Chapter 2 - Sparks

It was a Wednesday. Wednesdays, for the record, are my least favorite days. Most people seem to be happy enough that it's Hump Day and you're halfway to the weekend already, but Wednesdays just remind me that you have to get through that day, as well as Thursday and Friday, before it's really the weekend. Wednesday always feels like you should be much further into the week than you actually are.

This particular Wednesday, the Embassy was utter chaos. We had outgrown our previous building, and after ten years of bureaucracy, we finally had our gorgeous, shiny brand new building. This was great news for me, because the new building was less than half a mile from my flat, taking my commute from 45 minutes on the Tube every morning if I was lucky to a 20 minute walk through Hyde Park. Bliss.

We had been using our new building for about three weeks, but we didn't have the official opening ceremony and reception until that day.

The reason everyone was so damn excited about this (other than the new building actually having windows, after the previous one, built in the '70s, which looked like a penitentiary) was that our guest of honor at the ceremony, helping the Ambassador officially open the building, on behalf of Her Majesty's Government, was Prince Jamie.

Prince Jamie— the Party Prince. Prince Playboy, the walking tabloid scandal. Twenty- seven, and goes through girls like my family went through my childhood homes. He had one serious girlfriend while at Eton and hadn't had a steady relationship since—he had spent the last decade dating his way through the aristocracy. There had been allegations of cheating at Cambridge that were brushed under the rug. The Chairman Mao costume at a Halloween party. Although, to be fair, if my father was caught by the tabloids with his hands up his mistress's skirt while my beloved mother was dying of incurable thyroid cancer, I'm sure I would be a little screwed up too.

Regardless of what is actually going on in his psyche, they stuck him in the Royal Navy on a base in Portsmouth where he couldn't cause much trouble.

But for some reason, someone decided that having him help us officially open our new Embassy building was a good idea. Whoever decided that should be fired.

Didn't America revolt against Britain to get rid of the Royal Family anyway? I mean, the reality is slightly more complicated than that, but the idea was that we wanted our leaders and the laws they enacted to represent the views of the people. We didn't want someone's bloodline to determine their destiny, or the destiny of the nation. But here we are, welcoming the man who is third in line to the throne onto what is legally American soil in the middle of London's most posh neighborhood. I'm sure he will feel right at home. After all, he was photographed by paparazzi falling out of a club three blocks away last week.

I got to work at ten minutes to eight that morning— and for me, if you're ten minutes early, you're practically late. Nevertheless, Sam Stevens was at my desk already, coffee in hand, relentlessly happy as always. Sam is, I guess, my best friend in London, as the person I really consider to be my best friend is currently in Baltimore, teaching middle schoolers with Teach for America. She told me recently that every day of her life is basically an episode of "The Wire." Anyway. Sam.

Sam is a total cliché in that she's a peppy, preppy blonde from southern California, lives for gossip, and requested to be placed in London for the shopping and the accents. However, she works security, is surprisingly good at it, and is actually somewhat of an undercover bad-ass. She's always the first person into the office. My efforts to beat her in on Monday mornings have utterly failed. And when I arrive, she's always perched on my desk, having read the morning tabloids, ready to spew the latest gossip at me, which I really don't want to hear.

And given that today, the likelihood of our meeting a legit prince was quite high, she was bouncing off the walls already.

"Happy Most Eligible Bachelor in the World Day!" She chirped.

Seriously?

I glared at her.

"I have a meeting about the E.U. summit in half an hour that I really need to prep for." I said, setting down my bag and taking off my blazer. "And it's not like he's going to marry either one of us."

"You never know, Ellie. Maybe a feisty redhead is exactly what he needs to tame his wild ways— you know, keep him in line."

"I have told you a million times that I basically consider the word 'feisty' to be an ethnic slur against redheads. Besides, didn't you tell me he usually goes for brunettes?"

Sam rolled her eyes. "Even princes have to switch it up every once in a while. Ceremony starts at eleven." She pointed her finger at me menacingly. "Be there or be square. Remember, I know how to murder you without leaving a speck of evidence."

"Point taken."

She hopped off my desk and began to walk away, calling over her shoulder, "Besides, how often do you get paid to day drink?"

She disappeared around a corner, heading up three floors to her office.

I had to admit that she had a point about the day drinking. If I was dedicating half my morning and all of my afternoon to this asinine spectacle, I might as well enjoy it.

My E.U. Summit prep meeting was insufferable. I'm pretty sure I was the only one of the eighteen of us in there actually paying attention. It lasted an hour and a half. I was the only one under forty- five, and one of only three women. Sometimes I'm amazed at how little actually gets done at those meetings. Forty- five minutes was dedicated to the seating plan for lunch. Forty. Five. Minutes. And those forty-five minutes were not dedicated to the entire seating plan, oh no. They were dedicated to the possible arrangements of the heads of government of Germany, Spain, Liechtenstein, and Italy. The heads of state in question all hate each other's guts, and for some reason, the staff of the American Embassy in London felt the need to weigh in on how the Belgians hosting the event should arrange the seating for lunch on day two.

I was ready to throw things by the time the meeting ended. The ceremony was to start in the courtyard in an hour, but at T–minus forty-seven minutes, Sam was at my desk, grabbing my arm and dragging me downstairs so we could position ourselves at the front, to get the best possible view. I love her, I really do, but she just pisses me off so much sometimes.

