“And why do you think you’d be a good fit for this job, Miss…” He glanced down at the paper in front of him, “Miss Pearson?”
My palms were wet and clammy and I tried to rub them onto my long skirt to dry them. I knew this question would be asked. They always ask it. I always practice my answer and always manage to forget it the moment the interviewer asks me.
“Well,” I said after a pause, “I’m very organized and never late. I have a keen eye for detail, as you can see from my portfolio. I throw everything I have at each project I’m given. My past clients gave glowing reviews for all my projects, and when they offer me a criticism, I make sure to remember it for my next project.”
He looked unimpressed. I had been in this interview for twenty minutes and he had been so hard to read, but he was probably supposed to be like that. After all, this job position is pretty serious.
“You’re very young; much younger than the rest of the applicants. Tell me why I should hire you instead of them.”
I swallowed, not expecting a question like that. After a brief pause, I said, “I won’t lie and say I’ve got more experience. I’m sure all of them are very qualified.”
“But?”
I wriggled in the seat, reluctant to speak ill of anyone. “But… they’re a different demographic than I think you would want.”
“How so?”
God, this man has the same range of expressions as a brick. His tone of voice was so flat, I couldn’t tell if he was bored or annoyed. Either way, he wasn’t happy about this interview. Seeing as it seemed I already bombed it, I may as well speak freely.
“I think the palace needs a fresh face. For decades, the official photos are all the same. And with social media on the rise, the young people of the United Kingdom and beyond are looking for leaders they can relate to. I feel I know what they would want more than your other interviewees.”
He went silent for a long time, writing something in his notebook. I sat there silently, unsure of whether he wanted to hear more or for me to leave the room.
“You speak very boldly,” he finally said, setting down his pen “We’re not asking for someone bold; we’re asking for someone compliant.”
I felt like I’d been slapped. I tried not to show my embarrassment on my face. I clung to the edge of my skirt knowing that if I didn’t blow it before, I definitely blew it now.
He closed the folder that had held my CV, covering letter, and some sample photographs from previous jobs. He stood from his seat and extended a hand. I stood as well and took one final swipe on my skirt to rid of the sweat and shook his hand.
“Thank you, Carolina. We’ll contact you sometime next week,” he said flatly. He sat right back down at his desk, moved my folder to the side, and opened someone else’s. He noticed I hadn’t left yet and asked, “Is there something else?”
I gritted my teeth together, knowing I was going to regret my next words. But, alas, they came tumbling out anyways.
“I know I could do this job justice. You’ll be picking the wrong person if you don’t choose me. Thank you for your time.” With that, I exited the room.

---

“I’m telling you, Pip – he hated me. You should have seen his face,” I whined, imitating his stern expression.
My flatmate, Pippa Wellington, handed me a glass of cheap white wine nearly filled to the brim. I took a hearty sip as she took a seat next to me on the small, worn sofa.
“He works at the palace! He’s probably not allowed to show facial expressions, like the King’s Guard.”
I rolled my eyes. “Except he wasn’t part of the Guard.” I envisioned him in the tall black hat and red jacket, and cracked a smile. I took another large sip of the cheap wine.
“Beside the point,” Pippa said with a wave of her hand. “You’re a rock star at photography and if he doesn’t see that, well… you’ll do bigger and better things.”
“Better than being the key royal photographer for Prince Alfred?”
Pippa gently placed her hand on my arm. “Mr. Resting-Bitch-Face called you into an interview for a reason. Who knows how many thousand other people applied? And he chose you!”
I drank more of the chilled wine, letting it settle warmly into my stomach. I leaned my head back onto the couch and closed my eyes. “Pip, I only applied on a whim. I can’t keep doing freelance. I love you for paying the majority of the bills, but I can’t let you keep doing that. I’ll start looking for more part time jobs.” I glanced at my glass of wine, now half-empty. “Tomorrow.” I took another swig.
“How cool was the palace, though?” she asked.
