Kent, England
November 2012

Never knew what friends we had

"Déjà vu," I remark with a wry smile as our car rolls through the wrought iron gate.

"Different house, different people," reminds Ken. Reaching over, he squeezes my knee reassuringly. "It will be different this time," he promises. "And if it isn't, you only have to say a word and we're out of there."

Looking at him from the side, I playfully blow a puff of air into his direction, making him smile.

"Shall I turn around right here?" he asks.

I make a point to consider the question, before shaking my head. "No. Let's give them a chance."

"As you wish." He turns his head, his eyes meeting my own. "But remember – one word."

"One word," I confirm, smiling to show that, for the time being, I am truly alright.

As the driveway describes a wide bend, I observe idly, "It doesn't look so very different here."

"We're miles further east," point out Ken. "Canterbury is just a stone's throw away and if we drove onwards to the coast just a little, we'd reach Dover and Folkestone. Actually, the Canadians had a large presence there during the Great War. In Shorncliffe Camp."

I hum to show that while I've been listening, I could not be less interested and Ken laughs. "No more history," he promises.

Another bend, this time in the other direction, and the house comes into view. It does look different, I have to admit. Grey bricks where the other one was reddish, and an actual overhanging roof with lots of high chimneys that combine to save it from being too boxy.

Parking the car next to the main entrance, Ken turns and looks at me. "Last chance to turn back," he offers

"No-o," I drag out the word as I peer past him at the house. There's no-one to be seen yet.

"You don't sound convinced," he remarks, reaching over to fold my hand in one of his.

"It's fine," I assure, though somewhat hesitatingly. "At least I think it is. I'm just a bit nervous. And I'm worried about George. Do you think he's alright without us?"

He's been here for barely three weeks and while he took possession of the house with typical self-assuredness, I still can't help but worry how he will do on his own. I've only started letting him outside under surveillance this past week, so he can't even apply his old tactic of simply prowling the streets until I come back.

Ken is already scrolling through the contacts on his phone. "Let's find out!"

Moment later, the name of Saunders flashes on the car display and the familiar dial tone fills the air, followed shortly by Saunders's voice. "Sir?"

(Poor guy has been drafted to not only secure the house in our absence but also do the cat sitting.)

"We're wondering how the cat is doing," explains Ken without further ado.

"Very well. Last time I checked, he was asleep on one of the couches," replies Saunders. "I'll go back to give him his lunch in two hours."

Raising one eyebrow questioningly, Ken wordlessly enquires whether that is enough reassurance for me. Slowly, I nod. He squeezes my hand in return.

"Thank you, Saunders. We might call again later," he says out loud for the officer to hear.

Saunders chuckles. "Anytime, Sir."

Cutting the call with the press of a button, Ken asks, "Feeling better?" There's a glint in his eyes that tells me that finds my obvious concern a little amusing, but he's being very good about this otherwise, so I let it slide.

"Yes, better," I confirm with a nod.

"Great." He smiles. "And remember, it's just for one night."

"Or shorter if I say a word," I remind.

He nods. "Or that." With a quick look at the house behind him, he adds, "Ready to go?"

I take a deep breath. "As ready as I'll ever be."

I wait next to the car until Ken has taken out our suitcase and walked around to offer me a hand. The PPOs, I notice, keep their distance today, though whether that's for my benefit or because they're more familiar with this house and the people in it, I don't know.

As we approach the house, the front door swings open, revealing a tall woman who looks to be around sixty years old. "Kenneth!" she exclaims with a wide smile and stretches out both hands towards him. "We have missed you!"

Ken briefly lets go of my hand and allows himself to be drawn into a hug. "It's nice to see you again, Genie. Thank you for having us."

The plural pronoun moves the general attention over to me. Released from the hug, Ken firmly grasps my hand again and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

The woman turns her smile on me. "You must be Rilla."

"Lady Faversham," I greet nervously. (I studied the relevant Wikipedia page and I'm reasonably sure that's the correct way to address a countess.)

But she just laughs and waves the titles aside. "None of that, my dear. Call me Genie."

"Like in Aladdin," supplies Ken helpfully.

Genie lightly swats his cheek. "Not like in Aladdin, you terrible boy." To me, she explains, "My full name is Eugenia, but I must have been a very genial child, because someone came up with Genie when I was young. It's an awful pun, but it's what I'm stuck with."

"Mummy's the president of the Society of Odd Nicknames," announces another voice to my left.

Turning my head, I see a much younger woman approach us and don't have to ask who she is. She looks every bit as gorgeous as she does in the magazines that still occasionally try to marry her off to Ken.

