2Author's Note:
I came up with the idea for The Special Relationship while watching the Diamond Jubilee last year. It was originally meant to be a TV series, but when NaNoWriMo started, I though, "eh, what the hell?" and turned it into a novel. (And won NaNo for the first time!)
While the characters in this novel are loosely based on real members of the British royal family, they are fictional characters that live only in my head, and to avoid direct comparison, I intentionally avoided giving any of them the same name as a living member of the family. But then this week, little Prince George was born.
My question to my lovely readers is this: Should I change the name of Jamie's father (currently named Prince George)? At this point, I'm inclined not to change the character's name, but if there's a strong reaction, I'll reconsider. If you have an opinion, please drop me a line, either in a review or a direct message.
Chapter 5 – Speed of Sound
I got quite the surprise when I looked at the news the next morning. I have no idea how it happened, but someone took pictures of us that night. I was stunned to come across photos of Prince Jamie on a date with his mystery redhead. The pictures were grainy—taken through the restaurant window from across the street—but they were definitely us.
But evidently dinner and a movie with me wasn't enough excitement for one evening for Jamie. The pictures of us weren't the only pictures of Jamie taken the night before. Apparently after dropping me off, Jamie and his mates headed to Aurelia, his favorite posh watering hole, and he was photographed leaving at three in the morning with some help from said mates.
What. The. Hell.
The text of the article jumped out at me. Party Prince Jamie shares romantic dinner with mystery woman… but is the new relationship in trouble already? … his mystery woman was nowhere to be seen at Aurelia … Jamie drinks with his mates, dances with brunette beauty… is the Party Prince getting cold feet after only two dates? ... is the Playboy Prince back to his old ways? … is Jamie afraid of commitment?
So now there were pictures of me holding hands with a prince in the newspapers, followed by pictures of the prince falling out of a nightclub at three a.m. and acting very, very single. Was he interested in pursuing a relationship with me, or did he want to keep living his beloved "single life"?
I felt stupid. I felt like I'd been played. He'd spewed all kinds of lovey-dovey stuff at me over dinner last night, only to be seen doing shots two hours later.
If he wasn't famous, would I have cared what he did after our date?
But if he wasn't famous, no one else would care either. The paparazzi wouldn't have been mobbing the club like they were—he wouldn't be the top story in all the tabloids. Trying to apply my normal relationship standards of behavior to this situation would only result in me becoming incredibly frustrated.
I wanted to stand up to him. I wanted to let him know that I wasn't going to put up with all kinds of shenanigans in exchange for mooching off his fame and his budget. I wasn't seeking a spot on the Tatler list. I was genuinely interested in him as a person. Or, at least, I had been.
Maybe I was blowing this out of proportion. We'd met two weeks ago. We'd been on two dates. We were at the stage that we were acknowledging the mutual attraction and had agreed to keep seeing each other, but the words "exclusive," "monogamous," "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" were not part of the conversation yet.
So he had gone out for a night on the town with his mates. He had apparently been dancing with other girls, but there was nothing about kissing other girls or—God forbid—taking one home. In the incredibly blurry photos, he wasn't even touching anyone, and seemed to be looking at the floor while dancing, despite what looked like a fairly ample chest on the girl next to him, trying to attract his attention.
Why was I sitting in my kitchen, fuming over my scrambled eggs instead of talking to him about this?
My phone rang at nine on Saturday morning, as I was getting ready to head out to Hyde Park for my diplomatic soccer league practice—a bunch of embassies and firms and non-governmental organizations have teams, and we play friendly matches in the park on weekends. I'm central midfield for the USA.
It was Sam calling. Oh no. As soon as I saw her number on my screen, I froze. I had the incredible urge to run and hide in my closet. I have idea how that would have helped, but that's what I wanted to do. I gritted my teeth, and answered.
I just heard shrieking.
"Have you seen the tabloids? That's you! You're the mystery redhead! Why didn't you tell me? I can't believe this!"
I sighed deeply and explained what was going on with me and Jamie, and I made sure to use short, concise, easily understandable words and phrasing, because when Sam is excited, grammar and vocabulary simply fall out of her head.
"That still doesn't explain why you didn't tell me! Ellie, you should have told me."
"Sam, there is enough pressure on me already. I didn't want this to become some big thing."
"You're dating a prince! It is a big thing!"
"I have been on two dates!"
"Well you look pretty cozy in those pictures!"
