New York City, USA
November 2011

Get my feet back on the ground

"Rilla! Look here!"

"How did you meet the prince?"

"Give us a smile, Rilla!"

"Are you moving to England?"

"This way, Rilla. Look this way!"

I don't look this way. In fact, I make sure not to look anywhere at all and most especially not at the cameras clicking all around me. Instead, I keep my head slightly lowered, my gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance and my features schooled into the pleasantly neutral expression I spent an hour practicing in front of the mirror yesterday.

Turns out it's surprisingly hard to just walk down the street, looking completely uncontroversial. I'm quite grateful Ken talked me through it beforehand.

He was really very nice the morning after our squabble. Apologetic, too. He messaged to ask whether I'd see him now and when I consented, came bearing breakfast and some basic hygienic articles that were, by this point, much appreciated. (I would also have loved a change of clothing, but you can't have everything.)

We did talk about the list over breakfast and agreed that I'd speak to Carl and ask Seraphina to speak to Tristan, that we'd trust in Eric's integrity and take our chances with the other three. Partly, too, because I have no way of finding either Jorge or Coyote Ugly Guy and no desire to find Alain.

With that out of the way, he gave me a crash course in how to walk down the street in front of a gaggle of photographers, which felt weird at the time but is much appreciated now that I actually have to do it. The afternoon, we spent curled up on the bed in my hotel room, at one point transitioning into the kind of slow, lazy lovemaking that is more exemplary of a Saturday morning spend in bed, but that might also have been the first time either of us relaxed after the frenzy of the previous day.

He had to leave in the evening, to catch the red eye back to London and entrusted me into the hands of Hanson to take me home safely.

Our stay at the Plaza had, surprisingly, remained undiscovered, but a good number of photographers had convened outside my place, despite night and cold and wet. When I ducked out of the car, jacket pulled over my head to keep dry, the cameras flashed, but they don't seem to have gotten any picture that showed more than a shadowy figure dashing past. Which is why they camped outside my apartment building all weekend and are so eager to try again today.

I already ran the gauntlet earlier this morning outside my flat, and here, in front of the economics building, I'm doing it again. I can't tell whether these are the same photographers, who were just quicker in crossing the city than I was, or whether it's a new set. Either way, it seems like all the paparazzi on earth have suddenly descended on New York.

Which is strange in so many ways. I mean, it's not like I'm doing anything interesting, is it?

(George, by the way, hates the paparazzi with a vengeance. He stuck close to the flat throughout the entire weekend and when he dared venture outside by my side this morning, he hissed at them most spectacularly.)

In my peripheral field of vision, the cameras flash, with the sound of clicking ringing in my ears. Still, I don't look their way. One of the things Ken was most anxious about is that I can't be seen to be courting attention. I laughed and told him I didn't intend to start posing and waving, but apparently, "courting attention" starts at such mundane things like looking too happy.

I can't look directly at a camera, for fear of it appearing deliberate. I can't be caught smiling or even looking too friendly, for fear of it appearing like I'm in cahoots with the photogs. On the other hand, I can't ever be caught looking annoyed or angry either, because apparently, they'd have a field day with that as well.

Like I said, it can be surprisingly hard to just walk down a street.

Most especially, because there's a hysterical laugh lodged in my throat, at the sheer absurdity of it all. These are photographers. Taking pictures of me. To sell them to magazines. For money. So that people can look at them.

Why on earth would strangers want to look at a picture of me?

I'm not especially interesting to look at, am I? I mean, I made sure to braid my hair extra carefully this morning and used the weekend holed up inside The Shoebox to not only practice my pleasantly neutral expression, but also to curate a very nice and very uncontroversial outfit with the help of Di and Skype. But still. There must be more interesting things going on in the world, surely?

One of the bolder photographers jumps in my way to get a better shot and I quickly turn my head to the side. Can't be seen to look directly into a camera, after all. (Besides, it might give them a good shot at my hair and convince them it is a nice, inoffensive auburn, not "flaming red" as reported. Though what I can expect from journalist claiming my roots lie in Toronto, I really don't know.)