"Do you want to become a member?" she asks me, bright eyes considering me with interest.

"Tatty," warns Ken quietly.

She dismisses that with a dramatic eye roll. "Oh, be quiet, Ken. Can't you see we're bonding?"

We are?

Genie shakes her head at her daughter and reaches out to pat my arm. "I'll leave you children to it. Will you show them their room, darling?"

Room. Singular. That's a definite improvement.

"Will do," promises Tatty. She looks at her mother's retreating form for a moment before turning back to me. "We could get t-shirts."

I need a moment to realise she's back to the Society of Odd Nicknames.

"You should feel honoured to get an invite," she adds. "It's highly a selective group."

"I imagine Toppy got invited?" I ask, then bite my tongue the next second. I have no idea what made me bring her up.

Tatty cocks her head to the side. "Heavens, no! I suppose she and her ridiculous nickname would qualify but inviting her would mean being in the same society as Toppy and who actively wants that?"

Ken makes a noise as if trying to protest, but Tatty quietens him by holding a hand close to his face. "No-one but you liked her and it's time you face that fact, Ken. It always bamboozled me that you saw anything in her at all."

"She has exceptionally good hair," I point out.

"She does, maddeningly enough," agrees Tatty blithely, before reaching out to examine a strand of my hair. "Yours is pretty, too. Is that your natural colour?"

"You can't ask people if they have their natural hair colour, Tat," interjects Ken.

But Tatty is unperturbed. "Didn't you just watch me do it?"

Her statement, both correct and unexpected, makes me laugh and she smiles at me – the same wide, inviting smile her mother has. Ken shakes his head, but he, too, is grinning.

"It is natural," I confirm. "My hair, I mean."

"Lucky you," sighs Tatty, fingering a strand of her own very glossy locks. "Mine is so boring in comparison."

I want to protest and say it's a beautiful colour, but she is already moving on to other matters. Turning to Ken, she tells him, "Daddy is in the library. I'm sure he'd be happy to see you. I'll show Rilla up to your room in the meantime."

Ken hesitates, the grin slipping from his face. "Tat…"

Tatty studies him for a moment before her own expression softens, growing serious. "It's me, Ken," she reminds him gently. "You don't have to protect her from me."

For a moment or two, they hold eye contact, before Ken nods very slightly and turns towards me. "Are you okay with that?"

"I am," I confirm – and mean it, too. Something about Tatty makes me feel like I really don't need to be protected from her.

"Good." Ken draws up our clasped hands and presses a quick kiss to the back of mine. "But remember – one word."

"One word," I repeat with a smile.

Tatty has already picked up our suitcase and now motions for me to follow. "We put you two in your usual room," she informs Ken over her shoulder and I file that information away for future use. I know he spent a lot of time with the de Duras family when he was a child, but still – I don't imagine there are many places where he has a 'usual room'.

Tatty leads me along a corridor and up a grand-looking staircase. "It's sweet," she tells me conspiratorially once we're out of Ken's earshot. "He usually isn't this protective."

"I don't need him to protect me," I clarify quickly. I mean, I'm secretly quite relieved he's making a point to be attentive today, but I don't want anyone to think that I need his protection. I held my head high at the Broderick party after all, even feeling awful throughout.

"Didn't say you did," replies Tatty amiably. "I'm just thinking that Toppy wishes he ever looked out for her the way he does for you." The thought seems to fill her with delight.

Having reached the first floor landing, she motions for me to walk down yet another corridor. (I sure hope I won't get lost in here.)

"You've known him for a long time, haven't you?" I ask.

"Ken? For quite a while," replies Tatty with a shrug. "Our mothers are best friends and we're close in age in age, so we grew up alongside each other. My half-brothers from daddy's first marriage are a lot older than me and his siblings are a few years younger, so our friendship came naturally. We had lots of playdates and got into a fair few of scrapes. Once, he almost managed to drown me, my kitten and himself in a big truncheon of rainwater. He also sucked his thumb very persistently when he was young."

A surprised burst of laughter escapes me. "I'm sure he wouldn't be happy if he knew you're telling me this."

Tatty remains unconcerned. "I asked him. He said it was fine."

"You asked him whether you might tell me about him sucking his thumb?" I'm veering between amusement and incredulity now.

Grinning, Tatty shakes her head. "No, but I should have! His face would have been most amusing!"

Yes, I imagine it would have been.

"Actually," she continues, now more serious, "I checked whether there was anything he wasn't comfortable with you knowing."

I'm not sure what to make of this and it must show on my face, for Tatty hurries to add, "I always do that with anyone we meet. It's easier for me to know in advance how careful I must be around a person."

