“Now you see why it’s so important for you and Lacey to be careful,” he said. “If anything ever…”
He covered his face, unable to finish. I loved that he worried about me; I believed he was underestimating me. I wished, desperately, that I had known sooner so I could’ve been more careful, and considerably less blithe. I wished the Palace had more faith in the public’s capacity to bear the truth. And, frankly, I wished I could punch Richard for not protecting his sons from carrying this burden alone and in silence. But I said none of that. Instead, I kissed Nick with every feeling I had in me, and when we had sex, it was a sacrament, Nick’s hands reverent on my body, sealing a bond forged through his confession and his tears. But as the heady afterglow of our catharsis ebbed, I felt haunted by something. As if somewhere in our turning point we’d forgotten to make sure we were still going in the same direction.
*
In the ensuing weeks, my fears were confirmed: While I’d hoped the truth about Emma would unite Nick and me with a newfound bravery and team spirit, it mostly just united him to his pajama bottoms. Fortunately, Richard was finally satisfied that Nick had absorbed enough about British exports and the migration habits of the red-breasted goose, and had approved his entering the Britannia Royal Naval College in Dartmouth. I prayed that once Nick had a real, tangible duty he would feel better equipped to make his way in this world, and less like the world was lying in wait for him. Then surely he’d realize that what happened to his mother wouldn’t happen to me, and everything would go back to normal. I wanted to be supportive. I was supportive. I was a good listener, a loving confidant. I tried.
But we had started arguing. All of our friends were going out to parties, to clubs, to art openings and movies and football matches and music festivals; while Nick never forbade me to go out, it was impossible to ignore that he never did, and I felt guilty ditching him to party with his brother and our friends. Worse, Lacey was clutching ever tighter to Freddie’s arm. Her leave of absence would end when summer did, and with real life looming large once more, she was doubling down on the pleasures only he—and London—could offer. Nick was cross with them both for continuing to bait the press with all their cozy cuddling, and I was loath to get involved, which made him cross with me. We were both touchy and terse, and low on patience.
The honeymoon was over.
One Sunday morning over toaster waffles, Nick and I were reading the headlines on our iPads. He always went for hard news first, in case Richard quizzed him on foreign affairs, so I had decided it was my valuable role in this partnership to scan for gossip. The Mail didn’t have much that morning—one of the girls on EastEnders had worn a shirt made of cling film—but when I clicked on the Mirror’s website, a slideshow came up with the headline LACEY THE LYONS TAMER. As far as I’d known, Lacey was in New York, sorting out housing for her return to med school (NYU’s patience, and that of our parents, could logically and logistically only extend so far). She must have come back and gotten a hotel room somewhere. I couldn’t think why, except that it started with an F and ended with an E and was spelled Freddie.
“Shit,” I murmured.
“Did you say something?” Nick asked, looking up.
“Oh. Um.” I had spoken by accident, but I also couldn’t avoid this. “Just, you know, some creepy new restaurant threw this crazy opening party.”
“The one that went into that old crypt?” Nick asked around a piece of waffle.
“Yeah. I guess it uses coffins as tables,” I said. “There’s a really funny picture of Lady Cressida Morningstar wearing a giant velvet scrunchie, trying to climb inside one of them with her boyfriend…”
“That prat looks just like her prizewinning pug,” Nick said.
“…and Gemma Sands talking to Bea…”
“Weird. Bea usually avoids Gemma,” Nick said.
“…and Lacey with your uncle Edwin and Freddie, and then some pictures of the owner’s prosthetic hand. I guess he lost the real one in a paddleboarding accident…”
“What?”
“It’s silver-plated, really ornate,” I said, hoping I had distracted him sufficiently.
Nick tilted his head in classic give me a break body language. Then he leaned over and studied the entire piece.
“‘…the real star was Lacey Porter, the sun-kissed twin of the serious brunette who betting shops believe will be Prince Nicholas’s first fiancée,’” Nick read aloud.
“First fiancée,” I repeated. “So, like, the test model. Thanks, guys.”
“All this bloody wedding speculation makes my head hurt,” Nick said. Then he continued reading. “‘Porter was spied with at least three of London’s dishiest bachelors, but she got the most attention on the arm of our famed Ginger Gigolo. Freddie frequently cold-shouldered his date, model-turned-party-planner Arabesque DuBois, to whisper what looked like very sweet nothings in Porter’s ear.’”
And amid pictures of her beaming at Prince Edwin and listening rapturously to Cressida Morningstar’s pug boyfriend, there was a raft of photos of Lacey with Freddie—at one point caught laughing so hard that her head apparently had no choice but to loll on his shoulder. It gave off an indisputably intimate vibe.
Nick tossed my iPad aside. “Wonderful. Bloody great.”
“Come on, it’s not like they had sex on the bar.”
“How many times do we have to talk to them about being indiscreet?” he said, exasperated. “Gran and Father are going to think we haven’t even tried.”
“Well…” I hedged.
Nick’s eyes widened. “You didn’t talk to her about it?”
Busted.
“She’s going back to med school!” I defended myself. “She can’t go out with Freddie if she’s all the way across the Atlantic.”
“You shouldn’t have avoided this,” Nick snapped. “It’s important to me.”
“And Lacey is important to me,” I argued. “There was no point in getting heavy-handed with her if the whole thing was about to become moot anyway.”
Nick rubbed his eyes. “I’m so tired of all this. The same conversation, the same fight. I don’t want to have it today, Bex. I can’t.”
He grabbed the last of his waffle and got up and walked toward the bedroom.
“Hey,” I called out to him. “I’m on it, Nick. It’ll be the last time.”
He looked sheepish, then doubled back to give me a syrupy kiss before heading to the shower. I, however, was becoming increasingly cranky, as if he’d passed his irritation to me by mouth. While I hadn’t had the larger discussion with Lacey about all this, she was standing right there the day Nick lectured Freddie about it, and simply hadn’t listened. Where had she stayed? When had she come back? And why was I finding out about it from a newspaper, and not my own sister?
*