My Prince

It snowed the following two days, basically shutting down the city of London. It made it impossible to go to work, but Jude assured me that no one was able to make it in so I shouldn’t worry about it. Pippa and I stayed in our flat, complaining every five minutes about the snow falling down but still complimenting how beautiful it looked outside. On the streets below, people walked and threw snowballs at each other. I always hated the cold, so I stayed indoors even when Pippa whined about wanting to get a good Instagram shot of the snow.

“If you want a picture, go out and take one yourself,” I told her, cradling a warm tea in my hands.

When Monday came, we were each stir crazy and a little sick of the other person. It came as a godsend when the sun shone on Monday morning, melting everything. I got into the office earlier than usual so I didn’t seem like I had been slacking with the extra time off. But when I got to my desk, there was an envelope waiting. It was small and brown, and only had “Carolina” written on the front in scratchy handwriting.

I picked it up and it felt heavy. When I opened it, I saw a small note with a key.

When the world feels cramped and you need some solitude. –H, it said. I remembered I had told him those words about Wilton’s. I looked at the key and realized it was a key to the music hall. I don’t know how long it had been on my desk, but for whatever reason, I glanced around the office as if Harry would be there waiting for me to see it. He wasn’t.

By the time it was ten o’clock, I noticed Jude still wasn’t in. I lightly knocked on William’s door and walked in.

“Yes?” he asked, leaning under his desk for something.

“Hi, Mr. Mastfield. Um, I was just wondering – Jude isn’t here.”

“That’s not a question.” He flipped through some papers.

“No, um, I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t something I was supposed to be at, or…”

“Nope,” William replied, finally satisfied with whatever he was looking at. He placed it on his desk and looked up at me. “The princes have an engagement in Edinburgh this morning and will be attending events in Scotland all week.”

“Well, sir, I noticed that there hasn’t been much press lately about last week’s… event. Should I be in Edinburgh as well? I’m sure Mr. Lawson could use the help and–”

“The King still doesn’t think it’s wise,” William said, cutting me off. “The press may have calmed down for now, but we don’t just want them to calm down; we want them to forget the events. If you’re seen out so soon, they’ll write of nothing else but ‘the girl who got Prince Harry to punch Pierce Volier.’ We want them focused on the charity work the boys are doing, not the silly tabloid rumors that have spread.”

“What am I to do in the meantime?”

“Mr. Lawson will send the photos each night for you to take care of the following day. As there haven’t been any yet, I’m sure you can find yourself useful around here.”

I’ve been demoted to an intern, I thought begrudgingly to myself as I walked back to my desk. The rest of the day was spent helping everyone else – filing paperwork, refilling paper in the copy machine, fetching coffees, etc. – and I wanted to shoot myself in the foot. I was being punished for something I had no control over. What was I supposed to do? Say no to the prince? He knew I needed that escape, and I felt like he needed one, too.

Thankfully I didn’t have to stay until Jude sent the photos. William at least gave me that luxury. I arrived at the office just after 8 the following morning to an email from Jude sent just minutes before midnight. I scrolled through the images and picked out the ones I thought had the most potential. The photos from the morning before were classic hand-shaking photos of both the princes. They went to Edinburgh castle to unveil a new exhibit. Both princes were pictured individually giving a speech at a podium. Prince Alfred was wearing a classic navy suit with a sky blue button-down shirt and matching navy trousers, while Prince Harry wore a more daring ensemble of a white floral suit jacket with matching trousers and a white button-down silk shirt, with his trademark top buttons undone, exposing a bit of his chest.

Continuing through the photos, there was some sort of red carpet event in the evening that, of course, Prince Alfred had a date to. I assumed she was a model of some sort – her body barely even existed next to his. Her neck, arms, waist, and legs were so thin I worried about her being able to even stand upright. Prince Harry was pictured dateless, which made me slightly happy.

“At least I don’t have a weird crush on the gay one,” Pippa had said right after my job interview. Maybe that’s why we didn’t kiss. Maybe I did imagine the signals. He did dress rather flamboyantly and was never pictured with a girl – except for me, last week. At least for a brief moment, I suspended those gay rumors.