"And when you asked about me…?" I trail off.

"He said we were fine to talk about whatever. No restrictions," is her prompt reply. "I take that to include embarrassing childhood stories."

She winks conspiratorially, before opening a door to her left and waving me inside what turns out to be a bedroom. Given the grandeur of the house, I unconsciously suspected something large and posh, but this one is surprisingly homey. Cosy, even.

"His usual room," I realise.

Tatty shrugs. "He's not over much anymore – neither am I – but he used to spent chunks of his childhood here with us, especially after the old Queen died. Queen Alexandra."

"He was…" I hesitate as I do the maths in my head. "He was eight years old when she died, wasn't he?"

"Eight and a half," confirms Tatty. "Most people I know were terrified of her, but she invited him around regularly to the big palace with a view to raising him into a good monarch. I don't think he enjoyed it much but she was a constant during his early years."

"And after she died and his mother became unwell… he spent a lot of time with you or with his aunts and uncles, correct?" I ask.

I know most of what she's telling me, except maybe the details about Ken's grandmother because he doesn't talk about her much more than about his mother. But with Ken, I usually have to piece the information together. He only offers them up in bits and pieces, whereas Tatty gives me a more succinct overview.

Dropping our suitcase in the middle of the floor, Tatty plops down on the bed. "With us, with his Aunt Mary and her brood or with Caroline, the first wife of his Uncle Al. I think Caroline and Leslie bonded over the experience of marrying into the firm and though Caroline finally got permission to divorce Al after the old Queen was dead, she always stayed in contact."

"The firm?" I repeat, coming to sit down beside her.

"The royal family," she clarifies. "They call themselves 'the firm' sometimes, to signify that besides just being a family, they're very much also a family business."

"The business of representation," I add.

Tatty nods. "Quite."

Absent-mindedly picking at a wayward thread of the blanket, I remark, "He takes his duties very seriously."

It's something I've noticed even more since moving here. His workload was reduced to allow time for studying, but he's still juggling a royal schedule in addition to classes.

"When he's not postponing a fortnight worth of engagements at no notice to rush to your side, he sure does," agrees Tatty with a smile. "Toppy wishes he'd ever done that for her!"

"How long did they date?" I ask curiously.

Frowning, Tatty thinks that over. "Around two years, I think. He was going through various stages of jet training for the entirety of their relationship though, which meant that she was in London and he at some RAF station up north. They didn't see each other all that much and I always got the vibe that she was too eager and he not eager enough. I don't really like her, but I did have a talk with him about stringing her along out of convenience. He ended things before leaving for New York."

Looking at her from the side, I realise that she has power, for a lack of a better word. The way she talks about him is so obviously sisterly that I don't really feel threatened by their closeness, but in the way sisters or almost-sisters do, her opinion carries weight with him. (Which I know all about, of course. Me moving continents was no reason for my sisters to give up the weekly Skype chats, if only so they can continue to analyse my life. It meant I had to do some mental acrobatics in recent months to hide how badly things were going for a while.)

I don't get a chance to explore the subject any further though, because there's a knock on the door. Tatty throws me an expectant look and I only need a second or two to understand that she does it because for the time being, this is my room. Expecting Ken, I call "Come in!"

But when the door swings open, it reveals a young woman standing on the other side.

"Katie!" exclaims Tatty, getting up from the bed. "Come here and meet Rilla!"

Not that I needed the moniker to identify the woman on the doorstep. I've seen pictures of her before and what's more, I've seen her during the royals' annual Christmas walk on TV. This is Princess Katherine of Hereford, daughter of the aforementioned Uncle Al and Aunt Caroline and if Tatty is spirit family, Katherine is the first member of Ken's real family I get to meet. (The first royal, too. Except for Ken himself, I mean.)

When I slowly get up from the bed and walk over towards her, I am greeted by a warm smile. "I'm Katie. Nice to meet you."

"You, too," I reply and shake the offered hand.

"I was just telling Rilla about what a holy terror Ken was as a child," chimes in Tatty.

Katie rolls her eyes heavenwards. "Oh, he was awful sometimes. The most well-behaved child whenever Grandmother Queen was around, but when he and Chris teamed up to tease me, they made me cry more often than not."

Chris, I remember, is Prince Christopher of Hereford, Katie's older brother.

"Has Chris finally arrived?" Tatty wants to know. Aside to me, she remarks, "He knows to time his arrival so that no-one could possibly miss it." (Which I take to mean he's usually late.)

"He's downstairs talking to Ken and Rolly," answers Katie.

