My Prince

Obviously, I accepted the offer immediately. I didn’t care about trying to act cool or anything. I nearly screamed “yes” at him and then he gave me details on what to do the following Monday. I hated that I had to wait three whole days until starting, but I swallowed that down and called Pippa.
“Car, I’m just about–”
“Shut up,” I quickly interrupted. “Scratch the plans for Coppa tonight.”
“What? Why? Is everything alright?”
“We’re going to Duck & Waffle.”
I heard a snort on the other end of the line.
“Car… a slice of bread costs £10 there. We can’t afford their dinner. I can’t afford their dinner.”
“We can,” I said, unable to contain the smile in my voice. “And it’ll be my treat.”
Pip laughed again. “Right. Maybe if you got the royal photographer job, then…” Her voice trailed off, then she gasped. “You didn’t…”
“I did!” I squealed, “I fuckin’ did, Pip!”
“Oh my god!” she yelled into the phone.
The next minute or so was spent in incoherent noises on either side of the line, the both of us too excited to form real words or sentences. Eventually, Pippa had to go so we each hung up, but she texted me a second later with nothing but thirteen red exclamation point emojis with the firework screen effect.
I was wide awake now, so I took a shower, cleaned the flat, and edited some of my photos. When it came time to get ready for dinner, I curled my auburn hair and tied the top half into a loose, low-hanging bun. The rest fell just at my shoulders. I applied light makeup, since I had very fair-toned skin. Anything dark made me look too vampirish, as I had learned in secondary school through makeup trial-and-error. When it came to clothing, I really didn’t have many options. When times got tough, I usually resorted to selling my clothes and… well, times were tough. I picked an old shift dress with cold shoulders and three-quarter length sleeves that had pastel pink floral designs on a navy blue background. I pulled on my worn brown faux leather booties, where bits of the leather were now scuffed off. I grabbed my purse and jacket and left the flat.
The walk to Barbican Tube Station was a brisk one. This was the winter that never seemed to end. Light flurries of snow drifted down to the street so delicately that it made me wonder if it was even snowing or just blowing off from rooftops.
I got on the Circle line train right as it pulled into the station. It was jammed full of everyone on their way home from work that Friday. Eventually, I made it to Liverpool Station and wedged my way out of the train. From there it was a quick two-minute walk to the tall building that housed the famous Duck & Waffle. Pippa was already waiting for me outside. I saw her before she saw me, and saw her doing the cold dance – hands shoved deep into her pockets and gently swaying back and forth.
When she caught sight of me, she fanatically waved her arms above her head and crossed the street to me.
“You got it. I can’t believe you bloody got it,” she said, linking her arm through mine.
“You and me both,” I replied, still not quite believing it myself. I hadn’t made that call up, right?
We crossed the street where two bouncers waited, wearing all black save for the Duck & Waffle logo on their jackets.
“Hi, I have reservations under Pearson?” I told one of the bouncers.
He used a tablet that he pulled out of his pocket to check us in, then let the rope loose to let us in. He scanned our bodies with a metal detector wand and checked inside both our bags before telling us to take the elevator to the 40th floor where we will be seated.
Pip and I always dreamed of dining out at Duck & Waffle, but it was never within our budgets, even combined. Whenever we walked by the skyscraper, we always looked up, trying to count all forty floors to the restaurant. Obviously we never really saw it from the street, but I could just imagine the type of views the vibrant and wealthy people inside saw. Now, it was our turn to act vibrant and wealthy ourselves.
The elevator’s walls were made of glass so we watched as we zoomed up forty floors, seeing the people and cars getting smaller and smaller. I pretended I was Charlie, stepping into the magical elevator with Willy Wonka.
We were seated quickly and given tiny menus that had maybe a dozen dishes in total listed, anywhere from a spicy ox cheek doughnut to a pork and apple corndog. Nothing sounded extremely delicious, but it was the atmosphere that drew Pip and me in. Surrounding us were people wearing fine clothes that I could only dream of wearing, drinking out of crystal champagne flutes or sparkling martini glasses filled with neon-colored liquid.
I ordered the Eden cocktail with the celeriac carbonara, while Pippa got the pink peppercorn lemonade cocktail and the smoked eel.
“Smoked eel?” I gasped once the waitress took our menus and walked away.
Pippa laughed and shrugged. “If we’re going to go big, may as well go big.”