Truth is, this is exhausting. Absurd, but exhausting.

Thankfully, I have almost reached the doors of the economics buildings, causing the clicking to reach another crescendo. They can't follow me in here and apparently, they know it. Thank God. (Or rather, NYU's security measures, I suppose.)

Inside the building, I let go of a breath I had been holding and feel my shoulders slacken as I do so. That went… I hope that went alright. I hope I did well.

When I raise my head to look at my surroundings again, I find that even in here, people are looking at me. Mostly fellow students, shuffling along the halls, some staring outright, some throwing quick glances my way. Which… I guess it makes sense, what with the commotion out there, but…

"Excuse me?"

Startled, I turn around. Two girls stand in front of me. Two girls I don't think I have ever seen before.

"Yes?" I ask cautiously. I have no idea what they could want.

"Are you really dating Prince Ken?" blurts out the blonde one immediately, looking at me with shining eyes.

I take a deep breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see another group of people stopping to listen.

The dark-haired girl elbows her friend in the side. "Sh!" she says. Then, louder, to me, "You're Rilla, right?"

It's strange. That everyone and their grandma's parrot sitter suddenly knows my name.

"Yes," I answer slowly. I feel tempted to ask for their names and do so pointedly, but I don't dare. Not before I know what they want.

"Great," beams the dark-haired girl. "Can we take a selfie? My friends at home don't believe that I'm really studying with you."

Is she studying with me? My mind still wonders, even as my feet already take a step back. The girl is undeterred. Smiling hopefully, she holds up a turquoise phone for me to see.

This wasn't part of Ken's crash course, but then, it didn't need to be. If being photographed while looking too friendly is already seen as "courting attention", there's no way that a selfie isn't.

Still. A quick look tells me that we're suddenly surrounded by people, watching the exchange curiously. Some of them, I see, have phones out themselves. The girls are still smiling widely at me.

And I want nothing but to run.

The photographers, I knew to expect. It's weird, it's absurd, it's all wrong, but I knew they'd be there. This here… I was supposed to have been alright in here. No-one said I had to be on my guard around my fellow students as well. No-one said it wouldn't stop!

In the fraction of a second, my mind is going through all possible options. I can't take that selfie. That goes without saying. But I can't decline it either, because there are phones out, possibly filming me, and it will look stroppy and petty to deny. If courting attention is bad, looking stroppy and petty might be worse.

The dark-haired girl cocks her head to the side. The blonde girl's smile turns questioning.

From behind, a hand reaches out to lay on my shoulder.

My first impulse is to throw it off, but I am too painfully aware of the phones directed at me to do anything. I am utterly frozen.

"She'd love to," announces a familiar voice, "but she has classes to go to."

"As," chimes in another voice brightly, "I am sure you do, too. So, shoo!"

The two girls' faces fall in exactly the same second. I give them a half-hearted smile that might be constructed to be apologetic, before turning away from them – turning away from the phones – to face Nia and Seraphina.

I'm sure I've never loved them more than I do in this very moment.

I also want to say about ten things at once, from asking what they're doing here (neither of them takes economics, after all) to apologising for lying to them, but I can't seem to get even one of them out. Instead, Seraphina throws an arm around my shoulders, replacing Nia's hand, and cheerfully declares, "Come on, let's get you to class."

"Yes," adds Nia with one last look at the group of people that is slowly dissolving. "Let's."

Her arm still draped over my shoulders, Seraphina steers me away from the crowd of people, with Nia taking up the rear.

"Is there anywhere we can talk privately?" Seraphina asks conspiratorially after we've taken some steps, leaning closer to me as she speaks.

"There's a little used ladies room up on third floor," I answer slowly.

"Excellent." Seraphina beams. "Let's hope there's no Moaning Myrtle around."

That actually gets a laugh from me. "No, I don't think so."

"Well, lead the way." This, she says accompanied by an elaborate movement of her free arm.

