London, England
January 2014
The wounds from lovers past
I shouldn't do this to myself.
I really, really shouldn't do this to myself.
And yet, here I am – doing it anyway.
The ads have been running almost on loop for an entire week now and despite trying my hardest to ignore them, I think I always knew, deep down, that when it came to it, I'd be watching. Well, it has come to it now and watch it I do.
George sits next to me on the bet, loaf-style, and looks around the room dispassionately. After the first few weeks of raging against our new living situation, he seems to have resigned himself to the status quo. He isn't actively mad at me anymore, nor does he try to escape the apartment by any means possible, but I'd be fooling myself if I pretended he was the same spirited, adventurous cat he used to be. I tried taking him out on a leash, but he hated that even more, so we're back to the uneasy arrangement that I still, somehow, hope will be temporary. I mean, surely, we won't be stuck here forever?
Sighing, I reach out to stroke his back. He turns his head to stare at me, but otherwise shows no sign of reaction or appreciation.
Not wanting to bother him, I draw my hand back and shift to sit more comfortably on the bed. My laptop, which is doubling as a TV for monetary reasons, sits on my legs, its underside already a little hot to the touch. (I should be probably get it replaced, but for that to be possible, Marcia would have to give me a raise and the likelihood of that happening is slim to non-existent.)
On the screen, the show's intro is starting to play, so I take the laptop off mute and brace for the worst.
The show's annoying jingle fills the air and as if on cue, my phone beeps to join the chorus. I consider ignoring it, but then reach out for it anyway. It's a message from Ken, surprisingly enough.
Don't watch it, please. You know it's all drivel and lies. Don't let them get to you. I'll call you when I have the chance.
Only that chance won't arise until the day after tomorrow or even later. He was vague about details, but from what I caught, they're starting on a multi-day training mission tonight. He must have texted me just before leaving.
Still.
I close the message without answering it and put the phone on silent before throwing it to the other side of the bed. (George glares at me and gets up, stalking over to the window and settling down on the sill, staring outside with what I presume to be longing.)
On the laptop screen, the TV studio appears and the camera zooms in on the two hosts. The man has his hair puffed and coifed in a way very reminiscent of the 1950s, and the woman wears a rather garish red-and-purple dress. (Seriously, whoever thought red and purple were a good combination ought to have their head examined!) Not that my catty thoughts can at all protect me against what's to come, but at least they give me a grim sort of satisfaction. I might have made mistakes in my life, but I never wore a dress that clashed with itself and I certainly never tried to impersonate Elvis ever.
"Welcome and thank you for tuning in to our hotly anticipated special, live from our studio in London!" chirps the woman.
"Today is all about a girl whose face is instantly recognisable, but whose past has so far been shrouded in mystery," continues the man brightly.
I scoff. 'Mystery' makes it sound rather much more interesting than it was. (I should know. I was there.)
"Please join us as we take a closer look at none other than royal girlfriend Rilla Blythe!" invites the woman, beaming at the camera. (Her teeth are unnaturally white.)
I would very much like to throw something at her face, please.
On the studio screen behind them appears a large photo of me looking pensive as I sit in a café of some sort. (If I had to guess, I'd say the photo dates back to the Oxford days.) The man turns to look at the camera, suddenly very serious indeed. "Doesn't she look just like the quintessential girl next door?" he asks rhetorically.
"That's what we all thought," chimes in the woman, looking mournful. "Perhaps a bit bland and vapid, but ultimately a nice girl."
Bland?
Vapid?
I'm already bristling and they haven't even gotten to the real issue of their so-called 'TV special'.
"Recent discoveries, however, have forced us to question our view of Rilla Blythe," announces the man. "Far from being the peppy, innocent girl we thought her to be, it seems she has a hidden past more than worthy of our attention."
(Could they stop calling me 'girl', please?)
"One of her conquest has recently spoken out about the 'good time' they had during a spring break trip to Mexico." The woman actually makes air quotes around 'good time'. "Let's hear again what he has to say, before we take a closer look at the other men in her life."
The TV studio disappears from the screen, to be replaced by a close-up of the face of none other than Chad Johnson – Mexico Guy.
For the past two weeks, snippets and soundbites of his Christmas Day interview have positively haunted me. Not as day passed when I wasn't confronted with what he said and not a day passed when I haven't hated him for it.
Sure, everyone told me not to watch and certainly not to re-watch, but that's easy for them to say, isn't it? They're not the one being ripped apart for the entire world to see. I mean, I tried not to pay any attention, tried to ignore it as best as I could, but it seems even my ability to turn a blind eye is limited.
Yes, I saw it. The entire interview. Several times. (There might have been one particular horrible night when I watched it on repeat, over and over again, until my eyes were puffy and my head hurt and I wouldn't have been surprised if Mexico Guy himself had suddenly materialised in my dingy, crappy apartment as if by some stroke of particularly dark magic.)