We each took a sip of our water and I kept glancing around at the people surrounding us, wondering what it was they did for a living that would allow them to afford a dinner here. I made up jobs in my mind for each person – the lady who was dressed suspiciously like Holly Golightly must have been some sleek interior designer, while the man she dined with was some hotshot lawyer. Across from them seated at the window was an older couple who must have been well into their seventies. The man was some sort of tycoon in the financial world and his wife – who I assume was his wife, at least – was a pretty little trophy thing he carried around to important business events.
“Car. Car. Carolina!” Pippa was calling my name and I snapped out of the imaginary world I was in. I hadn’t realized she had been calling my name.
“What?”
“I said, did you call your mum yet? To tell her the news?”
Well, there goes my appetite.
“No,” I said flatly, taking another sip of my water. My mouth felt suddenly dry.
“Why not? Don’t you think she deserves to know you got the job?”
I set down the glass very carefully, though I wanted to smash it on the table. “No,” I repeated, “I didn’t even tell her I applied, let alone got an interview.”
Pippa leaned in, folding her arms on the table. “Car… when’s the last time you called her?”
I shrugged and looked everywhere but in Pip’s eyes. “I don’t know… two, maybe three months ago.”
Pippa leaned back again in her chair and sighed loudly. “She should know. You should call her.”
To be honest, it was probably longer than three months since I last talked to my mother. I didn’t even go home this past Christmas. Instead, I spent the holidays in London alone, photographing different city landscapes. I hadn’t called her, but then again, she hadn’t tried to call me either.
“It…” I shook my head and sighed. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t care.”
“She would! She doesn’t even know yet. You don’t know how she’ll react.”
“I do,” I snapped. “I do know how she’d react. She’d be too boozed up or high off her ass to care, or even to understand. That is, if she even manages to remember how to pick up a phone. Now can we drop it?”
Pippa fell silent in her chair and I took a large gulp of my water, trying to cool down the heat that had risen inside of me.
After a few moments of awkward silence between us both, I sighed and apologized. “I’m sorry, Pip. It’s just… you know how worked up I get when we have to talk about her. I will call her, alright? I’ll call her tomorrow afternoon. I promise.”
She flicked her eyes over to me, her expression still hurt. She smirked before replying, “Fine. If you promise.”
Pip lived a blessed life compared to me. Her father a successful lawyer and her mother a surgeon, Pippa never had to beg for anything in her life. She went to the best schools and got the best education their money could buy, while I struggled along with barely anyone to guide me. Once my father was out of the picture, my mother began to lose grip on reality and instead succumbed to a hazy world where emotions never quite reached her. Including love. Despite all that, I managed to get amazing grades and graduated with top marks from secondary school, sixth form, and uni. However, in the realm of photography, grades mean very little. It’s the product you create that counts.
When the food came, it looked as if Gordon Ramsay himself had styled both of our plates. We both downed our cocktails and ordered second ones while diving into our food. It tasted like Heaven on a dish. I’d never tasted anything quite as divine before in my life. Nor would I ever again, I realized, once the bill came. I stuck my credit card in, hoping the pay from the job would roll in sooner rather than later so I could pay it off.
We watched the sun set over the city and snapped a few pictures to post to Instagram later that night to make all of our uni friends jealous. I already had the caption in mind: “Living the high life.”
We took the elevator down forty floors back to reality where the brisk air greeted us like a slap to the face, but the alcohol in our systems made our skin feel tougher so we weathered our way to the tube station, back to our flat.


I hated being a lightweight. The following morning, my head pounded from the strong, sweet drinks from the night before. I crawled, again, to our bathroom to pop some pills to remedy away the headache. As usual, Pippa was already awake and making herself a cup of coffee.
“Want anything?” she asked, seeing me slump to the floor after drinking some water.
“Tea,” I whispered. “Please.”
She put the kettle on to boil and I put my hand over my eyes to hide from the light that was drifting into our flat.
The rest of the day was spent lazily lounging around, watching movies illegally on the web since we couldn’t afford a luxury like Netflix. I edited a few more photos before Pippa walked in while the sun was setting on the other side of our building. She stood in the doorway, staring at me while I fixed the color on one of the pictures I took of the sunrise the day before.
“Are you going to say anything or just bloody stand there?” I said, twisting in my chair to look at her.
“You said you’d call your mum.”
I groaned and twisted back to my laptop. “I’m pretty sure I also agreed, at some point last night, that I would introduce you to Prince Alfred.”
Her hand flew to her heart in fake shock. “I thought you were serious!” Sarcasm. Then, in a more serious tone, she added, “Really, Car. I’m not asking you to see her; just call.”
The headache from the morning had gone away, but I could feel a new one forming. And it wasn’t from the hangover. I continued editing the photo, but Pippa didn’t budge from the doorframe. Her eyes were boring holes into my shoulder and side of my face, I knew it. It was like this for another three minutes before I couldn’t focus on the photo anymore.