As we walk through the building, I am painfully aware of people stopping to look at me, but with my friends at my side, no-one else dares approach. Thus, we quickly reach the third floor, where I point out the ladies room in question to Seraphina.

It is almost empty, with just one girl checking her make-up in the mirror. Seraphina quickly ushers me past her, over to the windows, while Nia takes up position next to the door. As we silently wait for the girl by the mirror to be done beautifying herself, I risk a short glance out the window. It overlooks the front of the building, so I get a good look at the photographers down on the street. Some seem to be packing up, but others look like they've settled in, no doubt waiting for me to come out again.

"This is crazy," whispers Seraphina, peering over my shoulder.

It sure is.

(I had to explain the photographer's presence in front of our apartment house to Mrs Weisz over coffee on Saturday. Not wanting to give Ken away fully, I settled for "he's somewhat famous". When Mrs Weisz, pondering, asked whether he was "like one of those Hollywood actors", I answered with a vague "something like that". She considered it for a long second, before declaring that she's glad he has a job after all, and swiftly moved on to speak about her latest novel. I love Mrs Weisz.)

Turning from the window, I can just see the girl by the mirror slip her eyeliner into her bag. She throws us a confused look, but leaves the bathroom without another word. Nia immediately closes the door behind her and wedges a mop from the cleaning cabinet beneath the handle.

The moment the door is secured, Seraphina grabs me by the shoulders and turns me towards her. "So, it's true? You're really dating him?"

Her eye gleams excitedly and with almost every other person, I'd chalk that up to her looking for gossip, but with Seraphina, I know that she is excited for me.

Moving a few steps away from the window (involuntarily dragging Seraphina with me as I do), I try to think of the best way to explain, but in the end, only come up with the very plain truth. "Yes. I am."

Seraphina squeals. Loudly. "Oh, my God! This is so exciting. You must tell us everything!"

The use of the plural makes me turn my head to look at Nia, still hovering by the door. She's being awfully quiet, isn't she?

But Seraphina isn't finished. Giving my shoulders a shake to reclaim my attention, she asks, "Is it, like, serious? The two of you. You are not just hooking up?"

"I love him. He loves me. I'd say it's pretty serious," I reply, smiling at her excitement. She might be the only person so far who is just happy for me, instead of dredging up potential problems at every turn.

Letting go of my shoulders, Seraphina covers her mouth with both hands. "Wow," she mutters through her fingers. For a moment, I think I have rendered her speechless, but then she lowers her hands again and the old exuberance is back. "I have no face for a hat, but I do look quite dishy in the right kind of fascinator," she announces.

I frown at her.

A fascinator? Aren't those the ridiculous curly-wurly contraptions the English wear perched on the side of their heads when they attend…

Oh.

"Maybe not that kind of serious," I remark quickly.

For a moment, Seraphina's face falls in disappointment, but she recovers quickly enough. "Well, no reason why it couldn't happen in the future. It's early days still, isn't it?" Her voice is bright once more.

I try to come up with a good answer, but Nia beats me to it. "That's what you think, but we have no idea how long this has been going on," she points out flatly. "Rilla here wasn't big on sharing in the past."

Seraphina frowns. I duck my head.

She's right, Nia is. I know she is. I just hoped she wouldn't mind.

"Nia…" I begin slowly. "Look, it was complicated. Telling, I mean. It was also so… intense. Confusing, too. I didn't mean to leave you out. It… It just seemed easier to keep it to myself at the time."

"To keep lying," corrects Nia, mercilessly. Seraphina clucks her tongue in Nia's direction, obviously disapproving, but otherwise keeps out of it. I have a feeling they already had this talk between themselves.

Sighing, I take a few steps towards Nia, so that I end up between the two of them. "It's not that I don't trust you," I explain, my voice imploring. "But Ken always put such an emphasis on secrecy that I… it seemed natural, to keep it quiet. And I guess, I also liked the thought that I could just be… my old self around my friends. Not the girl who is suddenly dating the prince."