Mercifully, the bar was open when we got downstairs, and the buffet selections were better than I anticipated. Your tax dollars at work, etc. Sam furnished herself with a Bloody Mary, and told the bartender she would be back for more celery. Sam insists that Bloody Marys are an energy drink, what with all the vitamins, and likes to remind me that because celery is mostly water, you actually burn more calories chewing it than you consume. I decided that I would be responsible, at least for now, and have a glass of pinot grigio. Pinot is my warm up drink. If the event went badly, I would be back for an entire bottle of cabernet. Sam and I always ended particularly stressful days by knocking back shots of tequila at a trashy bar in Piccadilly anyway, so I was planning to take it easy during the day. Sam, however, could drink Hemingway under the table with one hand tied behind her back.

As we got closer to the start of the ceremony, the crowd in the courtyard grew until just about everyone who worked in the building was outside, mingling. We were herded over to an area of the courtyard set up for the ceremony. It looked like it was set up for a wedding. White folding chairs were set up in two blocks on each side of an aisle, with a small stage in front. There was a podium on the stage, with the seal of the State Department adorning it, and a few seats behind, where the VIPs would sit— namely the head of each department, the Ambassador, and the Party Prince.

Sam grabbed my arm and pulled me to a seat in the second row. She insisted that we be close enough to catch Party Prince's eye. Really? I wanted to sit at the very back so I could sneak away as quickly and as quietly as possible. I had told a friend of mine who worked for the Prime Minister that I would have dinner with him that night, and I also had a briefing packet to finish. I'm all for public diplomacy and networking, but not if it comes at the expense of the real work we're supposed to be doing.

The ceremony finally started. We heard from each department head, including my boss, Frank Wallace. As each of them spoke, I swear I saw Prince Jamie stifling yawns.

I'm not saying he's a horrible person or that I don't understand his appeal. He's actually really attractive, especially when you're less than thirty feet away from him. He's tall, obviously quite fit, and dresses well. In his dark gray suit and silky blue tie, he looked like a Brooks Brothers model, but with less existential angst and less hair product. I really could spout all kinds of romance novel, chick flick nonsense about his allegedly chiseled facial bone structure. His abs were probably fairly chiseled, too. And I can see what people mean about his eyes being "piercing." The combination of dark hair and light gray eyes really is striking, especially when he's looking right at you, paying absolutely no attention to the speech being given by the Director of Economic Affairs.

Shit.

He's staring right at me.

And I'm staring back.

I am way too mature for this.

I get that he's attractive. Really, I do. And I get that he has this reputation for charming the clothes off all the posh girls. I just don't understand why his DNA makes him more swoonworthy than, say, Mike in accounting, who is very good- looking, and sweet to boot.

Party Prince was practically born with the word "privilege" tattooed on his forehead, and from what I can tell, has done absolutely nothing else to deserve our praise.

But here he is.

The Deputy Ambassador introduced him, and he strode up to the podium. He rustled his notes a little, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

God, his accent is so posh.

I felt Sam lean towards me.

"Damn," she whispered in my ear. "My knees are weak and I'm already sitting down."

"Why is he so special?" I hissed back. "What has he done to deserve this?"

"Can't you shut your face for ten minutes and just enjoy how pretty he is?"

I sighed into my pinot. I was going to need a lot of tequila tonight.

Party Prince talked about the important friendship between the United States and Great Britain. He talked about how we have long been partners and allies in seeking peace and justice around the world, and about how the friendship between the two nations was known as "the special relationship."

I rolled my eyes, and whispered to Sam. "It's really a shame about the War of 1812 getting in the way of that special relationship, isn't it?"

She snorted unattractively into her drink.

Party Prince talked about architecture, and how the Embassy had been a collaboration between architects and builders from both countries, and how it was ecologically sustainable, and a sign of the friendship between us.

Then, mercifully, he was done. However, the crowd felt it necessary to give him a standing ovation for what was a well- delivered if incredibly predictable, boring, and mediocre speech. He smiled, gave us a little wave, shook the Ambassador's hand, and sat down.

Then the Ambassador gave an equally predictable speech, thanking Prince Jamie for his inspiring words and pledging to uphold the special relationship through the work of the Embassy, which was a sign of the goodwill of the American people, blah, blah, blah.

Everyone clapped, the Ambassador and the Prince cut a red ribbon across the front door of the Embassy that we had all been using for three weeks, and Sam and I fled to the buffet table.

I was biting into a piece of pineapple when Sam said, "Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Are you kidding? I'm missing the Prime Minister's Question Time for this."

Sam's eyes bugged out of her head. I didn't think that what I had said was all that scandalous, but then I heard a throat clear behind me.

"Miss Banks?"

I spun around, finding myself face to face with Ambassador Greene, and face to neck with the Party Prince himself.

"Mr Ambassador! Lovely to see you! Marvelous speech, as always." Open mouth, insert foot. Sam was trying very hard not to burst out laughing, and was not entirely successful. Still, she was managing to bat her eyelashes at the prince while nearly choking on her drink, which I found to be quite impressive multi-tasking.

"Thank you." The Ambassador turned to the prince. "Your Royal Highness, this is Ellie Banks and Samantha Stevens. Miss Banks works in our Political Affairs Division, and we're borrowing Miss Stevens from the Department of Homeland Security. Keep an eye on Miss Banks, because she'll have my job in fifteen years if I'm not careful."

Prince Jamie stuck his hand out. I shook it. Then he offered his hand to Sam, who was clearly thinking about curtseying, but didn't.

"Lovely to meet you. Thank you for that inspiring reminder of our mutual goals," Sam said, summoning all the decorum she had.

"Thank you, and I assure you," he said, turning back to me, "the pleasure is all mine."

The Ambassador began to steer the prince towards some of our other colleagues, and Sam grabbed my arm, squealing.

"I am never washing my hand again. Oh. My. God. I'm calling my mom."

Really?