New York City, USA
November 2010

Haven't seen him for a while

With a clank, the tray is plonked on the table beside mine.

"So, are you calling dibs?" asks Nia, plopping down on the chair next to me.

I look from her to her tray and back again. "I'm sorry?"

"I was asking if you're calling dibs," she repeats unhelpfully.

Across from us, Seraphina takes a seat, watching us with mild amusement.

Nia and Seraphina are best of friends but come from wildly different backgrounds. Case in point: Seraphina's mother runs the local DAR chapter (Daughters of the American Revolution, that is) in a way to make Emily Gilmore proud while Nia's makes ends meet, working night shifts in a retirement home. I still don't know whether the person assigning them a shared dorm room back in our freshman year (dorm living being mandatory for first-years) was mad or a covert genius, but they struck up an unlikely friendship that survived all differences.

I met them because chance (or that genius in college administration) placed their dorm room right across the hall from mine. A mere two months into first term, I spent half my nights camping out on their floor instead of facing my own roommate, who was otherwise quite sweet and had a convenient cleaning bug but was also very eager to save my soul. The first time I stumbled home in the small hours of the morning after a party, she staged an unasked for intervention and attempted to talk to me about Jesus. (Jesus and hangovers don't mix, let me tell you.) The floor in Nia and Seraphina's room might have done its bit in ruining my back (assisted by my too large bags), but they never once attempted to talk to me about my own damnation.

While I, predictably, moved out at first chance (first into Joy's spare room and later into The Shoebox), Seraphina and Nia happily stayed on in their shared dorm room, much to the horror of Seraphina's mother. She hadn't even gotten over the shock of her precious daughter studying to be a vet and was dealt with the further blow of Seraphina preferring a filthy dorm to the posh little apartment her mother had picked out for her. I gather that neither decision is DAR-approved and Seraphina's mother seems to care an awful lot about what the women in her DAR chapter approve of (which isn't very much, from what I understand).

"What am I supposed to call dibs on?" I now enquire of Nia.

"Not what," she corrects, making a play at looking exasperated, "who."

I know who she's talking about. Truth to be told, I had an idea all along. But, not wanting to make this easy, I merely incline my head and look at her.

"That hottie you took to the party on Sunday," she clarifies with an eye-roll.

"Didn't he wear a mask all night?" pipes up Seraphina over the dim of the cafeteria. "How can you tell he was hot?"

"He was fit," points out Nia. "I don't need to see his face to know that."

Not that his face is a let-down either. But of course, I don't say that.

"Why would I be calling dibs on him?" I ask, though mostly to stall. Nia might be the genius among us (what with her grants and scholarships and studying something about nuclear engineering that left me entirely baffled the one time I tried to understand it), but I'm not that dense.

"You brought him," Seraphina notes with an earnest nod. "You get first call."

God. If only they knew!

"It's really not like that," I try to deflect.

"Not like how?" asks Nia, wriggling her eyebrows, and I know fully well she's baiting me and rise to it anyway.

"Like that," I persist. "I don't know him all that well. I only met him twice before Sunday."

"So, you can't tell us if he knows how to put that fit body to good use?" Nia wonders innocently, though barely concealing her smirk.

Seraphina chokes on her soda from laughing. I roll my eyes.

"As a matter of fact, no, I can't," I answer, feeling a tinge of genuine annoyance. I know it's unfair, because Nia's just taking the mickey as she often does, but just today, I find it slightly irritating.

Picking up on my annoyance, Nia extends a companionable arm and places it around my shoulders. "Just joking," she assures with a brilliant smile. "No hard feelings, right?"

And just like that, she's got me again. "No. It's fine," I reply and mean it. It's hard to stay mad at Nia for any length of time.

On the other side of the table, Seraphina takes a moment to wipe soda from her chin, before turning to consider me curiously.

"You realise you just totally called dibs on him, don't you?" she asks cheerfully.

I sigh.

As a matter of fact, yes, I do realise that. Because you don't get unnecessarily annoyed at your friend's completely good-natured joking if you don't care at all, do you?

"I meant it when I said it's not like that. We never did more than talk." But there's no vehemence behind my words and I know it.

"You did dance on Sunday," Seraphina points out helpfully.

Which is true. We did dance. Not the kind of dancing that bears commenting upon and not in any way unlike I danced with several other guys as well, but still. I won't deny it felt nicer, dancing with him, than dancing with most of the others.

It was a nice evening in general. Ken totally played up the kooky Englishman angle, much to his obvious delight. How many of my friends actually bought it, I'm not sure, but they included him willingly enough and didn't ask too many questions. (Couldn't, really, considering how loud the music was blasting.)