“Fine!” I finally shouted. “If it’ll make you go away.”
I grabbed my phone, dialed the quick number I’ve known my whole life, and held it to my ear.
“Speakerphone,” Pip said. “I want proof you’re actually calling her and not just holding it to your face.”
I groaned and rolled my eyes, punching the speakerphone button and holding it out.
Brr, brr…. brr, brr…. brr, brr…. br-
My heart leapt when the ringing stopped, terrified that I would actually have to try and hold a conversation with the women that was supposed to be my mother. But instead, the answering machine picked up. She couldn’t even bother to create her own voicemail; instead, it was one of those automated ones that said, “Sorry, the number you are trying to reach–” It repeated back the familiar number, “–is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”
“Leave a message,” Pippa mouthed silently to me.
But I hung up.


On Monday, I woke up to my alarm that was set for 5 AM. I didn’t have to be at the palace until 9, but I wanted to be prepared for my first day. So I got up before Pippa for once so I could have the shower first. I shampooed my hair, shaved my legs, and scrubbed every inch of my body. William, the man who interviewed and hired me, said I wouldn’t be meeting Alfred or any of the royal family for at least a week while I acclimate to the duties and rules for both Alfred and myself.
When it came time to choose my clothes, I really didn’t have anything too professional to wear. I mentally kicked myself for not shopping over the weekend at least for a blazer. Really the only outfit I had that didn’t have any holes or loose threads was an olive green loose, long-sleeved shirt and pair of black jeans that Pippa had bought me for Christmas. I blow-dried my hair and tied the top half into a messy ponytail. I had no choice but to wear my worn down booties again – it was either the booties or trainers, and I didn’t think William would appreciate the bright pink trainers I had bought for a breast cancer run four years ago.
I applied a light mascara and blush, but kept everything light because William had told me on the phone to, “arrive looking professional and clean.” Whatever that meant. So I took “clean” to mean “natural,” but I didn’t want to arrive looking like I just rolled out of bed.
Pippa was just out of the shower by the time I was grabbing on my coat.
“You used up all the hot water,” she muttered, shivering. “You’re leaving already?”
I wrapped my scarf around my neck. “I just want to make sure I’m on time. You know me – perpetually late.”
I rifled through my purse, making sure I had my keys, wallet, and everything William told me to bring on my first day to set me up in their system and begin direct deposits to my bank. I spent the next five minutes running around the flat collecting two different pairs of gloves – just in case it got super cold –, the extra pair of flat keys, a knit hat, extra camera lenses and batteries, and a hairbrush.
“You’re making me dizzy,” Pippa said, sipping her coffee. She was dressed by now in a smart suit and blazer with her blonde hair still wet, making it look more brunette.
“I want to be prepared,” I repeated for the millionth time every time she questioned something I put into my bag.
I slung my stuffed purse and camera bag over my shoulder and spun around in our kitchen for Pippa. “What do you think?”
Pippa stood from her chair at the table, which really was the size of a nightstand, and hugged me tightly. “You’re going to be amazing. Don’t forget to slip Alfred my number if you see him, yeah?” she joked.
I rolled my eyes and kissed her on the cheek. I squeezed her hand and whispered, “This is happening.”
She grinned. “It’s happening.”
I left the flat at 8, made it to Barbican Station by quarter-past, and took the Circle line to St. James’s Park Station. I knew the route to Buckingham by heart, but my heart was still racing. I looked at the time on my phone tick by, knowing full well that I had plenty of time and would, in fact, arrive at least twenty minutes early, but my heartbeat wouldn’t slow its attack on my chest.
I left St. James’s Park Station and walked down the famous road to the palace, seeing the Queen Victoria memorial statue and the gold-gilded angel on top and gardens out front filled with winter flowers. William told me to go around the side again where I had entered on Thursday. I told the front desk my name and they checked me in and handed me a paper nametag where I messily wrote, Carolina Pearson, and stuck it onto my olive shirt, which, I dreadfully realized then, was wrinkled.
“Can I take your coat?” said the receptionist, holding her hands out.
“Oh,” I said quickly, handing her my cheap Primark winter jacket whose zipper was about ready to fall off. I gave her my scarf as well and she told me to sit while she phones William to let him know I’ve arrived.
It was only minutes later that William Mastfield greeted me by shaking my hand and welcoming me to the palace, officially. My bags were checked and I had to step through an airport-grade metal detector.
