New York City, USA
May 2012

Cause that's the way for us to get along

Leaning forward, I knock on the partition that is separating the front of the cab from the rear seats. "You can drop us off over there."

"Right away," assures our driver, a kindly middle-aged man who might have originally been from South Asia. The music playing in his car definitely reminded me of something I heard in a Bollywood movie before. It's very cheery.

When, with the cab stopped at the curb, it comes to paying, he turns to Dad with such certainty, that the question of who's going to pick up the fare doesn't even arise. I take the moment to peer up and down the street before opening the car door, but it looks to be empty.

"Are you sure we're at the right address?" asks Mum next to me, leaning over to look at our dimly-lit surrounding with some scepticism.

"Back entrance," I reply with a shrug and slip out of the car, holding the door open for her.

On the other side of the car, Dad is getting out as well. The cab speeds off, and as Dad comes to join us on the sidewalk, a smiling Mum informs him, "I fear our daughter is getting to be a little paranoid, Gilbert."

(Mum also laughed when we covertly changed cabs halfway through our journey, but then, what does Mum know?)

"I'm sure she has it all under control," replies Dad with a smile for Mum and a wink for me, before offering an arm for each of us to take.

We've just turned towards the (admittedly somewhat shady-looking) back entrance of the restaurant, when a dark figure steps from the shadows. I feel Dad tense beside me, but I've already recognized the man. (In fairness, I knew he'd be there.)

"Hello Hanson," I greet. "May I introduce you to my parents? Mum, Dad, this Hanson. He's part of Ken's security team."

"Good evening, Miss." Hanson inclines his head first at me, then at my parents. "Ma'am. Sir. I hope you had an agreeable journey?"

My parents just share a bemused glance, so I hurry to answer in their stead, "It was alright, thank you."

Hanson nods to acknowledge it, before reaching out to hold open the door for us and falling into step a respectful few meters behind as we walk down a nondescript corridor. (I've never been here before, but the corridor only offers one direction to walk and anyway, I reckon Hanson would tell me if I was heading the wrong way.)

Mum leans forward to get a look at me around Dad and hisses, "Why is he calling me Ma'am?"

"I think it's in his contract," I mutter back. "I once tried to make him call me Rilla."

"What did he say?" asks Dad quietly, amusement in his voice.

"Very well, Miss," I answer, lightly mimicking the British accent, making both my parents laugh. (When I cast a quick glance at Hanson over my shoulder, I think I see him suppressing a smile.)

The corridor comes to an end at a set of double doors that lead to the kitchen. There, a waiter kindly takes pity on us and ushers is through to the main dining room. The main dining room which is, I might add, absolutely deserted. All the tables are cleared, except for one right in the middle, which is set for four. (But with enough cutlery to serve at least eight people.)

My parents share yet another bemused glance, before slowly walking further into the room. Mum moves over to the windows, while Dad stops next to the set table. "There's no-one else here," he observes.

"Could you step back from the windows, please?" I ask Mum (windows are not our friends, after all), before turning to Dad. "I expect he booked the entire place."

"Of course I did. I didn't realise you were keen on an audience," chimes in a very familiar voice and I turn on the spot to see Ken standing in the doorway. Not deigning to answer him, I roll my eyes most expressively and his smile widens in response.

While Mum and Dad spent the day with Joy and family and I sat my exam on modern English literature, Ken was over at the British Consulate to get some work done. He must have changed there, too, because instead of the jeans and t-shirt he got dressed in this morning, he's now wearing a pair of dark chinos and a button-down. He looks nice.

Coming over, Ken lightly brushes his hand along my arm as he passes me, before turning to Dad. "Good evening, Dr Blythe."

He offers his hand first to Dad to shake and then to Mum, who's finally stepped back from the windows. "And good evening, Dr Blythe," he adds with a smile at her.

I can see how pleasantly surprised Mum is at being addressed such. No-one ever denies Dad his title, but she's been 'Mrs Blythe' far too often in life, despite her PhD arguably harder earned than his MD. (Which, let's face it, is just handed out to medical students anyway.)