"You of all people do not get to use that against me. I'm running late for soccer. I'll see you on Monday."
"I'm going to demand a full report."
"Goodbye Sam."
I hate being the center of attention. I like to be given space to get my work done. I like a pat on the back when I do a good job, and then I want to be given my next assignment. I'm not fussy or dramatic. Everyone I work with keeps telling me I'll be an ambassador within twenty years, but I don't want to be an ambassador. Ambassadors spend all their time schmoozing. I would rather work anonymously behind the scenes to get the actual work done.
However, the diplomatic soccer games are one occasion where I actually enjoy being around other people and being part of a team. That day, the USA was playing Russia, one of our biggest rivals, and after our game, Spain, another excellent team, would be playing Japan, who are small in stature but mighty in determination, compared to the flashy and sometimes inconsistent Spanish. Overall, I have special affection for Japanese soccer players, not only because of the admirable rise of their women's national team of late, but because when I was eight I almost caused an international incident by knocking over some kid in a soccer game. That kid happened to be the son of the Japanese Minister for Finance. Oops.
When Rigby and I arrived (canine diplomacy is important too), several of my teammates were warming up. I entrusted Rigby to the teenaged daughter of a defender and joined in.
We made small talk as we stretched. My colleagues asked me how preparations for the E.U. economic summit were going. No one asked me about Jamie. No one mentioned tabloids. I didn't even feel like anyone was looking at me funny.
At newly twenty-four, I am the youngest player on the American team, and one of only three women. I am also the one with the most recent real competitive experience, as I played in college, although I was a back-up midfielder on a Division III team that never made the play-offs.
The members of the Russian team started to arrive in groups of two or three. The team was all male and mostly in their late 30s and early 40s, most heavily muscular and with very short. The Spanish and Japanese teams that would be playing each other started to arrive, too, and before long there was a decent sized crowd around the makeshift pitch.
Jonathon, our team captain, and a retired Marine, gathered us in a huddle near our goal. He gave us a fairly standard pep talk, we put our hands in, and on three, chanted "USA!" and went out to start the game. After shaking hands with the Russians (most of them seemed surprised when the young, female, ginger American midfielder went down the line saying "privyet" and "udachi"-"hello" and "good luck"- to each of them), and with the captain of the Japanese team who would be referee for the match, we went out to our positions.
I love playing. I love the feeling of my cleats digging into the moist turf as I run. I love the hollow plastic thud of a cleat connecting with the ball. I love the look on my teammates' faces when I send them a pass that they convert to a goal. I love that for ninety minutes, I'm just a part of a team—no more, no less. I am almost unnaturally focused when I play. I did not think about the youngest child of the Prince of Wales once during the match.
We ended up beating Russia 5 – 3, and I had one assist and actually came pretty close to scoring a goal myself, which was easily a highlight of the game for me.
I hung around after the game to watch Spain v Japan. I was sitting on the ground with Rigby and a few of my colleagues and teammates when my phone rang. It was Jamie.
"What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?" he asked.
"So we're not talking about what happened last night?"
He didn't even pause. "What happened last night?"
"Oh please," I scoffed. I stood up and walked a few feet away from the others for some privacy. "I know you don't read your own press, but you had to know that going straight to a posh club with your mates right after a date was going to land you on the front page. So don't pretend to play innocent."
He sighed. Busted.
"I'm sorry about that." Yeah, he was trying to sound sorry, but I wasn't sure if I was buying it. "I've had a tough few weeks at work, and I just wanted to let off some steam with my friends. I had a few beers, danced a little, and then I went home. Alone."
"Look, I don't want to be a nag or be constantly pestering you, and I don't want you to think that I want to control where you go or who you see, because I'm not that insecure. But I also don't want you to think that you're going to get away with all kinds of nonsense because of who you are. I'm not a doormat and I won't let you treat me like one. I'm giving up a lot to be with you, and it would mean a lot to me if that was acknowledged." I had run through that before the match, and everything I had felt when I looked at the news that morning came flooding back to me.
"I understand, and I'm sorry. I do think, though, that it's time we talked about this."
"Fine. Talk."
"There's no need to be short with me, Ellie."
"I'm not being short with you, I'm just slightly pissed off."
"I think we should discuss this in person. Would it be alright if I came over to yours in, say, an hour and a half?"
I checked my watch, and decided that that would work. "Yeah, sure."
