“That’s not my best angle,” was her reply.
The photographers gave chase in an agitated cluster. Lacey and I picked up the pace to try to get away, but half the pack broke off and darted ahead to get in front of us, their frenetic flashes bursting in our faces. With every step, they encircled us tighter and tighter, like hands crumpling a piece of paper. They bumped and buffeted us, swiping at our bags, almost plowed us into traffic, and at least twice I felt hands roughly grab me. Even Lacey—who’d never felt like she was born for the spotlight so much as spotlights were born for her—looked unnerved.
And that’s what lit my fuse. I stopped short, which caused pandemonium among our stalkers. I turned sharply, and when the ensuing shuffle of bodies created a hole on the opposite side, I darted through it, yanking Lacey along for the ride.
“Until next time, boys,” she shouted at the confused pack.
But rather than concede the point, the pack started running after us full bore. We picked up the pace, sprinting around the corner and up Regent Street, dodging in and out of the paths of oncoming pedestrians. I could hear the paparazzi panting behind us, and the click of their cameras, but the further ahead of them we got, the less I cared. It felt so good to act on the sum of all my impulses to run, just run, to do the Bexiest goddamn thing I could imagine, that I actually heard myself let out a delighted cackle. I didn’t want to be careful. I just wanted to be me.
We wove through side streets to throw them off the scent, burst through various clothing stores that Lacey knew like the back of her hand, and even dodged into Hamleys, the massive seven-floor toy store. We giggled manically, hiding behind pyramids of stuffed toys, as the paparazzi flew past. But when we triumphantly burst onto Regent Street again, we saw they’d tricked us: four of them lay in wait, on all sides, and there was nowhere left to run.
“Bus, Bex!” Lacey breathed as a double-decker lumbered toward where we stood.
Without even thinking about it, I dove at the opening in the back and grabbed the chrome pole for stability, the momentum swinging me into the bus and temporarily off my feet. Lacey followed suit, and we saw the photographers, red-faced and frustrated, hunching over, panting, with their hands on their knees. Lacey waved cheekily, and then—after a lecture from the incredibly disgruntled driver, who didn’t care for shenanigans—we paid the fare and hunched down in our seats, feeling like we’d won. It was only once we changed buses toward home that I began to smooth myself out again, and realized that something felt off. Paper, once crumpled, never does go back to being whole again.
When we finally made it through my front door, any remaining exhilaration wore off when we were greeted by a frowning Nick and an incredibly sheepish Freddie.
“And how was your day, Bex?” Nick said, a note of challenge in his voice. “Anything exciting to share?”
Nick had never spoken to me before with anything approaching condescension, and here he was talking to me like I was a child and he was tapping my knee to see if my kick reflex worked. And it did.
“By your tone, I’m guessing you already know how it went, Richard.”
Both men sucked in a breath. Freddie let his out first.
“I told Knickers this was my fault,” he said, handing me his smartphone. “I’m the one who said to chuck it and run.”
His phone was cued up to a Daily Mail story about me and Lacey leading the paparazzi on a chase through London, painting us as two brats endangering tourists on our selfish lark—as if the whole thing were just a Benny Hill sketch. They even had a photo submitted by a bystander, in which we’re hanging onto the bus poles and giggling, a sweat stain thoughtfully starting to form under my left pit. The article wondered if I had hyperactive glands.
“Freddie, none of this is your fault,” I said, looking up. “I knew you were joking. I wouldn’t have run if I hadn’t wanted to.”
“My legs look fantastic,” Lacey murmured as she peered over my shoulder. “I should run in heels more often.”
“She’s kidding, Nick,” I said, at the sight of what that did to his mood. “I’m sorry. Things got intense and I had to get us out of there.”
“Please don’t be angry at her,” Freddie said earnestly.
“I’m not. I’m angry at you,” Nick said, turning on him. “You were there, for some reason. You should’ve called for PPO help, or gotten her a car, or something, anything, other than just being Freddie. I don’t know why neither of you called me.”
Freddie and I looked at each other. This was why.
“I did this to myself, Nick,” I said. “Freddie wanted to figure out how to make things better for you, and I’m the one who made it worse. Running was entirely my decision.”
“And was it your decision that had Freddie and Lacey getting caught doing…whatever the hell that is…at Soho House the other night?” Nick asked. “Scroll down.”
Lacey obeyed and let out a whistle. “THE OTHER PRINCE AND THE OTHER PORTER,” she read aloud. “It’s a picture of him whispering in my ear.”
Freddie threw his hands out in exasperation. “How the bloody hell else are you supposed to hear anyone in a loud bar?”
“I had a lot of guys whispering at me that night,” Lacey added, trying to be helpful.
“You know this has to stop,” Nick said, barely listening. “This whole Princes and Porters bit is only making the media hungrier, and Father thinks it makes us look sleazy.”
“Bollocks to Prince Dick,” Freddie said rudely. “Bollocks to all of them.”
“You know I don’t have that luxury,” Nick said, ice cold. “And now it looks like my alleged girlfriend is running around London angling for attention. I’ve been saying all summer not to give the press anything to feed on, and you have no excuse, Freddie. You of all people.”
Freddie stood up from his perch on the arm of my sofa.
“You’re so right, Your Highness,” he said. “I’m just sorry we can’t all live up to your lofty standards of having an alleged girlfriend who doesn’t know the half of it.”
He retrieved his phone from Lacey’s palm and dropped it into his pocket, then brandished his engraved cigarette case. “Text me later if you come to the club,” he told her. “We can blink in code at each other from across the room.”
To Nick, he added, “Hope I see you in Hell,” before jamming a defiant cigarette between his lips and slamming the door, leaving the three of us in suffocating tension.
“Um, I should probably, uh, there’s a…” Lacey began. “You know what, forget it, I’m just going to take a shower so you two can fight in peace.”
She scurried off and closed her door as quietly as if a sleeping baby were inside. Nick was practically breathless with frustration. Gingerly, I walked over and put my hand on his.
“Hi,” I said.
He looked at the floor. “Hi.”