Page 54 of The Unlikely Heir
I’m not sure if my motives are entirely conscientious though.
Because watching Oliver in his element, standing tall and handsome at the despatch box and coming up with clever retorts to every question thrown at him, stirs feelings inside me I can’t quite describe.
Inadequacy? Oliver is so smooth and polished, his delivery so different from how I stumble through prepared speeches.
Pride? He’s absolutely dominating every opposition MP who tries to challenge him. He’s got a comprehensive knowledge of all policy areas, and his witty, cutting remarks draw laughter from all the MPs behind him.
The fact he’s now my friend, and I can make him laugh—and most of the time it’s with me, not at me—is something I feel I should win universal cool points for.
Seeing all the Conservative MPs booing him makes me want to ask my driver to take me to Westminster so I can scold those politicians for being mean to Oliver.
Don’t they know what a good person he is? Don’t they realize how hard he works to make life better for the people of the United Kingdom?
Although royalty is supposed to maintain political neutrality, and I’m not sure the Prince of Wales standing outside the House of Commons berating all the Conservative MPs for being mean to the prime minister adheres to that.
Oliver finishes answering a question on tax reform and then takes his seat, leaving me bereft because I don’t get to watch him anymore.
It’s a continuation of a problem I have at the moment.
I can’t stop thinking about Oliver.
I can’t stop messaging him either.
I’ve never been addicted to my phone, but I’ve changed in the last few weeks because my adrenaline spikes every evening when I see I’ve got a message from Oliver.
When I’m not messaging him, my new hobby is stalking him virtually.
Last night, while waiting for Oliver to get back from a dinner with the Lebanese ambassador, I discovered an entire Instagram account devoted to categorizing Oliver’s facial expressions.
I find myself checking it again, scrolling through and snorting at some of the descriptions.
#28I’ve just won an election—where he’s triumphant.
#43I’m smiling at you, but really I’m thinking up ways to skin you alive—he mainly directs this one at his political opponents.
I have to agree the uptilt in his lips has a slightly sinister feel.
#68Diplomatic grin—a polite, friendly smile he uses when meeting with world leaders and ambassadors.
#89Press conference poker face—a neutral expression he wears when facing tough questions from reporters.
#108 Contemplating crease—where his forehead wrinkles as he’s thinking about something.
But as much as I scroll through the classification of Oliver’s facial expressions, I can’t find anything that matches my favorite Oliver smile—the slightly lopsided one where one side of his mouth quirks up higher than the other.
Once I run out of Oliver expressions, I can’t resist checking Twitter.
My good mood generated from looking at pictures of Oliver quickly dims when I check the account of BritishPatriot and see another litany of anti-Callum posts.
He’s not a prince. He’s just a parody. The royal family has turned into a not-very-funny sitcom.
Wonder how long until Callum Prescott decides to replace the Royal Guard with cheerleaders?
Why do we have to foot the bill for this American to prance around the country being a fool?
Our new prince doesn’t just butcher the English language, he massacres it. I’ve seen better royals on burger wrappers.
“We’ve arrived, Prince Callum.” Raymond’s voice interrupts my dip into social media perjury.
