Page 5 of The Unlikely Heir
“And he’s going to be the next king of the United Kingdom?” Alfred’s question sounds almost rhetorical.
“Apparently so. He’s been picked up by Scotland Yard and flown here to see the queen.”
I take back control of the meeting. “Cheers for that, Rosalia. Obviously, this is a fluid and evolving situation. We need to have a statement prepared for when this gets out. I want all of us singing from the same hymn sheet.” I eyeball everyone around the table. You’d think my hardest job would be dealing with the opposition, but after three years in government, I can honestly say most of my gray hairs are due to the behavior of my own MPs.
“What’s the particular tune on our hymn sheet right now?” Alfred asks.
“That we are devastated to learn of the actions of members of the royal family and will introduce legislation to immediately remove them from the line of succession, but let’s not forget that we’ve had a monarchy for over a thousand years in England and we fully support Queen Katharine and the new heir to the throne.”
“No matter what we say, there’s going to be a national debate about whether Britain in thetwenty-first century needs a king, especially an American king,” Alfred points out.
I don’t disagree with him.
Toby’s gaze drifts up to the picture of Callum Prescott, who is smiling his happy, perfect smile from the screen at the end of the table.
“Do you think he has any idea of the hornet’s nest he’s walking into?” he asks.
ChapterThree
Oliver
“Surely your little anti-monarchy heart is secretly chuffed at today’s events,” Toby says to me in an undertone two hours later as we leave the briefing room, having made good progress hammering out the legislation to oust the disgraced royals from the succession order.
Toby has known me since our fresher’s year at Oxford. I’d been out of my depth when I arrived, hailing from a council estate in Ilford, an area of government-assisted housing where disputes were settled by your fists rather than a cutting retort. I’d responded to my feelings of inferiority by cultivating anti-establishment, down-with-the-oligarchy opinions that I shared freely on the debate stage and loudly and passionately at the pub after a few pints.
I’ve since discovered that it’s hard to completely hold on to your anti-establishment views when you become part of the establishment.
“It’s our job to keep the country as stable as possible,” I remind Toby.
He quirks an eyebrow. “You reckon having an American as the future king is going to help with stability?”
I shrug. “Who knows? We’ll have to see how the situation develops. But it’s crucial to be with the public sentiment on this. We can’t be seen undermining the monarchy in any way.”
“But if the public demand a referendum on the monarchy?” Toby’s eyebrows twitch up.
“Then, of course, we’ll do it,” I say.
The lack of a codified single constitution in the UK means there’s no manual for how to end the monarchy. But it’s widely accepted that Parliament calling for a referendum, where every member of the voting public gets their say on the issue, would be the starting point.
A smile spreads across Toby’s face at my words. I know his views on the aristocracy closely align with mine.
“The palace has requested I meet with Her Majesty and her new heir tomorrow,” I say. “I intend to keep an open mind.”
Did the anti-monarchy part of me feel vindictive pleasure about the idea of the princes and princesses being brought down a peg or two?
Definitely.
I’d never liked Albert, the Prince of Wales. Unlike his mother, he always seemed pleased with his privilege. From my brief interactions with his three children, they all seemed to have inherited his attitude.
On my rise through British politics, I’d had to face snobbery of different widths and depths, and theI’m better than you because I was born this wayirked me more than any other kind.
I didn’t know Albert’s younger brothers, Edwin and James, nearly as well as I knew Albert. Edwin always seemed clueless and bewildered, whilst James was a slimy character born a few centuries too late. You could too easily imagine afifteenth-century version of James plotting to overthrow his brothers to gain the throne for himself, but twenty-first-century James had to be content with his life as a minor royal.
Toby and I reach the bottom of the Grand Staircase.
“It will be interesting to see what tomorrow has in store,” Toby says. “Sleep well, Prime Minister.” There is always an ironic tinge to Toby’s voice when he says my title. I’m guessing it comes from having been my flatmate at Oxford and witnessing me argue Marxist theories in my underwear after a night overindulging in White Lightning cider.
“Good night, Toby,” I say.