I sighed. “I really didn’t see much. They led me to some obscure side entrance. It actually looked like a boring office building on the inside – you know, white walls, that grey-blue carpet, cubicles… It really didn’t feel like Buckingham.”
Pippa curled her feet under her on the couch. “Did you see anyone, you know, from the royal family?”
I nearly laughed out my wine. “Are you taking the piss? Of course not. I doubt they would let me or anyone near them.”
She pouted. “But Prince Alfred…”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “Dear, you’re obsessed. You wouldn’t want him anyways. Have you not seen how much of a player he is? He’s pictured with a new girl every month.”
“At least I don’t have a weird crush on the gay one,” she said, taking a sip of her own wine.
“Shut up!” I scoffed, playfully slapping her knee. “I don’t have a crush and he’s not gay.”
“Right,” she said smiling and laughing, “he’s just a twenty-three-year-old guy who’s never been seen with a girl. Ever. And he’s a prince. Makes sense.”
“Alright, so he’s never publically announced he’s gay–”
“There’s no way his family would ever let him!”
“–but that doesn’t mean anything! The whole LGBT community is becoming more and more accepted. Did you see that the first-ever transgender black man was elected for some government position in the States? If it can be accepted there, it can certainly be accepted here.”
“You’re still weirdly crushing on him,” Pippa added quietly.
I chuckled. “He just… has a nice bone structure. He’s photographed well.”
Pippa let out a loud laugh. “Always the photography with you.”
Pippa always knew exactly what to say to pull me back from the ledge. She managed to pull my mind away from the awful interview. We each finished the bottle of wine and drifted off to our beds happily fuzzy and warm from the alcohol.
I woke up at dawn, feeling like I hadn’t slept at all. I hated alcohol for that. I never slept well after drinking. Pip and I shared a tiny two-bedroom flat in Central London. Pippa was a paralegal at a large law firm near Tower Hill, so she was already awake and in the shower. I grabbed my camera from my desk and began taking a couple shots of the skyline. Living on the seventh floor of a building with no lift had only one perk – the view. The horizon was just budding with a dusty rose color, like a flower blossoming in the heat of summer. Except it was March and still freezing. I made a mental note to go to the Natural History Museum, and capture people ice-skating before the rink closed for spring.
When I was satisfied with the pictures, I finally got up from bed and walked to the bathroom right outside my door to grab a couple pills of paracetamol for the small hangover headache that was beginning to form.
As Pippa was putting on her scarf and coat, she called from her room, “Oh, good. You’re up. Tell you what: I can meet you at Coppa tonight after work and treat you to dinner to make you feel better, yeah?”
She peeped her head out of her room to see me chugging a glass of water. I offered her a thumbs up in reply. Pip grabbed her purse, kissed me on the cheek, and walked out the door. I grabbed her keys on the counter and held them out just as she popped back in the door.
“Love ya,” he said with a wink. She took the keys and left for good.
It was a sort of dance we’d learnt since knowing each other during our rattier days as freshers at uni. She was outrageously smart and kind, but her mind flew at a million light-years a second. She often forgot simple things, like coffee on the roof of her car or her keys. But she was always Pip. I, however, moved at a glacial pace for the exact opposite reason: I was too much of a perfectionist. It always took me an extra ten minutes to leave the flat because I would always worry that I had forgotten something. I usually over-packed my purse with things I might need, but hadn’t used. Better to be over-prepared than under, right?
I crawled my way back into my warm bed and fell asleep for a few more hours. I woke up again at half past ten to make myself a cup of tea. The headache that I had tried to remedy away was still rearing a small head. While I waited for my water to boil, I checked my phone. Even though I knew it would be impossible, I still hoped someone from the palace would call. There was no way I’d get the job but some tiny part of me still hoped. There was no missed call so instead I scrolled through Twitter and Facebook until my water was ready.