"That sounds logical," chimes in Seraphina quickly. "Doesn't it, Nia?"

Nia makes an indecipherable sound. "Perhaps." She doesn't appear convinced. "How long has this been going on then?"

"Oh, well," I stutter, "For a while, I guess. But –" I don't get any further.

"A while?" echoes Nia, cutting me off. "And that is supposedly you trusting us, right?"

That stops me short. She is… she is right, I think? I didn't mean to give them the entire story, not even now. A media-ready version of it, maybe, but not the whole truth. Because apparently, I can't even relax around my friends anymore. (To hell with Ken and his paranoia!)

My gaze moves past Seraphina, who raises her shoulders in an apologetic half-shrug. Nia watches me with her head cocked to the side and her arms crossed in front of her chest.

"You're right," I concede, taking a deep breath. "That wasn't very honest either. But how about this? I met him last year at a party. In October. We didn't become a couple until shortly before Christmas though."

"Over a year," breathes Seraphina, clearly impressed. But I look at Nia. Her stance relaxes slightly, but she keeps her arms crossed.

So, I continue. "Actually, you met him. At that Halloween party last year? He was dressed as Batman."

Seraphina groans. "That was him?" she wails.

Nia considers me through narrowed eyes for a moment or two longer, before dropping her arms and allowing herself to show something that might, with goodwill, be called a smile. "And I asked you whether you were calling dibs on him," she remarks, drily and maybe the slightest bit incredulously.

"I wasn't. Not then, anyway," I quickly explain.

But Nia just laughs it off. "You so were! It was bloody impossible to miss."

And once again, she is right. I was calling dibs on him, even then.

I give Nia a lop-sided smile and can see her shoulders drop as she returns it. I can't really blame her for having felt left out. Still, I'm very grateful to be forgiven this quickly.

Seraphina, meanwhile, has evidently used the moment to mull something over. "If you're a couple since last year, that means… The party at the University Club… He was smiling at you after all!"

"He, ah… Yes, he was," I reply, feeling a little sheepish.

"And I didn't figure it out. I should have figured it out!" She looks genuinely put out at her failure to put two and seventeen together.

"It's a reach," points out Nia. "It's not something you can just deduce. I mean, it sounds too crazy to be true, doesn't it?"

Yes. It does.

Thankfully, Seraphina has already moved on to a new train of thought. "Oh, Yseult is going to flip out!" she declares happily. Then, her face turning pensive, she adds, "Though I also seem to remember you disappearing for a while in the middle of the party. Did you meet up with him?"

She looks at me with bright eyes, and I can do nothing but nod in confirmation, turning my eyes upwards and smiling wryly.

Seraphina leans closer to me. "Did you, you know… hook up? At the party?"

I draw in a sharp breath. "Seraphina! No! We didn't do anything. I mean, I was gone for barely ten minutes!"

"So, the take home-message of this is that the prince knows when to take his time," interjects Nia drily. Seraphina laughs brightly. I let go of a puff of air, pointedly exasperated with the both of them. (Not that it has any effect, naturally.)

I am saved from having to reply by my phone starting to ring. Fishing it out of my bag, I cast a quick look at the caller ID and yes. Speak of the devil.

"Is that him?" whispers Seraphina, sounding breathless.

I nod and pass the phone from one hand to the other, unsure what to do.

"Well?" encourages Nia and nods towards the still ringing phone. Which settles it one way or another.

Accepting the call, I raise the phone to my ear. "Yes?"

"Hello love," comes Ken's voice. "How are you? Did everything go okay this morning?"

"I'm fine," I assure quickly, acutely aware of my friends watching me. "I think it went well. Do they already have pictures up?"

"Emmett says they do," confirms Ken. "Nothing newsworthy though. Just you walking down a street. People has an article coming out, about our – and I quote – 'Big Apple fairy tale', but it's basically just a re-write of stuff already reported on. They got some additional info on your family, but nothing beyond names and professions."

