there’s a team of palace advisers sitting in an office somewhere, trying to decide what clothes are appropriate for what event.
Sometimes I just feel like an oversized puppet. Though I’m not too sure who the murky people pulling my strings actually are.
To distract myself from that thought, as soon as I’m in the car, I start to Google.
“Did you know they’ve found the remains of puppets in Egyptian tombs and they’re included in the writings from ancient Greece,” I say to Mateo, one of my security team sitting in the front seat of the car.
Mateo turns to give me a long look before he says, “No, I didn’t know that.”
As soon as the car pulls out of the palace gates, Mateo snaps his attention back to the window, craning his neck to examine the hordes of motorbikes and cars that immediately start to trail us. He speaks into his wrist, and I know he’s discussing security arrangements for when I arrive at the museum.
The press is relentless in their pursuit of me. It’s like we’re in a car chase scene from one of those action movies. I keep expecting to see Vin Diesel or Jason Momoa hanging out one of the windows, aiming a gun at us.
My mother tried so hard to protect me from this life, and instead, I’ve landed smack bang in the middle of it, the number one quarry in the entire kingdom.
I find it slightly ironic that my family, who spend most of their lives being hunted by the press, go up to Balmoral estate to escape for the summer and spend their time hunting.
I’m sure there’s something Freudian in there.
When we pull up to the front of the British Museum, the press is already crowded on the front lawn. They scream at me as soon as I arrive.
“Prince Callum! Can you comment on the recent poll that found that seventy percent of the British people disapprove of the behavior of the royal family?”
“Prince Callum, we’ve got your former Little League coach saying you once ate the whole bag of cookies meant for the team. What do you have to say to that accusation?”
It was a misunderstanding, I want to say in reply to the second thing.I honestly thought he’d given them to me to eat. I was six!
But I bite my tongue. Raymond has been like a sadistic dentist with a jackhammer, drilling into me that I should never reply to the media. I should just treat them as annoying buzzing mosquitos and ignore them.
The only problem with that metaphor? Mosquitos are actually the most dangerous animals on the planet. They kill the most people annually.
There will be media at the opening, but they will be sanctioned members of the press so they won’t be up in my face. Instead, they will subtly observe and judge me from afar, counting the ways I screw up.