Dad replies, somewhat belatedly, "Good Evening, Your Royal Highness."

"Please," Ken quickly intervenes, "call me Ken. No need for the formalities."

"You were the one throwing titles around first," I point out to him, making sure to look my most innocent.

Ken flashes a grin my way. "That's because I'm also the one trying to make a good impression," he retorts, not missing a beat.

"You're not doing too bad a job so far," Mum informs him with a smile. "And you must call me Anne."

"Gilbert," Dad quickly adds.

(This is going rather well, isn't it?)

"I will. Thank you," agrees Ken. "May I also say that I'm very glad to finally meet you? In fact –" He holds up what looks to be a book, which I hadn't noticed before, and presents it to mum.

"I planned to bring flowers, but then I stumbled upon this and thought it more fitting," he explains.

Evidently surprised, Mum nevertheless accepts the book. It's bound in blue leather and looks quite old-ish.

As Mum inspects her present, I lean closer to Ken. "Stumbled upon? When? During your weekly sojourns to rare book stores?" I tease him, keeping my voice low.

He laughs quietly. "Oh, ye of little faith."

Yeah, that's me.

"The Secret Garden!" Mum exclaims, holding up the book. "How clever!"

(I know from looking at her that she's itching to find out whether it's a first edition, but is too polite to do so. I could have told her without looking. When he decides to do them, Ken's gestures are rarely small.)

"The way to my wife's heart is through books," Dad informs Ken conspiratorially, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

"So I've been told," admits Ken, nodding towards me as the culprit.

"And such a lovely book at that," Mum chimes in. "Thank you, Ken."

"My pleasure." Then, with a nod towards the table, "Shall we?"

As my parents sit down on one side of the table, Ken moves to pull out a chair for me, but I swat his hand away. "There's making a good impression and there's overdoing it," I tell him, sotto voce, raising both eyebrows to comical heights. It's not like he usually does this, after all.

(But when we're seated, I reach for his hand underneath the table and he clasps mine tightly for a moment.)

"I hope it's alright that I pre-ordered a menu?" Ken asks as waiters materialise out of nowhere to fill our glasses and set plates with starters in front of us. "When there are so few guests, it's quite an inconvenience for the restaurant to have ingredients for all dishes on the menu available."

"No problem at all," Mum quickly assures.

(It is going well, I think, but there's still something stilted about the entire situation that I never noticed when one of my siblings brought their partner home. They just got absorbed into the general melee, which I guess isn't quite possible here.)

"So, are you staying for Rilla's commencement, Ken?" Dad wants to know as he picks up a piece of avocado with his fork.

Ken shakes his head. "Unfortunately not. In fact, I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Ken has to return to London to prepare for an official tour starting next week," I interject. Then, turning to Ken, "You're going to the Caribbean, aren't you?"

"I am. It's a three-week tour involving eight Commonwealth countries and some BOTs, so there's going to be a lot of island-hopping," he elaborates.

I wrinkle my nose in confusion. "BOTs?"

"Those would be British Overseas Territories, correct? Places like the British Virgin Islands or the Cayman Islands?" replies Dad instead of Ken, who nods confirmation.

"I imagine there'll be a lot of flying involved for you," Mum remarks.

Ken carefully cuts a prawn in half before answering. "Actually, they've sent the yacht ahead. I'll be joining it in Trinidad and flying home from Antigua at the end of the tour."

"The yacht," repeats Mum, something akin to wonder in her voice.

"It's the most convenient way for everyone involved," Ken is quick to explain. "It gives my staff and me a permanent place to stay, which makes things a lot easier for them than if we were to change hotels every other night. Security is also much more manageable when it's just one place to protect and not a succession of changing ones. And we're not disrupting traffic at yet another airport every new day."

His reply came readily enough, but watching him from the side, I can see his eyes slide over to me as he speaks. It's not exactly a call for help, but I know it must be uncomfortable for him to talk about his royal life and how it makes him unique, when he's really trying to fit in, booked-out restaurants and first editions notwithstanding.