Bottom line is, I saw it and I saw it often enough to know every line by heart. (Weird thing is, it's always as bad as the first time. Somehow, it never fades.)
Therefore, I'm not at all surprised when TV-Chad opens his mouth and the following words come out: "Yo, I mean, she was hot, right? Really fit and really good pins. I watched her dance and thought, 'Chad, you'd tap that.' So, uh, I tapped it."
I resist the urge to hide my face in my hands. What was I thinking?
"I said to myself, 'Chad, better be chi– chiv– better be a gentleman.' I bought her a beer, right? And not the cheap Mexican beer! I sprung for the foreign kind that cost a dollar more. Had to get some for her friends, too. Chicks always hang around in group, have you noticed? I don't know why that is. Do you know why that is?" TV-Chad looks expectantly at the interviewer, as if he truly wants that question answered.
It's not rocket science to figure out. But then, it's evident that poor Chad really isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, this interview being exhibit A. (Honestly, my only excuse is that I must have been drunker than I thought. I have no other explanation.)
On the screen, the interviewer has nudged Chad back on track to continue his story. "Uh, right. Yeah, so I bought her a beer. She smiled at me and I thought, 'Chad, you want to find out what else she can do with those lips.' We danced and I showed off some of my killer moves. I have some really sick moves. You wanna see them?"
The interviewer politely declines and if I didn't hate him so much for obvious reasons, I'd be impressed with how patient he is. Interviewing Chad must be some kind of professional nightmare. Or it would be, if it wasn't such a scoop. I mean, let's be honest, to the TV execs, Chad turning up from wherever he's been hiding must have felt like their wet dreams coming true.
"So, we danced, right? I knew my moves impressed her. It's how I charm all the ladies. She was very sexy, very hot. Moved her hips and put her arms around me. I grinded into her a bit and she let me, so I said to myself, 'Chad, you stud, you'll tap that tonight.' And I did!" He grins triumphantly.
I just want to die.
How could I?
Rationally, I know I should be focusing on the impact of this. On the press reaction, which has been both lethal and gleeful in equal parts, and on what the public thinks, not to mention my family and friends – and Ken's family and friends, too. I should be looking at the bigger picture and try to figure out the long-term consequences. Part of me does that, too. But the more petty part is just really, really embarrassed I ever slept with that man, inebriated or not.
Thankfully, that seems to be enough for the 'TV special' to prove its point, because instead of showing the rest of Chad's interview, they cut back into the studio.
Of course, knowing it by heart, I know there's quite a bit more than they showed today. There's him putting words into my mouth I'd never say (who ever even uses 'snake' in that context in real life anyway?) and describing some acrobatic happenings that I'm sure neither of us was in any state to actually perform. He even goes so far as to claim that I begged him to stay the next morning, when I know for a fact that I sneaked out as quiet as possible, equal parts horrified and disgusted, praying to whatever God that he wouldn't wake. That that one night stand stayed a one night stand was certainly not because Chad felt he wasn't ready to tie himself down yet!
I'm spared the embarrassment of having to live through those parts again though and I would be grateful, if hadn't resolved to wish a very slow and painful death on whoever had anything to do with these things. The Chad interview. The TV special. Everything. Oh, if only I could make them suffer the way they're making me suffer!
Alas, not to be.
Especially as, even though the Chad interview was cut short, the TV special itself doesn't appear to be over yet. Apparently, they have even more tortures to inflict upon me.
"When we first heard what the young man had to say, suffice to say we were all quite shocked," declares the male presenter.
"Shocked!" repeats the woman, nodding seriously.
"In two weeks, our feelings of surprise and, for some, discomfort have hardly abated," continues the man, looking straight into the camera with an expression that spells understanding for all those discomforted by my love life.
(Why do they care anyway?)
"That's not all though!" announces the woman, looking suitably scandalised. "As we will learn today, Rilla Blythe did not only willingly and recklessly sleep with a man she didn't know at all, she did something much more serious and some might say, more worrying for our much admired future king."
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
They can't!
They can't possibly…
"It appears," adds the man, utterly merciless, "that when Rilla Blythe had her encounter with Chad Johnson in Mexico, she also had a boyfriend waiting for her in New York."
No!
They weren't supposed to know about this.
They weren't supposed to find out.
They were not!
(And yet, somehow, they did.)
"At the time, Rilla, then a first-year student at NYU, was dating a law student called Eric Reese," explains the woman. Behind her, a photo of Eric appears. He looks older and more distinguished in his suit, but it's unmistakably him.
I feel faintly sick.
"Sources say they broke up shortly afterwards, which we can only assume was because of Rilla's transgression," speculates the man. (Not wrongly, vexingly enough.)
The woman nods gravely. "These revelations also raise the valid questions about Rilla's current relationship with Prince Kenneth."