I nod slowly, though he can't see that. I guess this is not too bad. I mean, half my family is on LinkedIn anyway. (Which might be where they got the information in the first place, now that I think about it.)

"When do your classes start?" asks Ken, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"In a couple of minutes." A beat. "I am talking to Seraphina and Nia at the moment."

That seems to pique Ken's interest. "Your friends?" he asks. Then, "Can you put me on speakerphone?"

Well… I guess so?

I do as he asks and hold my phone out to the two of them. When Ken speaks, I can see Seraphina's eyes widen excitedly. Nia just raises an eyebrow, but I have a sneaking suspicion she isn't as unmoved as she pretends to be.

"Good morning, Seraphina," greets Ken. "May I call you Seraphina?"

"Yes," squeaks Seraphina and I can see Nia suppress a grin.

"I don't know if you remember, but we met last spring," Ken continues. "You wore a galaxy-inspired dress."

Oh, he's smooth.

Nia rolls her eyes and I have to bite my lip to stop from laughing, but Seraphina gasps. "He remembers me," she blurts out, a second before she clamps both hands over her mouth, looking mortified.

Ken laughs quietly. "And why wouldn't I? It was lovely to meet you."

(I'd say he was laying it on a bit thick, but Seraphina seems to lap it up, so maybe he's on to something there.)

"And Nia, of course," he adds. "The one who's going to protect our planet by making nuclear energy safe to use."

Nia is, once more, rolling her eyes at him, but her lips are twitching upwards and I can see she's secretly pleased. "I'm working on it," she agrees, though making sure to sound as unimpressed as possible.

"And you two are looking out for Rilla while I can't, aren't you?" Ken asks after a second.

"I'm grown up. I can look after myself," I protest immediately. The last thing I need is for him to go all protective!

"I'm sure you can," he placates. "But it's always easier when you have people around you who have your back."

Hmm… can't argue with that.

"We already are looking out for her," Seraphina tells him eagerly.

"Yes," mutters Nia. "And we would have done it long before, if she hadn't kept us totally in the dark."

Seraphina whirls around to glower at her, but Ken, as usual, is on top of it. "That was my fault, I'm afraid. I infected Rilla with my paranoia. I bet I made her see conspiracies behind every corner. Isn't that right, love?"

"Yes. Your fault entirely," I agree cheerfully.

Ken chuckles. "As usual, of course. Anyway, it was nice speaking to you, Nia and Seraphina. I am looking forward to being introduced to you when next I'm stateside." A second passes as they, now in unison, gape at the phone and I try my best not to laugh.

"Ril?" Ken adds, the cadence of his voice changing slightly, letting me know that he wants me to take him off speakerphone again.

"Yes?" I ask, after having quickly done so.

"I'm glad you have your friends around," he remarks quietly. "But if anything is the matter, you will call me, alright? And if you can't reach me, call Melissa. She can put you through."

Melissa, Personal Secretary to the Second Assistant or whatever, has apparently been designated my contact among Ken's staff. I have her number saved and everything. Ken explained why he chose her, saying that he thought we might get along, but that I'd much rather give away my entire collection of cute shoes than actually contact her, goes without saying, of course.

"Sure," I assure anyway.

"Good. And don't forget, those photographers are not allowed to harass you in any way," Ken reminds. "We can't stop them from taking pictures, but that doesn't give them the right to scare or distress you in any way. Should that be the case –"

"I will call you. Or Melissa," I finish, making sure to sound a little petulant and pulling a funny face in direction of my friends. We've been over this and more than just once.

Over the line, I can hear Ken laugh softly. "Right. You know this. I just want you to take care."

"I am," I promise. "Taking care, I mean."

"Good," he answers. "Have a lovely day. We'll talk later. Love you."

"Love you, too," I reply, turning my face away from my friends as I say it.

After I have hung up, I take a second before looking at them again. They are both staring, though Nia is still trying to act all cool.

Not so Seraphina. "Wow," she murmurs, breathless. "This is really for real, isn't it?"