We shared a cab back to my place in the early hours of morning, at which point one of his fabled protection officers finally made an appearance, thus proving that they do, indeed, exist. Taking the keys to his motorcycle from Ken, the protection officer (dressed as a very grumpy-looking bumblebee, which had me stifling giggles throughout) bundled him into a non-descriptive sedan already filled with several other shadowy people. Somewhere in-between, Ken did manage the briefest of hugs goodbye, which… it was nice, I won't deny that.

"But that's really everything we did," I persist, because it's not like the dance or that hug changed anything at all. He's… he's perfectly nice, isn't he, but he's also a prince, for crying out loud! He's this famous, important person and I'm me and even if I did call dibs on him, it's patently absurd to think that anything could ever become of this.

"Any chance of it changing?" asks Nia kindly and squeezes my shoulder.

I shake my head forcefully. "No. He's going back to England in a couple of days anyway."

"Permanently?" enquires Seraphina.

"Well, no," I admit. "He said he expects to be back soon-ish."

"So, there might yet come something of it," points out Seraphina with a satisfied smile. She likes a good romance story, Seraphina does. She's got that in common with Mrs Weisz.

"I… no. No, really. There won't. It's not like that," I argue again, causing Nia to pat my shoulder in the way you would do to someone quite deluded.

Their conspiratorial smiles tell me that I did little to convince them, but they mercifully don't pry further. Which is just as well, for as it turns out, time proves me right on all accounts.

Because as days turn first into one week and then two, there's not one word from him. Complete and total radio silence.

He said before that he needed to return to England for some days to attend a remembrance event and some other royal engagements, and when I go looking for them, I do find pictures of him laying a wreath at a memorial, dressed in a very fancy uniform indeed, as well as photos of him in a factory or another and what looks like a retirement home. It's all very princely and professional and the man in the pictures only has an outward similarity to the one sitting on my bed in a Batman costumes just a while ago.

And it's not that I expect him to get in touch. I don't, really. He brought me the dress and I took him to that party. That's it. There's nothing more to it and there was nothing to suggest that our acquaintance would ever go further than that. There's no reason at all for him to contact me ever again and I know that fully well.

And yet…

It would have been… well, nice. It would have been nice.

Sighing, I burrow my fingers in George's fur, earning an irritated glare in response.

"You're quite gloomy today, little sister," Nan remarks and I turn my attention back to the screen just in time to see her incline her head thoughtfully.

It's Sunday, two weeks to the day since the Halloween party and I have to admit that I caught very little of our weekly Skype chat so far.

Not that I seem to have missed much. I already saw Jake's latest geology project with my own eyes (he's somehow built a model of a volcano that erupts when you press a button) and spent an hour listening to Izzie prattling away about her dancing lessons, so Joy was telling me nothing new. And while the cause of Di and Ebony's latest lovers' spat might have been a new one, the fact that they are spatting isn't. Their relationship is enough to give anyone whiplash just from being told about it.

"I'm just tired." Which isn't even a total lie. I am tired.

Not that my sisters are buying it either way. Nor did I really expect them to.

Joy clucks her tongue. "Pish-posh. You've been quiet all week."

"Yes, spill!" demands Di.

"Is it a guy?" asks Nan, more kindly than the other two.

I shake my head. "It's nothing."

"It's never nothing," points out Di and I can't even argue with that. It never is nothing.

With a sigh, I look down at George, who has curled himself into a furry ball by my side, steadfastly ignoring my intermittent stroking.

"So, is it a guy?" Joy repeats Nan's earlier question. I did my best to escape her watchful eyes this week, sticking close to her children whenever we were together, so she's no more clued in than the twins are.

"I… It… It's really nothing," I reply. When Di raises an eyebrow at me, I somewhat reluctantly amend it to "It's not much."

"But it's something," encourages Nan. "Don't you want to tell us?"

(God, I hate it when she goes all psychologist on me.)

Pressing my lips together for a moment, I quickly answer, "I met someone, it didn't come to anything, end of story. Happy?"

But, of course they aren't.

"Where did you meet him and why didn't it come to anything?" Joy immediately wants to know.

Careful now, Rilla.

"I met him at… at a party." That should be ambiguous enough. "We got talking and met up again twice more, but I haven't heard from him since. Which is fine, really."

"Doesn't sound like it," Di states, not incorrectly.

"Did anything happen?" asks Joy and smiles when I glare in return.

"Nothing happened," I persist. "Nothing at all. We just talked some and that's it."

They all three look slightly dubious, but when I stubbornly tilt my chin forward and refuse to say anything else, they seem to decide to believe me. Which they should. Nothing did happen.

"When did you last hear from him?" enquires Nan, evidently curious.

"Two weeks ago. He had to go back… back to his hometown for a while and there's been nothing but silence ever since," I answer cautiously, absent-mindedly swirling George's tail around a finger until he flicks it away in annoyance.