Taking it upon myself to steer the subject away from the logistics or a royal tour, I cheerfully inform him, "I'm expecting a postcard, by the way. And a souvenir."

"Sure. Any preferences?" asks Ken with a smile.

I raise my shoulders in an elaborate shrug. "No. Surprise me. It can be my graduation present."

"What makes you think I don't already have one?" he replies, not missing a beat.

Hm.

"If you do, you can keep one of them for next year," I decide after a moment of thought. "I'm counting on you not being somewhere foreign and exotic then."

"Unlikely," he agrees. His face is straight, but there's both amusement and affection in his eyes.

Popping a piece of mango into my mouth, I turn to look at Mum and Dad, only to find them watching us with interest.

"Are you looking forward to Oxford, darling?" asks Dad, obviously quite willing to roll with the change of subject.

Mum sets her cutlery aside and gives him a look. "It's Oxford, Gilbert. Sweet city with her dreaming spires. Towery city and branchy between towers. Of course she's looking forward to it!"

(Those are poems, right? It must be poems.)

"Gray spires of Oxford against a pearl-gray sky," adds Ken beside me.

Mum immediately perks up at this. "Such a sad poem! But the use of contrast is poignantly done."

Goodness, she's not going to turn all English professor on us now, is she?

Catching Dad's eye over the table, I can see silent laughter evident on his face. Without a doubt, he knows exactly what I am thinking.

"I am, in fact, looking forward to Oxford," I declare, before Mum can start talking about iambs and trochees. Almost an afterthought I add, "Though Di did her best to sour the anticipation."

"What did she say?" Mum wants to know, her voice suddenly worried. She hates it when her children have disagreements.

But my brain has caught up with my mouth by now, and, acutely aware of Ken sitting next to me, I'm not so sure I want to discuss this after all. "Oh, you know. Words," I therefore reply airily, waving my fork around for good measure and hoping they'll let it go.

No such luck.

Dad makes a thoughtful sound. "Don't be too hard on her. I imagine your acceptance to Oxford stung a little."

I frown at him. "Why would it? It's not like she ever applied to Oxford herself."

"No, but before graduating from UBC, she applied to a master's program at Cambridge and wasn't accepted. She was quite crushed for a while," he answers. "She's happy in Winnipeg now, but your admission to Oxford must have brought those memories back."

Really?

I didn't know that.

But it does go a long way to explain Di's hostility.

"Well, the more you know…" I remark with an awkward little shrug, mostly because I have no idea what else to say.

"Alas," Dad continues amiably, "you're forbidden from mentioning that you've heard about this from me. Should you let it slip, I will strenuously deny everything. I will also tell everyone about that one time when you –"

"Yes, yes!" I interrupt quickly. "It's alright. My lips are sealed. I'm not saying anything!"

(I have no idea where he intended to take this, but I prefer never to find out.)

At least I've managed to amuse everyone else, because there's laugher rising around the table that only intensifies when I glare at them all in turn. (But laughter is good, right? Even if it's at my expense. Laughter means it's going well.)

"So, Ken," begins Mum after they've all calmed down again and our starter plates have been replaced by the main course, "Rilla told me you went to Oxford before."

I have half a mind that she knows the answer from her research into the royal family, but I appreciate that she pretends not to. I know Ken prefers to just talk to people normally instead of having them repeat his own life back at him.

Lowering his fork, piece of meat and all, Ken answers, "Yes, I attended Balliol College, but that was a while ago. It's been… six years since I graduated."

"What did you do afterwards?" Dad wants to know, sounding actually interested. (I don't think Dad did any research. It's not his style.)

"Mostly military training," replies Ken after quickly swallowing his forkful of food. "Two years of officer schools – Army at Sandhurst, Navy at Dartmouth and Air Force at Cranwell – followed by two years of pilot training. I just managed to finish advanced jet training before they pulled me for the UN internship."

Mum and Dad share a glance (though seriously, couldn't they have guessed this?), before Mum brightly asks, "And are you heading for Balliol again?"