He’s gay. Get over it, I told myself. But I still managed to linger on his photos just a bit longer than Prince Alfred’s, if only to take in the entire sight of him. I spent all day editing the photos Jude sent in, but instead of going home that night, I decided to go somewhere else. I left Buckingham and walked to St. James’s Park Tube Station, hopped on the crammed District Line and stood crushed between people for an uncomfortable fifteen minutes. I wedged my way off the tube at the Tower Hill Tube Station and walked east for ten more minutes before finding the memorable alleyway. I pulled my keys out of my purse, fumbling with the gloves on my hands for the proper key. I put it in the lock and was half surprised it worked. I shoved hard on the door and found the light switches the prince had used before. Wilton’s Music Hall burst with light, and the Apollo message on the beam above greeted me.

I don’t know why I wanted I come here. Something just felt right with this place. It felt warm and good. Although, walking around alone felt a little creepy in the old building. I decided to do more exploring since my time here before was cut short. Instead of walking to the hallway on the left like before, I took a right turn and found myself in a small bar area. I played with one of the tabs and was surprised to see beer spill out from it. I didn’t think Prince Harry would be too upset, so I took a pint glass down and filled it up with the frothy, light brown liquid. I didn’t recognize the brand name but I didn’t care. It was sweet but held a bitter note at the back of my throat. It was delicious. I took off my hat, jacket, and scarf and wandered more about the hall while holding the pint.

More children’s drawings lined all the walls in the building, each one depicting something different. Some were family portraits (very rough portraits, might I add), others told fantastic stories of dragons or princesses. None of them had any rhyme or reason for being on the walls of this small music venue, it seemed. I walked back to the entrance and decided to take the stairs up to the balcony level. I sat on one of the chairs overlooking the stage below and propped my feet up on the rail. I sipped more at the beer, feeling a warmth settle in my stomach. I understood why Prince Harry decided to buy it when it went under. This place had such character and made you feel welcome, even if you were alone inside it. I never wanted to leave this place.

I finished the beer and went back to the bar to clean it. After, I walked into the main seating area of the hall and went straight up to the stage. Just days ago, the prince was here singing to me on that piano right there. I could still hear the melody in the air.

“Don’t let me… Don’t let me… Don’t let me go, ‘cause I’m tired of feelin’ alone.”

I got up onto the stage and walked over to the piano. I looked at the bench, still unbelieving Prince Harry had sat there. I looked at it for a few seconds, wondering if I should really do it. Then I did. I sat down and heard it creak lightly underneath me. I lifted the cover over the keys and plunked a few notes. The first one almost startled me by its sheer volume, only because it was so quiet within the venue. The curved walls and ceiling only made the note bounce around. It made it seem even louder. I only knew simple songs on the piano, ones that friends or music teachers would show me at school. Neither of my parents allowed me to take lessons when I was a kid because we couldn’t afford it.

I kept coming back every day after work. I found myself counting down the minutes until I was able to leave the office to come to Wilton’s. Pippa asked me every night where I was, and I told I was working late since Jude was gone. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her about Wilton’s – probably because I liked the alone time it allowed me. The city of London was always so claustrophobic that this little piece seemed to be carved out just for me. It was a breath of fresh air. Each time I went to Wilton’s, I sat behind the piano, trying to find the notes the prince had played for his song. It took me three days, but I eventually found the three repetitive keys. I didn’t remember all the lyrics, only the chorus, so I sang that over and over. It was on the fourth day, Friday, as I was singing the chorus for the fourth time, that I heard someone walking into the theatre.

I gasped when I saw Prince Harry’s figure round the doorway.

“You said you weren’t a good singer,” he said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh my god,” I mumbled, backing away from the piano. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“Hey, imitation is the highest form of flattery.” His smile widened now.

“I’m sorry. I’ll go.” I got off the stage and gathered my coat.

“Please don’t,” he said, stepping closer to me. “I gave you that key for a reason. Though, I didn’t intend for you to come every day.”

“How did you…”

“What, you think I don’t have cameras or security installed?” He was only a few steps away from me now.