"Rolly is my father. Short for Roland," explains Tatty when she seems my questioning expression. "Also a member of the Society of Odd Nicknames."

Katie nods. "And while he and Chris are doing a valiant job of keeping Ken occupied, he's getting a bit fidgety with you two up here."

"Worried about what embarrassing things I might tell her?" grins Tatty, obviously mentally going through a list of stories she could share with me.

"More like worried that you'll suddenly transform into Vera," amends Katie.

Tatty grimaces. "Whatever possessed him to bring you into Vera Lloyd's orbit first thing, I will never know," she tells me. "I gave him a stern talking to for it."

"Ye-es," I reply, drawing out the word. "So did I." The memory of that fight on the way back flashes up in my mind and some of that must have shown on my face, for Katie reaches out to rub my arm comfortingly.

"Splendid!" decrees Tatty, sounding satisfied. "Do stand your ground!"

"I met poor Fiona the other day by chance," remarks Katie. "She's thrilled that Vera and Hilda are currently banned to the social naughty step. She was getting sick of the way Vera dominated her entire wedding preparation and Steve wasn't much help."

Leaning her head closer to mine, Tatty mutters conspiratorially, "Steve's as harmless as a teddy bear, but also has the all perceptiveness you'd expect from a stuffed animal."

She seems pleased when that draws a laugh from me. It aligns with my impression of Steve Broderick as well.

Katie turns to look into the hall. "Shall we go back downstairs?"

"Sure." I nod.

"Can't have Ken develop a tic from the fidgeting," agrees Tatty.

Indeed we cannot. I mean, just imagine the headlines!

As we leave the room and start making our way back to the staircase, I turn to Tatty. "Can you tell me the plans for this weekend?"

Ken said not to worry and that it would be very different from the party at the Brodericks, but I'm still a bit apprehensive.

"Sure," agrees Tatty. "There's lunch next and in the afternoon, we'd normally go partridge shooting, but Ken told us you could get in trouble for that at home, so we'll just make it a nice walk on the grounds."

"You don't have to change your plans just because of me," I hurry to tell her.

"No-one wants you to get in trouble with anyone," assures Katie.

Tatty nods. "And those partridges are not going anywhere. We can always shoot them next weekend."

Yeah. Somehow, I don't think I'll be telling that to Carl.

"After the walk, it's tea time, then dinner, drinks and bed," Tatty continues. "Tomorrow, we do breakfast and a nice birthday lunch. During the interval, daddy has been known to break out the board games or else, we might take another walk. After lunch, everyone departs, which leaves Ken with enough time to make it to Windsor for dinner with his parents."

And me with enough time for Hanson to drive me to Oxford, where Lucy, Dev and Josh have promised to introduce me to the supposedly unique experience that is an English pub quiz.

"We better stick with the board games. It's supposed to rain tomorrow," supplies Katie.

Alas, Tatty is unimpressed. "A few lively showers have never hurt anyone."

I'm not so sure about that, but I have more pressing concerns than the prospect of rain.

"What dress code do you have in place for dinner?" I ask cautiously as we begin our descent down the grand staircase. "I'm not sure whether the dress I have packed is suitable." (Again, Ken assured it was perfectly fine, but I'm not likely to trust his assessment, am I?)

"Don't worry, please," soothes Katie. "We're among friends here and besides, the times when everyone dressed up in tiaras for dinner are long gone."

"Still, if you'd like, we could go through some of the crates in the attic after tea," offers Tatty. "They're full of old evening gowns from between the wars. They belonged to my grandmother. She used to be a dish back in the day."

The idea of me dressed in a probably priceless dress from decades ago is so ridiculous that I can't help but laugh. "I couldn't possibly wear them!"

"Why not?" asks Tatty, looking unperturbed. "We made sure to keep them well-preserved, so you don't have to worry about the material being too fragile. Mummy and I are too big-boned to wear them, but you're slender. They should fit you. There's a sumptuous cobalt blue number that would bring out all the different reds in your hair."

"She's not your dress-up doll, Tat," Katie interjects mildly.

But my mind is already picturing a slinky 1930s style dress in a bright blue and honestly, it's too good to pass up. Not for nothing, it would also go extremely well with the new pair of silver heels I bought with my first pay and which I brought in a desperate hope that they might be able to update the nice but unexciting navy dress I originally planned to wear.

Tatty scrutinises my face and my thoughts must have shown there, for she nods, looking decidedly pleased herself. "We have a plan then."

Yes. It looks like we do.