"Maybe he'll get in touch when he's back?" suggests Joy.

Di scoffs. "This isn't the 1800s. He could call, message, email. Hell, he could even send a carrier pigeon if he felt so inclined!"

Which would certainly be topical, I have to admit that.

"As I said, it's fine," I try, once more, to bring the subject to an end. "I didn't really expect anything to become of it. It was nice talking to him and that's that. He doesn't owe me anything."

"But why wouldn't anything become of it?" wonders Nan.

Yes, why indeed?

It's not like I can tell them the truth. How embarrassing would that be? Admitting that I ever entertained even the slightest hope that the Prince of Wales, most eligible man in, well, forever, might take a liking to little old me. Even I know the thought is absurd. I don't need to hear it said out loud.

"He's… oh, he's what you'd call out of my league," I reply as blithely as I can manage, then quickly look down at George so that I don't have to look at any of them.

For a moment, there's silence and I just know they're exchanging meaningful glances.

"Rilla, sweetie," Joy carefully intones. "You didn't really believe what that awful woman said to you, did you?"

'That awful woman' is the mother of Tristan, my last boyfriend. She's also Seraphina's aunt and, upon inspecting me, found me to be wanting. Certainly not fit for the son of an influential and important family such as hers. She wasn't shy about letting me know about it either. Tristan and I broke up not long afterwards and while I never thought we would go the distance, I can't deny that it did sting.

(Seraphina, thankfully, just cheerfully declared her aunt a madwoman and Tristan a moron and assured me I was better off without either in my life. And she should know, being tied to them both by familial bonds.)

"No-o," I answer, drawing out the word. "I know she was a snob. Still doesn't mean there aren't men out there who are truly out of my league."

I can't really say which of my sisters looks more disapproving.

"You're pretty, funny, caring and reasonably smart," declares Di. (Reasonably smart? Gee, thanks.) "If he doesn't want you, he's an idiot."

"A big one," nods Nan earnestly.

"And you have no use for idiots," decides Joy. "He's had his chance and wasted it, which is his loss more than yours."

Which… I'm not entirely sure that's true, but it's moments like these when I remember why I love my sisters. They can be utterly annoying, but when it matters, I can count on them to have my back.

"You might have a point there," I admit reluctantly.

"I do," persists Joy.

"She does," agrees Di.

"There are plenty of better men out there," knows Nan.

Joy visibly perks up at this. "What about Robert? Did you ever give him a call?"

Robert. Robert from wherever-he-is-from-again.

"Who's Robert?" asks Di, but both Joy and I ignore her.

"I answered his message. Told him I couldn't see it working out," I tell her.

Joy frowns. "But he's a good man. I'm sure you would like him."

"He's perfectly lovely, and from what I've seen, I do like him. Too much to use him just to prop up my own ego," I explain. Because I have my faults, but knowingly leading others along has never been one of them.

Joy sighs. "You're right. I know you're right. It would have been nice, that's all."

I smile to show her that I know she just has my best interest at heart. Nan is already a step further though.

"Aren't there any other handsome lawyers running around where you work, Joy-Joy?" she asks.

Tapping her chin thoughtfully, Joy answers, "We do have a new colleague who's not too shabby to look at. I don't know if he's unattached, but I could certainly find out."

Di brightens. "Do that. Maybe he's enough to take Rilla's thoughts off that other idiot."

Listening to them trying to pair me off, I can't help but laugh (causing George to open one eye in annoyance at this disturbance). If their goal was to cheer me up, they certainly succeeded.

"I'm good," I assure them, meaning it. "I'm not heartbroken or anything. I never knew him well enough for that. I'm a little blue and yes, a bit disappointed, but that's it. Give it another couple of days and I probably won't even remember his name."

Which might be a slight fib, for obvious reasons, but I do mean the rest of it. Am I disappointed? Yes. Would I have liked for him to call? Yes. Am I going cry myself to sleep over it? Not likely. After all, it was always an absurd thought to begin with. I might be feeling down now, I'm not denying that, but, prince or no prince, it's nothing I won't get over in a few more days. I've had worse disappointments than this and I got over them just fine, so this is nothing I won't get over as well.

And I do.

Or, you know, I would have.

I would have gotten over it just fine if he hadn't decided to write just when I thought I was in the clear.

It's a little over three weeks since the party and I'm sitting at Mrs Weisz's kitchen table, listening to her relate the plot of the latest romance novel, when my phone buzzes.

Mrs Weisz breaks off her tale and nods towards my phone. "Don't you want to get that?"

I shake my head. "No, it's fine. I can message back later. Probably just my sister anyway."

"It's impolite to leave someone waiting when they're trying to reach you," Mrs Weisz informs me, her lips pursed in disapproval.