“You… You’ve been watching me?” Oh god, he’s seen me try and mimic his song for four days!
Prince Harry shrugged. “I get a notification on my phone whenever the doors are opened. Once I saw it was you, I usually didn’t pay attention. But you came here every day. I wanted to know what you were doing.”

“That’s embarrassing,” I mumbled, wanting to smack myself in the head.

“You liked my song, huh?” He nodded to the piano.

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. “Er, yeah. I was just fiddling around…”

“You can sing, you know. You are good. You just need confidence. You said it used to be your dream, right?”

I laughed darkly and looked down at my feet. “Yeah, but I was a kid.”

“So?”

I looked up at him now. “All right then, Your Highness–”

“Harry.”

“–what was your dream, then?” To be a dashing prince?

He laughed. “Besides writing music? I’ve always kind of wanted to be an actor, I guess. I’ve always liked the idea of slipping out of my life and into someone else’s. Maybe even a model.”
I took a seat at the table and he followed suit.

“Actor? Model? Why can’t you? I mean, you’re a prince. You could do anything you want.”

Harry clucked his tongue in his mouth. “Not exactly. I could donate to a charity regarding acting or modeling, but I can’t do any of that myself.”

“Why not?”

“When’s the last time you saw royalty do any of that?”

He had me there.

“Have you talked to Jude?” I asked. “I’m sure he’d be willing to at least help in the modeling.”
Harry gave a dry laugh. “Oh, we have. We’ve done shoots. But the damned press secretary refuses to release any of it.”

“Does she have to?” I never met the press secretary, but I emailed her every night my photo edits from Jude. She never replied, but I would see a couple of them on the royal’s social media pages the following day.

Harry pursed his lips tightly together. “People have this notion of royalty – that we can say and do whatever we want simply because we’re royalty. It’s actually the opposite. Every second of every day is planned out for you. Charities are picked out for you. Hell, I can’t even send out a Tweet. I live in a glimmering straightjacket.”

“I’m sorry,” I said simply. I didn’t know what else there was to say.

“Anyways, shall we have a drink?” Harry slapped the table, essentially slapping away the pity in the air.

“Um, sure.”

We both stood from the table and made our way to the small bar near the entrance again. Harry grabbed the pint glasses, which I promptly took from him to pour.

When he raised an eyebrow, I smiled and held the pint glass under a tab to pour. “They always say to watch your drinks, in case anyone puts anything in them.” I chuckled. “Plus, I did some bartending when I was at uni. I can’t imagine you’re too good at topping off.” I finished the beer, making sure it only had a small head of foam. I handed it to him and he looked rightly impressed.

“You’ve got me there,” he said, tipping the glass at me and then taking a sip.

I poured another one for myself and we both went back into the theatre. I don’t really know why – there were chairs in the mini bar area, after all. Maybe we both felt more content in that large, open room.

“So – I have a question,” I asked boldly, after taking a few sips. I was beginning to forget that Harry was a prince and not just a friend.

He nodded. “Go for it.”

“What’s with the drawings? The children’s drawings?” I pointed to the door.

“Most have been up for as long as I can remember. When I bought the place I continued to have regular events, some of which were groups reading to children. I guess at these events, they have the children draw something. Since I assumed that’s where all the drawings came from, I kept up the tradition by hanging them on the walls.”

“Any by you?”

A cheeky smile spread across his lips. “Maybe.”

I gasped. “Where??”

He winked. “Ah, you’ll have to find that for yourself, Miss Pearson.”

I rolled my eyes and took another few gulps of the sweet-tasting beer.

“I have a question for you, then,” he said after a few moments of silence.

“Oh boy.”

“How are you finding your job so far?”

I puffed out a large breath of air and chuckled. “What, you mean the one assignment I’ve been to? Yeah, it’s been great,” I said sarcastically.

“I’m sorry it’s been so difficult…”

I shook my head. “I never know what to think of Mr. Mastfield. I mean, he seemed to be in my corner after Pierce but half the time I never know where he and I stand. And then after our tryst last week,–”

“Tryst, huh?”

“–he’s barely spoken a word to me. And when he does, it just feels so condescending.”

“Will’s never been one for feelings,” Harry said softly. “For the longest time as a kid, I didn’t think he had feelings. But as I grew older, I learned his mannerisms and now he and I get along swimmingly.”