"We're both attending Oriel," I intervene, throwing both my parents a warning look.

"That's a happy coincidence," remarks Mum, smiling at me to show that she understood.

"Not much of a coincidence," Ken amends. "I asked them to stick me in whatever college they assigned Rilla to."

This is news to me.

Setting down the glass I'd just picked up, I turn to Ken and open my mouth to protest –

But he's faster. "Only the college and only after they already accepted you, anyway. I promised, didn't I?"

"You did promise," I agree, though continue to eye him a little warily.

"Isn't the college assigned on admission?" wonders Dad from across the table. (Thanks, Dad!)

Turning towards my parents, Ken nods. "Normally, yes. But with me, these things tend to work a little differently. I indicated that I'd like to do their Public Policy course and they were happy to accept, especially since it's a new course and it means added publicity for them. We dealt with the details later, at which point I asked to be assigned to Rilla's college."

"You got a place without even applying properly? And the press hasn't crucified you for that yet?" My voice skips over itself in disbelief. (I don't have to think hard about the headlines they'd write about me!)

Ken shrugs. "I've always been a good enough student that they never manage to dig up any proof. And besides, it's an open secret that Oxford has VIP places."

"VIP places?" I repeat, watching him through slightly narrowed eyes. If it's an open secret, no-one thought to share it with me.

"A small contingent of places they set aside for prospective students who might not fulfil all the qualification criteria, but to whom they'd like to offer a place anyway," explains Ken. "I'd rather they give me one of those and bump down the child of a major donor or something than take one of the normal places from someone who worked hard for it."

Which is surely very noble of him, but that's not my main take away here. Because 'prospective students who might not fulfil all the qualification criteria, but to whom they'd like to offer a place anyway' sounds pretty familiar. And I might not be a very important person – or even just an important one – but isn't there a chance I got offered one of these places as well? Which means… I really need to talk to Di about this!

My parents have followed our exchange silently, but when neither Ken nor I add to it, Mum ventures forward again. "Do you two intend to stay in college accommodation?"

I shake my head no, just as Ken answers, "We won't. They're a security nightmare and besides, I think we've outgrown college digs. My staff are scouting for a suitable property for us at the moment." Then, in a quiet aside to me, "Melissa will send you some portfolios soon. Just tell me when you get them and we can talk."

"Sure," I agree, making sure not to look at Mum and Dad. (So much for fitting in.)

But Dad appears to be pondering something else anyway. "I guess now would probably be the moment for me to give you a stern talk about my baby girl moving in with you –"

"Dad!" I groan.

"– and I certainly gave one to Jerry Meredith," Dad continues, unperturbed. "But I must say, the bigger part of me is almost glad for it."

"Really?" asks Mum, sounding as surprised as I feel. Dad's never been the type to 'coincidentally' clean his shotgun when we brought boyfriends over (or, really, the type to own a shotgun in the first place), but deep down, we all know he feels protective of us.

"To be clear, I am still uncomfortable with the thought," Dad clarifies, "but when I think back over the past few months… let's just say I will sleep easier knowing there are well-trained police officers guarding your front door from now on, Rilla."

"You and me both," Ken agrees quietly.

Frowning, I look between them, unsure whether to be touched that they care or put out because they think I need to be protected.

"If you mean the reporters, I have it all under control," I finally tell them, jutting my chin out at I do. "I mean, sure, there was that one time back in February, but I still maintain they asked for it, never mind what other people might think." This with a challenging look at Ken. "Other than that, I'm doing perfectly fine, thank you very much."

Another sigh from Ken. "They were asking for it. Arlene got hold of the uncut video and… you're right. They were asking to be shouted at."

Oh? Now he tells me?

"They're right, sweetheart," Mum intervenes, probably sensing that I am gearing up to give Ken some choice words. "You're handling this beautifully, but we'll all be relieved to know you aren't facing all these men in your own anymore."

Hm… can't really argue with that, can I? (Even less so since I will also be glad not to have to face them alone in the future. Though, of course, I couldn't possibly say that.)