He led me through various rooms, filling out so many pieces of paper I had no idea whether they were for taxes for getting paid or non-disclosure agreements. I got my picture taken for my staff ID card which would be used to allow me into all the palaces. Finally, he sat me down in his office and handed me a thick packet of paper. The heading at the top read, “RULES AND GUIDELINES.”
“You’ll need to read through this tonight and sign at the bottom of each document that you’ve read it. The palace staff and royal family are very strict when it comes to regulations regarding greetings and how they are perceived by the public. If you are caught by anyone breaking or bending any of these rules – and I mean even the slightest bend – then you will be terminated without warning,” he said very finally.
I swallowed. “Wow, okay. Yeah, I’ll read them tonight.” I took the packet and it weighed heavily in my hands. It must have been at least thirty pages in length, and the font was small. I lightly flicked through it and saw each page filled with bullet points and long paragraphs.
“Now,” William said standing from his seat, “would you like a tour of the palace?”
I smiled. Duh. “Yeah, please.”
He began walking and I trailed after him. “As you know, I am the executive director of all departments here at the palace, and as such, I am the eyes and ears of all that goes on.” We entered into a secret door that blended into the wall and walked through a grey, dimly lit hallway into another door. Again, this door was invisible from the outside, blending into the wall it was hidden against. The room we walked into almost made me pause and gasp.
The walls were white with gilded stuccoes. Even the furnishings like chairs, couches, and lampshades were upholstered with gold threads. There was a large fireplace to the left and in front of us in the center of the room was an ancient-looking wooden desk. The walls were lined with portraits of different men and women. The whole room was lit with the sun streaming into tall windows draped with curtains, which looked to be made out of the softest chiffon. Crystal glass chandeliers dripped down from the ceiling, glittering everything with a diamond light.
“This is the White Drawing Room,” William explained, hands out wide. “This desk–” he motioned to the ancient-wood in the middle of the room, “–was made for the daughter of King Louis XV of France. Over here–” he motioned to the large fireplace and the portrait of a woman above it, “–is the portrait of Queen Alexandra by François Flameng in 1908. The door we just came in behind you also had a passage way to the King’s apartments. You are not allowed access to those rooms, but if you get lost there will be guards stationed around to guide you to where you need to be.”
I nodded, barely taking in anything he was saying. The room was magnificent, nearly glowing from all the gold on every inch of the room. The only part that wasn’t gold was the carpeting, which was an odd red and white circular pattern.
“Am I allowed to take photos?” I asked, wanting to show Pippa later.
“I’m afraid not,” William said, shaking his head. “Photos are only allowed when the staterooms are open to the public during the summer months when the King and his family are away on holiday.”
I resorted to taking a mental picture for Pippa but as William lead me from room to room, each one more ornate than the last, I wondered how I would even remember each one. There were five different drawing rooms, each dedicated to a different color, three ballrooms, a state dining room as well as two smaller ones for family gatherings, the chapel, and, last but certainly not least, the throne room.
The throne room’s walls were a rich, bloody red color and the ceiling was cream with ornate stuccoes. Decorating select spots on the walls were detailed gilded drawings of cherubs and horses and floral patterns. A huge chandelier hung from the middle of the room and two red chairs sat under a red overhanging canopy against one wall, elevated on a small platform. Smaller chairs lined the walls of the room but those two commanded respect from all the others. A bit underwhelming, I thought, for thrones. They looked just like regular chairs, padded with red velvet.
As William was speaking about some historical painting on the wall, a door slammed open, interrupting him. I almost passed out when I recognized the flop of curls and sharp jawline as one Prince Harry. He was visibly upset and kept his eyes low until he nearly ran into William.
“Oh,” Prince Harry muttered, finally glancing up from his rage, “sorry Willy.”
Willy? I almost laughed. I would have too, probably, if I hadn’t been so in awe of being in the same room as Prince Harry!
William bowed his head curtly. “Your Highness,” he said, then looked at me. I quickly bowed as well, but it felt so foreign to me. “I was just giving Miss Pearson a tour of the palace grounds. She will be His Royal Highness’s new photographer.”
Harry barely glanced at me. I stood tall from my bow once more. “Oh, good. The last one was bloody awful. She better be worth it this time.”
His flash of green eyes met mine again, but before I had time to catch my breath, he was storming out again. My eyes followed his figure leaving the room.
I just met Prince fucking Harry!

Notes

Tadaaaaaa finally a bit of a Harry snippet. I promise there'll be more. :) Please leave reviews of what you think and subscribe to get notifications when I update! Follow me on tumblr as well for your daily Styles fix - cheekyharold.tumblr.com
-Julie