“Oh, well,” I scoffed, “if he and you can get along…” Eye roll.

“Carolina,” Harry said, placing a soft hand on mine. I almost gasped and dropped my beer. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable at work. I can talk to him if you want.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off of his hand on mine. It was so warm. I didn’t know if the heat came from his hand or if I was imagining the fire under my skin. I took too long to reply.

“Carolina?”

“Oh, uh,” I stuttered, looking away from our hands, “no, that’s okay. Thanks, though. I’m sure everything will blow over soon enough.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. “Why – uh – why don’t you play another song of yours? Seeing as I’m your number one fan.”

His features immediately lit up. “You sure?” His hand left mine, and an icy chill fell over where his palm had just laid. “You really want me to?”

His excitement was contagious, although I pitied him a bit to see how excited he got. He obviously didn’t get to play for people often, if at all. I may be the first person to hear some of these songs.

“Go ahead.” I motioned to the stage ahead of us.

Harry put his beer on the table and jumped onto the stage, getting behind the piano again. “So, this one is much newer than Don’t Let Me Go. I wrote this one just a few months ago, while I was fiddling on the piano.”

I nodded, urging him on. “Woo!” I shouted. “Go Harry!”

We both chuckled before he began playing the heavy, slow notes. After a few seconds of that, he began, “Just stop your crying, it’s a sign of the times. Welcome to the final show, hope you’re wearing your best clothes. You can’t bribe the door on your way to the sky. You look pretty good down here, but you ain’t really good.” A short pause, then he surprised me by going into a higher, falsetto voice that, with his deep voice, I didn’t think was possible. “We never learned we’d been here before. Why are we always stuck and running from the bullet? The bullet? We never learned we’d been here before. Why are we always stuck and running from the bullets? The bullets?” A few short, chunky notes on the keys and he voice left the falsetto behind, becoming stronger and louder as he entered the chorus. “Just stop your cryin’, it’s a sign of the times. We gotta get away from here. We gotta get away from here. Just stop your cryin’, it’ll be alright. They told me that the end is near, we gotta get away from here.” The chorus ended, and he went back to the same, heavy notes and melody as the beginning. “Just stop your cryin’, have the time of your life. Breaking through the atmosphere, and things are pretty good from here. Remember everything’ll be alright. We could meet again somewhere, somewhere far away from here.” He paused and went into a falsetto again. “We never learned we’d been here before. Why are we always stuck and running from the bullets? The bullets? We never learned we’d been here before. Why are we always stuck and running from the bullet? The bullet?” With a louder, more demanding voice again, “Just stop cryin’, it’s a sign of the times. We gotta get away from here, we gotta get away from here. Stop your cryin’, baby, it’ll be alright. They told me that the end is near, we gotta get away from here.” Without missing a beat, he moved, impressively, back to falsetto. “We never learned we’d been here before. Why are we always stuck and running from the bullets? The bullets? We never learned we’d been here before. Why are we always stuck and running from the bullets? The bullets?” Again, he switched into a more powerful voice slammed away at the keys and moved into the bridge of the song. “We don’t talk enough. We should open up, before it’s all too much.” He took the break in lyrics to furiously play the keys in impossible notes. “Will we ever learn, we’ve been here before? It’s just what we know. Stop your cryin’, baby, it’s a sign of the times. We gotta get away…” His voice trailed, and I could tell he was leading up to a large moment in the song. “We got to get away! We got to get away! We got to get away! We got to get away!” He held onto the last part of the word for a while before repeating, “We got to, we got to get away. We got to, we got to get away. We got to, we got to get away.” He held the last note of the song even longer than before, and I worried his vocal chords would bust. But he held on, only making my heart glow brighter. Then he played the same, heavy piano melody from the beginning of the song, eventually fading out.

I clapped furiously again, still awestruck of how beautiful his music was.

“That was amazing!” I said, amazed. “What’s that one called?”

He stepped away from the piano and back towards our table. His face was red, either from the power drained from him from the song, or from embarrassment. “That’s Sign of the Times.”

“I mean, Harry…” I was shaking my head in disbelief. “That was incredible. Seriously.”

