I walk several steps behind them. As maid of honor, my primary official duty today was making sure that Libby made it safely down the aisle, not tripping on her gorgeous gown along the way, and then taking her flowers from her when she and Edward exchanged rings at the altar in front of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Unofficially, I’m simply here for moral support on my sister’s wedding day. She wasn’t nervous about marrying Edward, or about officially shouldering the burden of public life as a royal. She was simply nervous about the crowds—even now, after ten years in the spotlight, Libby is shy sometimes. We shared a bed in the Harlequin Suite at the Dorchester last night, me drawing a bath and bringing a glass of red wine to steady her nerves before giving her an Ambien for a good night’s sleep. I had to field a few emergency phone calls while doing it. Selfsy went public a few years ago, and even though I stepped down as CEO to start another beauty tech company almost five full years ago, I’m still on their board. This means constant check-ins from other members, royal wedding be damned.
After all, despite the pomp, the crowds, the magazine covers, and the sense of history pressing down on us—it is just a wedding.
I walk through the doors of the cathedral, exiting into the bright sunshine and momentarily shielding my eyes. As everything comes into focus again, I look around, taking in the photographers, the grandstands with news commentators, the minor members of the royal family ahead of us waving at the camera, and the massive crowds, stretching seemingly for miles.
Libby waves and smiles, holding her shoulders back and her head high: years of intensive behind-the-scenes training, all leading up to this one moment.
She turns in the carriage to face St. Paul’s, and our eyes lock.
In this moment, a wave of love and understanding washes between us.
She puts her index finger to her lips, giving it the most imperceptible of double taps as she purses her lips before holding out her hand as if in a subtle wave. I repeat the gesture, tapping my finger to my lips twice and putting my hand to my heart, as if trapping the kiss there, before waving at her in return. We stare at each other for a moment, smiling, and then I nod as if to say, “Go.” I’ll see her in two weeks, anyway. After they get back from their honeymoon in the Maldives, and I return from Austin—I’m giving a talk at South by Southwest on the future of the beauty sphere online—we have a standing weekly tennis and lunch date. Every Sunday afternoon, without fail.
Libby turns back to face the adoring crowds again, adopting a royal wave as the carriage pushes off slowly toward Buckingham Palace. Next to her, Edward smiles at me, giving me a thumbs-up. It feels nice to have a brother.
All eyes swivel to me as the photographers begin screaming my name:
“Charlotte! Over here!”
“Charlotte! You look bloody gorgeous!”
“Charlotte! Smile for us!”
“Charlotte!”
“Charlotte!”
“Charlotte!”
I turn my head modestly to the right, angling my body so the photographers can get a wide shot of my best side. Libby isn’t the only one who’s learned how to play the game. I’ve had ten years of practice, too.
I turn back to face the cathedral as my mother and father exit, my mother looking like perfection in a long-sleeved royal-blue shift dress and blue hat with black plumes. Dad is as handsome as I’ve ever seen him, wearing a black suit and top hat—he’s had the cutest little smile on his face all day. He and Edward became BFFs long ago. My dad is clearly a father to Edward in a way the King could never be.
My parents seem like they might die of happiness, walking contentedly arm in arm as if there aren’t a million photographers screaming their names. They’re nothing compared with Nana, however, who brings up the rear, dressed to the nines in her finest beaded dress and a hat she had specially commissioned for the day from the Queen’s own milliner in Bond Street.
“Isn’t this lovely?” Nana says, leaning on her cane and beaming as my family walks past the screaming crowds toward our waiting chauffeured car. “My hips might give way, but there’s still some life in the old girl yet. I can’t wait to get up on that balcony and be photographed next to the Queen. Everybody at home will be mad with jealousy.”
“Nana,” I say, laughing. “I think you have everybody at home beat, forever.”
She looks me up and down. For a second, I think she’s going to scold me for being cheeky. Instead, she smiles, joy creasing her face. She walks toward the car, only wincing slightly as she shifts the weight. “I do think you’re right.”
My heel catches slightly on the pavement, so I pause, gingerly extricating it while smiling charmingly at the cameras. They’re always there. I never forget.
Behind me, the royal family exits, Prince Michael and Princess Verena chattering away, and behind them, the King and the Queen.
“Are you all right there, Charlotte?” the Queen asks. She’s dressed head to toe in canary yellow, a small handbag nestled in the crook of her arm. Up close, she’s surprisingly pretty, with charming little crinkles at the corners of her blue eyes and a wicked grin.
My heart skips a beat. I still can’t believe she knows my name. Even though I’ve been on the cover of scores of magazines over the years for Selfsy’s runaway success, something tells me the Queen doesn’t read Wired. I grew up with images of her on tea towels—and now we’re in-laws. Of course, it’s only been a year since we were formally introduced, when the King and Queen invited our whole family to Sandringham following the engagement. That may have been the happiest day of Nana’s life—until now.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “My heel was stuck. I was trying to avoid toppling in front of all the photographers.”
My brain reels—wait, am I supposed to curtsy again? No, I curtsied to them already this morning. I’m set for the rest of the day. God, it’s all so confusing. No matter how well the rest of my life is going, no matter how frequently our families come together, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to hanging out with the King and the Queen.
I mean, would you?
“Oh, they’d love that,” she mutters drily in her high-pitched voice. “The headlines.”
“Are we done here?” the King asks, looking from side to side. Even though his father and grandfather were kings before him, too, I’ve noticed in person that he always looks slightly bewildered, like he wandered into the wrong life.
“You know we’re not, Bingo,” the Queen says, using her nickname for him. “We have the wedding breakfast, followed by the diplomats’ tea, and the reception.” Like Libby, she’s long since kept her partner in check—the true power behind the throne.
He sighs heavily. “I know, I know. Wishful thinking. Come on, then.”
The Queen looks over at me, her eyes full of amusement. “Back to the palace—off we go. Let’s give them a good show.”
I follow the King and the Queen toward the royal carriages, toward my waiting family, toward whatever the rest of today might bring.
And so the next chapter begins.
acknowledgments