"Alright. See you then."
Well, I was about to get officially girlfriended or officially dumped, and something told me that if he was going to dump me, he probably would have just done it over the phone. No need to volunteer to come to my flat to do that.
I got home about forty minutes before Jamie said he would be arriving. I contemplated taking a shower but I decided that if he couldn't handle my post-soccer grunginess, he didn't deserve me.
I made myself a turkey sandwich and was munching away on the second half of it when the doorbell rang. I let Jamie in. Gavin stayed on my front step.
"Do you remember the first thing I asked you when I rang earlier?"
"No," I said mid-chew.
"I asked what your plans are for tomorrow afternoon."
"Oh, right." Chomp, chomp. "Is this a hint that if I have anything scheduled, which I don't, I should cancel it?"
"I just wondered if you fancied a Spurs match."
"Tottenham Hotspur or San Antonio Spurs?"
"What are the San Antonio Spurs?"
"Basketball. Never mind."
This would be public. There would be tens of thousands of people in the stadium, not to mention a television audience of millions who would see us together. This was the point of no return.
"I hate to bring this up, but, so soon after the whole clubbing without me thing?"
"Oh for Christ's sake, it's not about picking up girls. It's about blending in with the crowd, getting horrendously drunk, and forgetting who I am for a few hours."
"That's not how it's perceived."
"But it's the truth."
"And you of all people should know that people don't care about the truth! Even when they say otherwise, people want gossip—happy, well-adjusted people don't sell newspapers, unless they've overcome some trauma or lost eighty-six pounds or something."
"Welcome to my world."
"Am I really part of your world?"
"Did you just quote The Little Mermaid at me?"
"No."
"I mean, you're a ginger and you seem to wear purple and green a lot, but you didn't really strike me as the twee, sentimental type."
"That's because I'm not."
The conversation paused, and we just kind of looked at each other, both trying to hold back the involuntarily half-smiles appearing on our faces.
"I really fancy you, Ellie," he said after awhile. "And I know it hasn't been long, but you have become important to me, and I want other people to know that. So yes, I want you to be a part of my world."
"Does that mean we're officially together? Monogamous?"
"I'm in if you are."
I took a deep breath. I thought about the chaos I was about to unleash on my life.
And then I thought about Jamie. Yes, it had only been two dates. I had started out surprised by how different he was compared to the public perception of him. Then I found myself realizing how much I liked him for him. He was surprisingly warm and funny. We could talk for hours. He was bonding with my dog. I felt comfortable with him.
"I'm in." I said almost instinctively.
"Terrific. So we'll go to the match tomorrow? Girlfriend."
"Yeah, don't say that. Boyfriend." I couldn't help but grin like an idiot when I said it.
Jamie stayed for about another hour, and we just talked. There were of course a few lulls in the conversation, as is natural, but we were comfortable enough with each other that I didn't panic and try to fill them. I was okay with being quiet with him.
After a while, he said he should probably go, and I kissed him goodbye—until tomorrow. I sprawled out on the living room floor, with that stupid grin on my face, only to realize while staring at it that I should really dust the moulding where the walls met the ceiling. Rigby could tell that something was different, and he jumped on me with his tongue out. I hugged him and scratched his belly, and he crawled into my lap.
The next day, I was ready when Jamie rang the doorbell. Knowing that pictures and probably video of me would be all over the place, I chose my outfit carefully. I wore a navy blue and white striped sweater (the team colors), jeans, and black Converse sneakers. I left my hair down in its natural waves and wore light, simple makeup.
I opened the door to find Jamie, wearing Spurs shirt, jeans and black sneakers. Oh man. Pretty soon for near-matching outfits.
He had both hands behind his back, and he leaned in and quickly kissed me. I placed my hand on his shoulder, but his hands stayed behind his back.
"What's up?"
"I've brought you a present." He brought his hands out of hiding and placed a Spurs scarf around my neck. "I hope you like it. I know it's not the most romantic thing ever."
I kissed him. "It's great, and it's meaningful, and that's the most important part. Thank you."
We walked out to the car and got in.
"Are you ready for this?" he asked me as we drove to the stadium.
"Yes," I replied, taking his hand and squeezing it.
He kissed my palm, and my heart did that annoyingly stereotypical jumping a beat thing. Sensing my reaction, he grinned at me.
"We're almost there," he said a few minutes later. "You'll be great at this."