“When are you going to sing for me, huh?” He sipped his beer.

I shook my head. “Um, never.”

“Come onnnnn,” he begged. “I’ve sung two for you, now! I think you owe me.”

I tipped my nearly-empty pint glass in his direction. “I’ll need a whole lot more of these, then.” I had hoped that would put him off, but instead, he stood and took my glass.

“Fine then,” he said, about to walk away.

“I was joking!”

“Too late,” he said, already halfway out of the theatre.

Four pints later, I found myself on the stage, belting out Whitney Houston’s version of “I Will Always Love You,” as if I was in some sort of lonely karaoke bar. Harry was down below, sitting at the table, cracking up and covering his face. The skin of his face and neck were red from laughing so hard, which only made reaching my high notes even more difficult.

When I finished my last trills, I took a staggering bow.

“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all night,” I said as I air-kissed the invisible crowd. I stumbled down the stairs back to our table where I plopped down onto the chair and finished the remaining beer.

After his laughing fit subsided, Harry wheezed out, “That was… that was something.”

I faked a gasp. “Ouch. Rude.” I knew my cheeks were flushed red from the alcohol.

Harry looked at the watch on his hand. “Is it really 12:30?”

Without thinking, I grabbed his wrist to look at the time myself. Once my vision steadied, I saw that it was, indeed, half-passed midnight. “Fuck.” I checked my phone and, sure enough, Pip had messaged me about 30 times asking where I was. “Fuck,” I whispered again.

“Miss a hot date?” Harry asked, eyeing my phone and me.

I scoffed. “Right, yeah. No, my flatmate is just freaking out. I should call her, but she’s probably already asleep.”

“Not freaking out too much then, huh? If she’s already asleep?” He leaned forward and took the phone out of my hands.

He was so close to me, and he wasn’t backing away. Was I making up the signals again? I had felt so relaxed with him now because I had thought he was gay. I mean, that’s the only way things made sense – and that’s the only way I could think of him if I wanted to keep my job. But I kept feeling something pulling me toward him, and I couldn’t stop myself.

“You know why I love this place so much?” he suddenly asked, breaking the mild tension. His voice was low and soft, as if he were in a crowded room, trying to make sure only I heard his words.

“Because you went here a lot as a kid,” I replied. After all, it was what he told me.

“Yes and no,” he continued in the same low voice. “Because it has no windows.”

I looked around. He was right. The walls, though peeling with paint, had no fixtures on them aside from lights.

“No one to pry. No one to take pictures. Just… silence from the outside world.”

I was busy looking at the way his lips moved to form their words. “That must be nice.”

“Inside of here, I’m not a prince. I’m not the second in line to the throne. I can be anyone, do anything.”

My heart was racing painfully fast. I could smell the beer on his breath, he was so close. It mixed with his cologne beautifully. I wanted to bathe myself in it – in him.

“That… must be a breath of fresh air,” I mumbled out. I may have been feeling the alcohol, but I knew I wasn’t drunk. I was in control of myself. I remembered William’s words – that he knew of my mother’s history of alcohol abuse but hired me because he didn’t think I’d travel down the same path as her. With that thought, I drew back from Harry, my illusion of him instantly shattering. “I should get going.”

“It’s Friday, you don’t have work tomorrow.”

“I know but…” I shook my head, trying to clear the fuzziness of the alcohol. “This isn’t right.”

“What isn’t?”

I pointed between us. “This. Whether you want to forget it or not, you are a prince, Harry. And I’m… I’m just a photographer. It isn’t right to be sat here pretending you’re anything else.”

He swallowed, his face losing its cheeky grin. “I wasn’t saying that to get pity.”

“No, I know but–”

“I said it so I could do this.” He stood from his sea to cross the small distance between us. His hand reached out to cup the back of my neck while the other touched my cheek. He took a moment, reading into my eyes but I was already drowning in the depth of his emerald ones. Then, he leaned down to my height and lightly touched his lips to mine. I should have pulled away. I should have told him, again, that it wasn’t right. He was a prince! But none of those thoughts occurred to me then. Instead, I did the opposite. I pulled his waist closer to me, closing the distance between our bodies, and kissed him back.

Notes