"It is," I confirm, not doing much to conceal my own enthusiastic grin. "And what's more, I will tell you everything you want to know about it. Who's up for a slumber party?"

Nia perks up at the mention of this. "Like old times?"

"Almost." I give an apologetic shrug. "Me leaving my apartment is quite an… operation these days, as you might have noticed. It might be easier if you came by my place for once."

"No problem," assures Nia and Seraphina nods quickly to back her up.

"Great," I smile and take a step towards the door. "Because I have classes to get to now and I believe that you might have to be somewhere as well?" (I mean, there's no doubt that they conspired to corner me here today to squeeze information out of me. They have no other reason to be here. Still, I'm not even mad.)

My arm looped through Nia's and a chatting Seraphina on my other side, we make our way out of the ladies room, down the stairs, towards the classroom I have my next course in. And there, waiting in the corridor by the door, are Chelsea and Megan, the latter waving as she sees me.

"You're on the internet," she announced loudly, thrusting her phone in our direction.

Uh-huh. And what else is new?

Leaning forward, I catch a look at a small photo of myself, obviously taken just this morning. Seraphina, too, casts a glance at the phone screen. "Well, at least you look cute," she declares, and who am I to argue with that?

Nia gives me a parting pat on the back, but it's only when Chelsea holds out a hand for me to take, that I suddenly realise that they've planned this. They don't usually overlap, these two pairs of friends, but we've all gone clubbing together before on the occasion, so they're no strangers. And this, here, is clearly a most cunning plan to keep me in company on what could have been a trying day.

Except that it isn't. Because the outside world might be going mad, but I have my friends to rely on. And, after the madness of the past few days, that realisation fills me with a curious sense of calm.

As Ken said, they have my back. I am not facing this on my own.


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Help!' (written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, released by The Beatles in 1965).


Important A/N:
To anyone who hasn't yet, you absolutely need to check out OriginalMcFishie's story "Royal Correspondent". She and others are doing what I can't do (not well, anyway) and writing the other side of this story: namely, reactions from both press and public (articles, tweets...). It's not only a great honour for me, but also a most amazing addition to this story. It's fun and delightful and you want to follow it. Trust me on this.


To AnneShirley:
The novel in question is "L'Art français de la guerre" by Alexis Jenni. I have not read it, nor heard anything about it past the fact that it won the Prix Goncourt in November 2011.
You raise an interesting point about how the lack of the Diana spectacle changes this royal family and their relationship to the press. I'm thinking Leslie is/was similarly popular and gets photographed as often whenever she ventures outside, but she herself is naturally wary of the press and besides, she lives firmly within the protective boundaries of the palace walls, so there was never as much access to her as to Diana. And in a way, Rilla is this family's Kate. The first serious commoner girlfriend to a heir to the throne. So, any lessons the real royal family learned from the treatment of Kate,
this royal family still has to learn. They aren't going into this with their eyes closed, but they lack a certain amount of experience when it comes to dealing with that kind of attention. (And they have no 'memory of Diana' to invoke to put pressure on the press either, meaning they can't use that strategy either.)
Nevertheless, Ken could have done better and didn't. He should have prepared Rilla properly, he should have managed the reveal better and he should have refrained from getting all judgemental about her previous love life. No excuses for him, I agree.
We'll get to Walter in time. You're certainly right to say that Rilla doesn't hero worship him here as she does in the books. (Which, frankly, has always annoyed me.) And his job does draw heavily on his knowledge of the Russian language and culture - but we'll leave it at that for the time being ;). (Ken's stint with the British intelligence services is planned for early 2012, so he hasn't begun that yet.)

Lisbon is gorgeous, isn't it? When it comes to the Iberian peninsula, people usually tend to favour Barcelona, but I liked Lisbon best. In fact, I am one of the rare people who prefer Madrid to Barcelona as well, but Lisbon trumped them all. (I just went back to look through photos of it and it was a nice little trip down memory lane, so thanks for that.)

To Guest:
Oh, not to worry. I'm fairly confident Rilla has met more than seven men in her life.