I'm pretty sure Grandmother Marilla would say it's also impolite to check your phone while in a conversation with someone else, but I know better than to try and resist a direct order given by Mrs Weisz. So, I pick up my phone and click to open the message.

I'm back. Can I see you?

Just like that. No explanation, no apology.

Staring down at the message, I suddenly feel utterly helpless.

Can he see me?

Do I want him to?

Should I let him?

Just when I thought I could relegate the tale of me meeting a prince that one time to the status of an interesting party anecdote, and he decides to message after all. It isn't fair!

"Judging from your reaction, I'm assuming it wasn't your sister after all," Mrs Weisz observes knowingly.

Slowly raising my gaze from the phone, I look at her. "No, it's from… from…"

What to call him?

"From a male suitor?" guesses Mrs Weisz.

"From a man," I amend.

She nods briskly. "The one with the motorcycle who came to see you a while back?"

See what I mean about Mrs Weisz making it her business to know all about other people's private lives?

"Yes. Him," I confirm.

"And what troubles you about his message?" wonders Mrs Weisz.

"Nothing, per se," I reply, struggling for words. "It's just that… I mean, I didn't hear a word from him in more than three weeks and… and suddenly, he's asking to see me."

Mrs Weisz makes a thoughtful sound. "That was not very polite of him," she concedes.

It really wasn't, was it?

"I don't know what to answer him," I admit, rubbing a hand across my face.

"I should think it's an easy decision," she replies. "If you want to see him, do it. If not, don't."

I… I'm not sure it works quite that way.

"It's not that easy," I tell her.

"Why not?" is her immediate reply.

"You have to consider the message you project with your answer," I explain. "Can't appear too eager, for one. For another, my sisters would advise me to blow him off altogether. They'd say that he had his chance and wasted it."

Doesn't she know that from her romance novels?

"Games!" declares Mrs Weisz, disdain written over her face. "What good is it, playing games?"

"I'm not playing games," I defend myself.

"So?" she asks archly. "What would you call it then?"

It's…

It's…

Sighing, I hang my head.

"It's playing games," I admit quietly.

"Precisely," she nods. "Which never achieved anything but further complicate an already complicated situation."

I nod, eyes lowered to the table.

The sight of me seems to arouse her compassion, for when she speaks again, her voice is kinder. "I know you young women are taught all these rules about how to behave around a man. Believe me, so were we back in the day, though our set of rules looked different from yours. And do you want me to tell you something?"

Raising my gaze to meet hers, I nod slightly.

"Those so-called 'rules' didn't help then, and they don't help now," she answers. "If you like someone, there's no shame in saying so. And if you want to see someone, there's no shame in doing so."

"I… I suppose there isn't," I admit, only a little reluctantly.

"Not at all," declares Mrs Weisz. "Because playing games is a dangerous business. If you're not careful, it's enough to lose you a man you never meant to lose."

There's a wistful little smile on her lips and I wonder if she, too, lost someone she really wanted to keep?

"What would you have me do, then?" I ask.

"Be honest with yourself and act accordingly," she immediately replies, her voice firm and sincere.

I nod slowly, mulling over her words for a moment. "So, you mean…?"

"What I mean is," she states, "that it all comes down to this: Do you want to see him?"

Do I?


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Gypsies, Tramps and Thives' (written by Bob Stone, released by Cher in 1971).


To AnneShirley:
Please don't apologise! I mean, I was slightly on the lookout for your review, but I also totally know how life can be. So while my greedy self is always glad to hear from you, I also understand that writing reviews might not be your very first priority in life - only, you know, second or third ;).
Glad Dylan and I could be of assistance ;). (But seriously, even discounting '
Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts', that man is seriously obsessed with playing cards, isn't he?) Seeing Joan Baez live was a really great experience. It was an open air concert in a beautiful location and not only does she still have an amazing voice, she came across as sooooo nice! So yeah, I was absolutely glad I went to see her, even if those tickets didn't come cheap.
Well, I guess I must bow to your cousin's logic on that one. Plastic dents don't make for convincing underwear, not even coloured plastic dents. At least it gave poor Ken's Eton classmates even more to have fun with, I guess?
Now, I hope you have a good and rest
ful sleep (thanks for reminding me of that one, by the way - I didn't have it on my song list yet, but I got added swiftly) and am looking forward to your thoughts on this chapter and the last one whenever you have the time :).

To Elle:
I'm glad to hear you're enjoying the story so far and very much hope you'll like all that is to come, too =). As for your question, Teddy is indeed an invention of mine. In canon, Owen and Leslie just had Ken and Persis, but to portray the dynamic of a royal family, I thought it would be interesting to add a younger son into the mix. I didn't base him on anyone in particular either, so this Teddy is truly entirely my own