"Well, I suppose so," I admit, making sure to sound reluctant. "But I'm staying in New York for another two months, so you're all going to have to live with that."

"Isn't Betty's wedding in July?" wonders Mum, her brows knitting into a frown.

"Late July," I amend. "It's cutting it a bit close, but I talked to her and she's fine with it. After that, I'm coming to the Island with you, before flying to England in August."

England! (How weird this still sounds.)

Mum nods, her expression thoughtful. Then, apparently having decided on something, "You should come, too, Ken. Meet the rest of the family."

What?

"What?" This from Dad, who stares at Mum, clearly as flabbergasted as I feel.

Ken, however, just shakes his head slightly, smiling to himself. "I thank you for your offer and I'd love to take you up on it, but… me travelling anywhere is quite an operation. I couldn't possibly impose it on you."

"Security," I add by way of explanation.

But Mum is not so easily derailed. "What are we talking here?"

Taking a deep breath, Ken answers, "The Canadian government needs to be informed, though of course we can do that. Security would need to search your house and put up safety measures while I'm there. And I always have to have at least three protection officers near me, day and night, which means there has to be suitable accommodation for them."

"We could put them in the garden shed," Mum replies matter-of-factly.

Ken's face as he hears this is enough to make me laugh. He's clearly trying – and failing – to find a polite way to tell Mum that his officers can't be put up in a shed and it's quite a sight.

Putting him out of his misery, I explain, "The garden shed is a converted studio, with its own kitchen and bathroom. It's a perfectly lovely place. My grandma Bertha usually stays there."

"But we could have Shirley room with Walter and put Mother in Shirley's room. Couldn't we, Gilbert?" With precision, Mum's elbow lands in Dad's ribs.

Covering his yelp with a cough, Dad gives her a disgruntled look. "Best put the boys in Shirley's room and Bertha in Walter's. It's much more orderly," he suggests anyway, which is all I need to tell me that he's on board – if reluctantly.

Turning to Ken with what I'm sure is an unashamedly hopeful smile, I ask, "What do you say? Can you come?"

He takes a moment before he answers, briefly brushing his fingertips along my face as he considers the offer. "I'd have to ask Oliver, my private secretary, to reshuffle my diary and I'd need to be back in time for the Dieppe commemorations –"

(Dieppe? Wasn't that where great-uncle Matthew died?)

"– but if nothing unforeseen happens and if they don't need me to pitch in for my mother at short notice…" he hesitates for the briefest of seconds, "I think I could manage to clear a week or two. If you're sure it's not too much of an inconvenience for you, that is."

"Not at all," assures Mum. "Right, Gilbert?" This, accompanied by another elbow.

"Not at all," parrots Dad. Then he winks at me and I know it's alright.

Propriety forgotten, I throw my arms around Ken and feel him return the hug, if in a more reserved way.

"You won't regret it, you'll see. It'll be fun," I promise.

"I'm sure it will be," agree Ken and presses the briefest of kisses on my temple before letting go of me again.

Sitting back down, I cast a quick glance at my parents. Mum is smiling. Dad is looking like he's trying hard not to.

"So, it's a plan," Mum decides, sounding quite pleased with herself.

It is. And if the Queen ruins it by having one of her bad spells again…

As if reading my thoughts, Mum moves on to ask, "Since you mentioned her, Ken… Is your mother doing better? I read about her being unwell in the papers a few weeks ago."

Besides me, Ken stiffens and I stretch out a hand to squeeze his knee. Immediately, he reaches down to cover my hand with his own.

"She's recovering, thank you," he replies. His voice it polite enough, but doesn't invite any further questions. "She is resting at home and the last time I spoke to her, she'd just started on a new book she was quite excited about. Which reminds me – did you know that she enjoyed your books? She used to read them to my siblings when they were younger."

"Really?" asks Mum, obviously at a loss of what else to say.

Ken, back in his element, smiles at her. "Yes, really. She considered them both entertaining and educational. Rilla told me you have another one in the works?"