After I’d made my cup, I went to my laptop and searched, “Prince Alfred.” The pictures that turned up were mostly amateur ones taken on phones or cheap journalist cameras at different press events or public meetings with us commoners. I’d lived in London for five years and still haven’t met anyone from the royal family, but that didn’t bother me. I wasn’t a fanatic as much as other people were. Having lived in the United Kingdom for my whole life, the royal family wasn’t as awesome for me as, say, all the tourists. Although, I remember all my friends back in Stratford-upon-Avon asked me if I’d met any of them after my first year of moving to London for uni.
I settled on an official royal family photo, where the King and his wife sat regally while their two songs – Prince Alfred and Prince Harry – stood on either side. All the men wore their official navy and gold uniforms, decorated with different military medals and honors, while the King’s wife wore a blush pink suit with a creamy pearl and diamond brooch. I zoomed into Prince Alfred’s features, imagining the best angles to photograph him if, somehow miraculously, I got offered the job. He had very prominent cheekbones and a large nose. I could imagine doing a headshot either straight on or just slightly from above, with a low light atmosphere and black background. As the next in line for the throne, I’d imagine the palace would only allow serious photographs to be presented for the public. But I could see laugh lines on the side of his mouth and crows feet at the corner of his eyes – both of which told me he was a generally happy, funny guy. Personally, as a member of the public, that’s the man I’d like to see in the media, not some stone-faced version of him. Alfred was only human, after all. And he’s only twenty-six. Let the man have some sort of young adult life, right?
I moved the zoom over to his brother, Prince Harry. My heart caught slightly in my chest at his piercing green eyes and flop of curls on his head. Unlike his stoic brother, Harry had the hint of a smile on his lips. Only the smallest dip on his left cheek gave him away. I’d studied his face enough to know that his dimples only appeared when he smiled and somehow the photographer didn’t photoshop the single dimple out.
“At least I don’t have a weird crush on the gay one,” Pippa had said.
It was true that Alfred was the only one ever actively seen with women – a lot of women, at that – and Harry has never, at least to my knowledge. So, with the weird mind that I have, I tried to imagine Harry’s lips attached to that of another man. I tried to see the frenzied touches in the heat of passion, a mysterious man’s hand reaching out to pull the loose curls and Harry’s face lost in the throws of pure bliss. But I just couldn’t see it.
I shut my laptop and muttered to myself, “He’s not gay.” Whether I was stating a fact or trying to convince myself, I wasn’t sure.
I finished my cup of tea and went to go clean it. While drying it, I heard my phone ringing. Figuring it was probably my Nan, I didn’t make a rush to the phone. It was close to being sent to voicemail when I came back to my room. The number wasn’t my Nan’s. In fact, I didn’t recognize it at all.
“No…”
It was still to soon, right? …Right?
In the flash of a millisecond, I picked up my phone and answered, “Hello?”
“Hi, is this Miss Carolina Pearson?” came the voice on the other end. It was a man.
“Yes, this is she.”
My heart was beating ferociously loud. It was physically painful in my chest.
“Hello,” he repeated, “this is William Mastfield. I interviewed you yesterday for the royal photographer position.”
Yes, I know! I wanted to shout, but I kept my cool. Just tell me I didn’t get the job, I’m ready. I need a drink.
“Oh, how are you?” I asked coolly.
“I’m good,” he replied, “and yourself?”
“I’m great!” Now just give me the bloody news, you twat. Enough with the pleasantries already.
“That’s good. Listen, I was calling to inform you that we would like to offer to you the position, if you’re able.”
I went silent. A hot shiver – which I didn’t know was a thing – ran up and down the length of my spine.
“What?” I finally said.
“I’d like to offer you the position. You came up with a good point in your interview yesterday. That Palace – especially the Crown Prince – need to present a better, more homely face to the public, and your portfolio you submitted does just that for its subjects. The royal family needs to be humanized in this day and age of technology, and we think you’re the one for the job. Will you accept?”
What the fuuuuck.

Notes

A little slow to the start, but I needed to give some background info. Next chapter you might see a familiar face.... Subscribe and leave reviews!