Page 13 of The Impossible Princess
Judging by the expressions on our faces, I would say it was while we were concocting an imaginary, if vomitous, menu plan, and I have got to give the man credit for consistency. He looks like he’s about to propose each time a camera captures us.
“Is this something I need to worry about?” Mama asks, her eyes narrowing in speculation. It’s not really a question. It’s more like a word-scrambled version of a command.
I consider a flippant retort, but I am not Ella, needling the institution of the monarchy like a spinal surgeon checking for sensation below the waist.
“I stumbled across the gentleman,” I say, carefully choosing words that make me sound like something from the last century. My mother loves anything from the last century. Jodhpurs. Knighthoods. Dynastic marriages. “I thought it would be good form to apologize for the publicity. Was I wrong?”
Her eyes narrow still further as she assesses me for subtle rebellion, and I can see she isn’t being fooled by my pat answer. My mother hasn’t become the premier power broker in the North Sea Confederation by being meek and naive, but by vanquishing her foes mercilessly. I drop my eyes before her penetrating look.
“Not wrong,” she allows. “But if you were to indulge this flirtation—”
My eyes flash for the briefest moment. Flirtation? What I have with Lieutenant Commander Andersen hardly rises to the level of flirtation. Standing out there on the terrace had been more like proximate awkwardness.
“—it could only end badly. The young man performs a vital service in the Navy, I understand. His career could be damaged by this and any association with him would be unwise.”
My brows gather. “What does the Navy have to do—?”
“The press picks heroes and villains, champions and losers. For now,” she says, tapping the headline, “you’re charmed lovers, something they’ve plucked from a fairy tale.”
I glance down at the paper. “Romance Under the Stars: The Little Princess and Her Summer Sailor.” With so little to go on, the narrative has already been framed, just as she says.
“When, in the natural course of things, a relationship fails to materialize, you will be recast as the spoiled young princess, too good for a plain, honest military man. ‘Who does she think she is?’ they will ask. ‘Aren’t we good enough for her?’” Her head tilts. “They will either cast him as naive and ignorant, or calculating and socially ambitious.”
Heat rises in my face, and I swallow away a hard, bitter knot. It’s such an ugly view of the world. There are many facets of my mother I want to emulate, but this extreme calculation is not one of them.
Mama takes a sip of tea and tilts her head in a gesture of maternal concern. “Your reputation is…unstable, Clara. These tiresome stories trickling out of your time in college—” She sighs heavily, as though a picture of me in a chicken wing eating competition at a dive bar is equivalent to a naked billiards game in Vegas. “You can ill afford—”
Heat and unease spread down my arms, settling in my stomach. I think of my phone number sitting unused in Max’s list of contacts. “Of course it’s not going anywhere.”
She flashes a brief, official smile. “Excellent.”
Caroline Tiele, Mama’s private secretary, enters and gives a picture-perfect curtsey in her beige court shoes, the primness of her work clothes—buttons that go all the way up the neck and all the way down each wrist—nearly putting me back to sleep. “The prime minister’s office is on the phone, Your Majesty. They have several suggestions for your speech you will wish to address quickly.”
Mama nods to Caroline and sweeps out just as my phone gives off a ding. My heart leaps into my throat, already overcrowded with fresh-baked bread and mortification. I swipe up.
Max.
“Did you survive the pickled herring? This is a wellness check.”
I squeak, clapping the phone to my chest, awash in panic. Didn’t I just tell Mama this was going nowhere? But what am I supposed to do? He’s engaging me in witty banter. I glance skyward, accusing the Almighty.If you had wanted me to block his number, Lord, you would have made him pretty but dumb.
My feet do a little dance under the table. Be cool, Clara. Be cool. My fingers begin tapping furiously.
“Yes. I have a pulse and everything. What’s up?”
‘What’s up’ is cool. As in, “What is up in your neighborhood, Fellow Citizen?” I groan.
Three jumping dots. My eyes follow them the way a penned-up border collie watches a tennis ball.
“A quick bite.”
A picture appears and I laugh out loud, quickly swiveling my head to make sure my mother hasn’t swooped back in like a lady-vampire. He’s sent me an image of his plate. Three eggs, Pankedruss (My college roommates insist that Sondish yogurt tastes like death but that can’t be true. My people love it.), a handful of berries, half a pig’s worth of sausages, and toast.
“A bite? That’s what you get when you sack a whole English village.”
“The seas were rough this morning.”
I shoot another accusing glance skyward and begin typing.