And just like that, I realise, he's done it. For the rest of the main course and all throughout dessert, he keeps my parents talking, turning from Mum's books to Dad's work at the hospital and back to Mum's experiences of teaching at university. If my parents suspect he's at least partly doing it because he doesn't want to talk about himself anymore, they don't let it show.

By the time the empty dessert plates are cleared, we're all laughing at tales about Mum's students and any stiffness that may have been noticeable earlier in the evening is but a distant memory. I can now safely say that it is going well. Better than expected, even.

"That was delicious. Thank you, Ken," says Mum as she leans back in her chair.

"I'll be sure to pass it on to the chef," promises Ken. "I hope you haven't made any other plans for the evening though? Because I have a bit of a surprise still left."

I sit up straighter and turn to look at him. "You didn't tell me about any surprises!"

"Wouldn't have been a surprise if I had, would it?" he replies with a smile that grows into a laugh when, upon realising I can't argue with that, I make a hmpf-ing sound and fold my arms in front of my chest.

"Anyone up for it?" he asks, looking at my parents questioningly.

Dad shrugs, then nods. "Sure. My wife loves a good surprise."

That settles that.

After profusely thanking the restaurant staff, we pile out of the back entrance, where Ken's security people have lined up three dark cars with the motors already running. We get into the middle one, with Ken in the passenger seat and the rest of us in the back. ("For security reasons. They need to get him out quickly if anything happens," I explain to Dad quietly. His reply is a pointed, "And we're expendable?" To which Mum answers, "To the British Crown? Sure we are." And who can argue with that?)

The driver gives us quite a comprehensive tour of Manhattan, which almost as brightly lit by day as it is by night. It's only when we pass Times Square and continue south along 7th Avenue that I have an idea where we might be heading. And yes –

"Anne got The Secret Garden, but I thought you'd prefer this one, Gilbert," states Ken, turning around in his seat to look at us just as the rectangular front building of Madison Square Garden comes into view.

"Who's playing?" I ask, angling forward to get a better look.

Dad beats Ken to the answer. "The Stones are. It's their first tour in five years. I tried to get tickets, but it was impossible. It's all sold out." His expression is caught somewhere between hopeful and dumbstruck.

"Well," I inform Dad kindly, squeezing his arm, "there are perks to being him."

And there most definitely are. Not only are we greeted at the back entrance by a very eager man introducing himself as the assistant manager, we are then led up to one of MSG's main VIP suites that overlook the entire arena and provide excellent views of the stage. As he takes in the scene in front of him, Dad looks like a child at Christmas. Even Mum seems impressed.

Feeling Ken wrap his arms around me from behind, I lean back into him. "And here I thought you wanted to be treated like any normal guy…" I almost have to shout to be heard over the noise the thousands of other people are making in their anticipation.

I feel, more than I hear, his laugh. "I'll work on normal later. For now, I want to make a good impression and I'd be a fool if I didn't try all options available to me." A beat, before he adds much quieter, his lips close to my ear, "I really want them to like me."

With a look at my parents standing at the railing, I let the evening flash through my mind, before angling my head backwards and giving Ken a quick kiss. Then, with a smile, "You know what? I really think they do."


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Prodigal Son' (written by Robert Wilkins, released by The Rolling Stones in 1968).


To Mammu:
I promised you more fluffy chapters coming up, didn't I? ;) And there are quite some more in everyone's immediate future, because having Rilla and Ken on the same continent is definitely conducive to fluffiness!
Your nephews made me laugh. That's really cute, looking out for you like that! And it's very like Jake, too. He definitely isn't won over by Ken
yet, but like your nephews, I imagine he will come around. Let's never forget that Ken can give him VIP access to museums all over England!
Yes, 'Clouds' does have a lot of war and everything and I absolutely understand that war stories are not everyone's cup of tea. I'm glad you think it well-written though :). And let me tell you a secret: I originally planned to write another WW1-centric story directly after it, but when I was done with 'Clouds', I kind of figured it was time to think some happy thoughts and... here we are ;).