"Great at what? Watching the match?"
"Being in the public eye. You're so composed and self-assured."
"Thank you. Growing up as an only child who moved every few years and whose parents were at work all the time, I had to learn to entertain myself and be self-sufficient at a pretty young age."
"You and I have more in common than you might think."
We were pulling up at— you guessed it— another back alley entrance. After climbing out of the car, we were shown to our seats, which were in the front row, right above the midfield line.
As we emerged and walked to our seats, I saw about a dozen photographers in the press area turn to take pictures of us. I took a deep breath and forged on. Jamie tensed up a little, but otherwise, didn't react. However, he almost skipped down the steps to our seats, which made me smile.
The seats next to ours were occupied none other than Princess Alice, Jamie's older sister, and a man I didn't recognize but was wearing clothing that looked like it cost more than a month of my rent.
Jamie hugged both of them warmly, and kissed his sister on the cheek.
"You must be Eleanor!" Alice said to me, smiling widely and offering me her hand to shake. She had shoulder-length blonde hair, currently held back by sunglasses on top of her head, and she was wearing a cardigan and a dress that looked like it belonged on the court at Wimbledon circa 1934.
"Yes, I am, but please call me Ellie. It's a real pleasure to meet you." I replied, shaking her hand.
"And this is my good friend, Matthew van Hermann." Jamie said, indicating the man.
"Lovely to meet you." I said, as he shook my hand.
"Oh, the pleasure is all mine." He responded.
We sat and got comfortable. From left to right, the seating arrangement was Matthew, Jamie, me, Alice, and she clearly wanted to get to know me better.
"Jamie has told me so much about you, I almost feel as if I know you already," she said.
"Well we've only gone out twice, so I don't know how much there really is to tell." I leaned back in my seat, enjoying the rare fall sunshine.
"Oh, he's found plenty to tell us, I can assure you, and believe me, he would not have brought you here today if he wasn't serious about you."
"Are you sure he isn't just having his beloved sister interrogate me to test me?"
"Oh, no, if that was the case, we would be at the Tower of London and there would be a lot more weaponry involved."
Jamie turned and joined our conversation.
"Shh, Alice, don't tell her about my plans for our next date."
He was able to deliver the line deadpan, but could only hold up for another few seconds without giggling.
It was then that the two teams came out onto the pitch and after the usual pre-game pomp and circumstance, the match began.
After the mind-boggling turn of events that led me to be attending my first Premier League match with my boyfriend, a prince, and his sister, a princess, I didn't think there was anything left that could surprise me, but I was wrong.
The Spurs took the field to music from Star Wars.
And then they amazed me again. For the Spurs, the pre- game pomp and circumstance involves a spirited rendition of a fight song to the tune of "John Brown's Body," also known as "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," one of the most parodied songs ever. It was quite easy to pick up. The lyrics weren't the most creative or most difficult (mostly the same three lines repeated), and the tune was familiar. Jamie and Matthew and Alice were really into it, and as I was stuck in the middle, I was basically drafted into it. They all had their arms around each other's (and my) shoulders and were swaying back and forth in time with the song.
"You do realize that this is an American song, right?" I said to Jamie, having to yell over the noise of the crowd.
"Well, not all of you lot are completely hopeless," he yelled back, squeezing my shoulder and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek as I grinned.
I could practically see tomorrow's tabloid headlines already. I could definitely see the photographers snapping away right at that second. But for some reason that didn't quite make sense to me as a rational person, I didn't care.
What can I say? It was a soccer game. The players ran one way for a while, then they ran the other way for a while. They fell down a lot, gripping various parts of their legs, writhing in "pain." Players came very close to scoring, and when they didn't, they made agonized facial expressions and did dramatic things with their arms. The Premier League is high drama.
The Spurs scored the first goal, twenty-four minutes in, and it was a beauty— a textbook strike from about twenty yards out that bended in and sailed past the keeper's out-stretched right hand.
The place went wild. We all jumped up yelling and cheering. Jamie was so excited he absolutely lost his mind and wrapped me up in a big bear hug and lifted me several inches off the ground. I shrieked and almost kicked Alice by accident.
Unfortunately, the opposition scored about fifteen minutes later, and we went into halftime with the score tied at one all.
Jamie turned to me. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked, seeming quite anxious.