"Make sure you also throw in a pair of wellies and a Barbour coat," adds Katie practically. "Otherwise, your lively showers might yet end up giving her a nasty cold."

"No problem," agrees Tatty easily. "We have some for guests down in the boot room."

(They have a boot room?)

We've reached a heavy-looking set of double doors by now, which Tatty throws open without any fanfare. Inside, the walls are lined with enough books to make half my family weep with joy, leaving no doubt that this is, indeed, the library.

A fire crackles away in a large fireplace, in front of which Ken stands talking to two other men. When they hear us enter, all three look up and Ken immediately holds out a hand for me to take. I do him the favour of walking over and squeezing it briefly, but then let go to introduce myself to the others. I appreciate the concern, but I feel no need to hide behind him.

The Earl of Feversham and Prince Christopher of Hereford – or Rolly and Chris, as they have me call them – could not look less alike. Rolly appears to be as old as the dresses his daughter offered me and I'm sure that if I were to look up 'English country gentleman' in a dictionary, there'd be a picture of him, all ancient tweed jacket and garish printed tie. Chris, on the other hand, is so impeccably dressed that he looks like he walked out of a vogue spread inspired by Brideshead Revisited. It doesn't hurt that he's good-looking and knows it, nor that he's in prime age to be featured in such a spread. (Age-wise, I'm fairly sure I read somewhere that Ken fits nicely in the middle of the two older Hereford children.)

Different though they are in appearance, both Rolly and Chris greet me kindly, with Chris thanking me for keeping his unruly cousin in check (a quick look confirms Ken to be rolling his eyes at this) and Rolly recruiting me to his Pictionary team despite my protests that I'm really no good at it. He claims it's all about quick thinking and not much about artistic skills, which I'm not convinced of but don't argue anyway.

The ensuing board game discussion (Tatty advocates Monopoly over Pictionary and her father is having none if it) is only broken up some minutes later by the appearance of Genie who calls us for lunch. As we follow the other over into the dining room, I feel Ken reaching for my hand again and this time, I don't pull mine away, instead interlacing my fingers with his.

"So, how are you doing… in one word?" he asks, his voice quiet but hopeful.

I take a moment to think that over, replaying the past half an hour in my mind, before raising my head to smile at him. "Good."


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Leningrad' (written by Billy Joel, released by him in 1989).


To Mammu:
No, no, no! No apologising! Just the opposite, in fact. It was a lovely review and as always, much appreciated! :)
Yes, George was probably already on a plane when Rilla and Ken had their argument. I like to thing Ken having orchestrated his arrival long before that fight makes the gesture a bit more powerful, even. He didn't do it to try and get Rilla to forgive him or anything, he genuinely did it because he realised she was missing a lot of her old life in Oxford and George was the only part of that life he could actually get to her. And as for George enjoying England... well, he was named for a British king... ;)
I think Ken had 24 hours to reflect on what Rilla said and reflect on how this entire weekend went and after he calmed down and didn't feel so cornered, he was able to look at it with more impartial eyes. He might have talked to someone else about it as well, but mostly he just cooled down and thought it through and realised that Rilla had a point. Personally, I think if he hadn't figured it out in 24 hours, Rilla might as well have hopped on the next plane because then, there clearly would have been no sense in trying anymore.
I promise we're moving towards Rilla meeting his family (or parts of his family). We've got the two cousins already, so we might count that as the first little step, yes? ;) And I am, in fact, currently working on the chapter that has the next big meeting, so not too long anymore. The Leslie Reveal will happen slower, but we will get there too, in time.
To everything there is a season and all that ;).

To JoAnna:
Absolutely no argument there! In fact, I agree with everything you say, only you express it very clearly and succinctly in a few sentences and I need this big, overlong story to say the same thing. Such are the tribulations of a writer, I guess ;).
But to be serious, you're definitely very right about everything you said.I think, to me, Rilla lets her temper and her prejudices get the better of her and that makes her act in a not-so-good way, but it's more of a short-term thing. Ken gets it wrong on a longer-term, more substantial scale and that makes his reaction worse, on balance. They're both right and they're both wrong. It was important for me to show that. I won't argue that Ken gets it more wrong though because he does.
In the end,
what we've got here, is a failure to communicate. Like you said, these are issues they should have resolved long ago by talking openly and frankly, except they didn't and now that's coming back to bite them. Ken has been hiding in their parallel world and Rilla just went with it (let's face it, Rilla tends to just rolls with whatever is happening around her)m but they've arrived at a point where that strategy isn't working anymore, so it's up to them to find a new way forward or call it a day. If this is supposed to be for keeps, they definitely need to start building something permanent in the real world.