"Immensely," I replied, taking his hand. It was the truth. Despite all the photographs we knew were being taken, Jamie seemed completely at ease. He was with his sister, his best friend, and his new girlfriend (I smiled just thinking about it), in an environment in which he was comfortable. This was definitely the happiest I'd ever seen him.
"I don't want you to be mad at me for doing this," he said, his expression wavering between concern and mischief, "because there are an awful lot of photographers about."
"Doing what?"
"Kissing you, because I really want to, but I'm not sure how you feel about having pictures of that in the papers."
"It's an occupational hazard. I knew it was a risk when I agreed to this."
"I'll take that as your permission then."
"Well that is what I meant by it."
By this point, our faces were only a few inches apart and we were grinning at each other like the idiots we were. I could hear shutters snapping, but I didn't care. Our kiss was short and sweet and innocent, but definitely long enough to let people know we were for real.
We separated and each leaned back in our seats, but he kept his hand on my knee. Ugh. I can't even describe how I felt. I didn't think I would find it this easy to be in front of this many cameras with this much attention likely to be paid to us in the media. In a weird, backwards way, I felt freer now. On our first two dates, we were hiding from everyone else, and now we could just be open and be ourselves. Or, at least, we could be more ourselves than we were before.
The second half began, and things got really interesting seventy-three minutes in. I initially thought it was an opposition own goal, but once we saw the replay, it was clear the ball deflected off the defender's foot once it was already over the line. It was an ugly goal, but it was a goal, and once again, the place exploded.
The Spurs managed to hold onto the lead for a 2 – 1 victory, and Jamie was ecstatic. He was grinning like a small child at a birthday party, and as I made small talk with Alice as we were preparing to leave the stadium, he wrapped his arms around me from behind and rested his head on my shoulder. Smiling, I leaned back against him and placed my hands over his.
"You two are absolutely adorable," Alice said, gently swatting her brother's arm.
"I'm going to be sick," chimed in Matthew over Jamie's shoulder.
"You're just jealous," Jamie said, kissing my cheek. I grinned even wider.
We made our way back to the car, saying farewell to Alice and Matthew along the way. We tumbled into the backseat. Jamie opened his arms to me, and I cuddled up against his side, his arms around me. I could get used to this, and I had the feeling I would.
I hate clichés, especially of the romantic variety, but I couldn't help it anymore. We were an adorable couple. And as unsentimental and guarded as I usually was, I was loving our snuggling and cuddling and the sweet nothings we were constantly uttering to each other. We were, in a word, sickening. But man, we were cute.
When we pulled up down the block from my house, I asked Jamie if he would like to come inside.
"As much as I would love to," he said sadly, "I have to get back to Portsmouth tonight. But because I'm a gentleman, I will escort you to your door."
"You, sir, are a prince among men." I said, gently tapping his nose.
"Yes, that's the idea."
We slid out of the car and walked down the alley to my flat. Once we reached my front step, I turned to face him.
"I really wish you could stay."
"So do I, but we'll find another time that works." He gently placed his hand on my neck, right behind my ear, and caressed my cheek with his thumb. "I can get a day or two off in the next week."
"Good."
Once again, our faces were inches away, and we were grinning at each other like the idiots we were. He leaned in the final few inches and kissed me—hard. He pulled me close against him and held me tight. I responded eagerly, running my hands through the hair at the base of his neck. I could feel the goosebumps rising on his skin. He tasted like fish and chips and vinegar and beer—salty and fried and ordinary and beautiful.
I didn't want to let go, and he didn't seem to want to either, but at a certain point, we had to. Gavin, standing a few steps away on the cobblestones, cleared his throat conspicuously. As Jamie and I separated, we couldn't help but laugh.
"I'll call you to let you know when I'll be back in London."
"I'll be looking forward to it." I smiled at him and gave him a final kiss. He pulled me tight against him and kissed the top of my head.
"My sister loves you already, and she's a terrific judge of character, so I think that bodes well for our future."
"I liked her a lot too."
"Don't be surprised if you hear from her as often as you hear from me."
I giggled. "I won't."
He kissed me one more time. "I'm definitely leaving now." He backed away, squeezing my hand. "I'll see you soon."
"You'd better."
He turned and walked back to the car, Gavin following two steps behind.
I went inside, and greeted a seriously cabin-feverish Rigby. And then, so help me, I actually skipped around my living room with a huge grin on my face, before collapsing onto my couch with that same stupid grin. It just wouldn't leave, dammit.