"It does indeed," agrees the man. "Up and down the country people will wonder whether they need to be worried for their favourite prince – and whether he, too, will walk away from this so-called relationship with a broken heart?"
How –
How dare they?
(I can hardly think straight.)
"Though Prince Kenneth might be spared a similar treatment simply because of who he is. After all, there are rumours that poor Eric was simply deemed 'not good enough' by a girl on the lookout for something more exalted," instigates the woman. "Even then, he was, by all accounts, a catch, being both handsome and kind and at the cusp of a successful law career. Given her track record, however, one can't wonder whether he didn't meet Rilla Blythe's standards."
Okay. Now I feel more than just faintly sick.
I feel…
I feel like crying.
But at the same time, I'm too exhausted to even cry. It's all just hollow.
It's so odd, too. How anyone can think that kind, generous, caring Eric was not good enough for me… it's laughable. Almost as absurd as anyone seriously thinking I'd ever cheat on Ken. I mean, anyone who knows me –
But that's it. These people don't know me. They might have information about me, but they don't know me!
(Doesn't stop them from pretending they do, though.)
"We've known about her teenage sweetheart for a while now." The man points to the big studio screen, where Eric's photo is currently being replaced by one of Carl. "Carl Meredith is the minister's son from the rural village on Prince Edward Island, where the Blythes own a holiday home."
"Of course, as many are aware, Carl turned from well-behaved minister's son into quite an eco-activist." The woman raises two well-plucked eyebrows. Behind her, another picture of Carl appears on the screen. It shows him at a demonstration of some sort, brandishing a large banner. Next to him is a woman with purple hair, holding a megaphone. (Might that be the mysterious Kara?)
I make a mental note to apologise to Carl. I know how he dislikes being dragged into this whole 'royal circus' as he called it last summer.
(It's quickly becoming a habit, me apologising to people for inadvertently dragging them into the madness that is my life.)
"Whether Rilla knew even then that Carl Meredith would never be able to keep her in the style she craved or whether she simply grew bored of him, we don't know. But we do know she broke it off before leaving for Europe after graduating high school," summarises the man – wrongly, of course, but then, they're getting so much wrong that it's hardly surprising.
Sighing, I shake my head. (Has it really gotten so far that I can't even get worked up about something like this anymore?)
"In Europe, she clearly had her cap set for bigger fish," claims the woman. "And for a while, it must have looked to her like she had caught one."
So, they found him, too, did they?
With a sinking feeling, I watch as Carl and Kara get replaced by a shot of Alain, looking disdainfully down his nose at the cameras.
"You'd be forgiven for thinking Alain de la Bruyère was a hero right from the pages of a romance novel," continues the woman and is it just me or has her voice just become a little gushing? "Tall, good-looking, aristocratic, rich, well-connected and French, he is everything Rilla Blythe must have been looking for."
Yeah, right. As if I was on the lookout for Alain! I mean, does anyone ever set out to get their heart broken?
"Alain de la Bruyère refused to be interviewed for this segment, as did Carl Meredith and Eric Reese," explains the man. (I send a silent thank you to all three of them.) "It means we can only speculate what drove him and Rilla apart after what was, by all accounts, a charged and passionate Paris love affair, but rumour has it that she just wasn't able to lure him in permanently."
Lure him in?
They're really setting out to make me look like some sort of man-eater, aren't they?
(I'm increasingly thinking a slow and painful death might still be too good for them. I'm imagining something more along the lines of… who was the guy who had his organ picked out by some sort of bird for all eternity? That sounds like a splendid idea!)
"Apparently, it all ended in tears on Rilla's side." The woman does not at all look like she feels sorry for me. "And no wonder! Alain would have been a great catch for a small-town girl from far-off Canada."
Small-town girl?
Halifax has almost half a million inhabitants!
Don't these people do research?
(They do, sadly. How else could they know all this? I mean, this is some sort of weird Killing Me Softly-situation, where they're spreading out all my secrets for the world to see – and there's absolutely nothing I can do.)
"By the time she re-crossed the Atlantic to start her studies at NYU, Rilla seemed to have licked most of her wounds though," remarks the man. "Eric Reese might have been a temporary distraction, probably to help her re-built her confidence, but after having rid herself of him, she was quickly on the prowl again."
Frowning, I shake my head. This isn't right, is it? Between Alain and Eric, there was Jorge. Jorge, whose brief role in my life rightfully should be catnip to the press. After all, in the past two weeks, they loved playing up the angle of me having casual, reckless sex with strangers. My Lisbon weekend fits neatly into that picture. They'd never pass up on it!
Except… except if they don't know.
Can that be?
Can it be that this one part of my love life might actually still be private?
(I feel a strange sense of triumph rise in me. It's nonsensical, given how much else they found out, but they didn't get everything and that's something to focus on in what is otherwise a situation really too awful for words.)
In my confusion, I missed the beginning of what the woman said, but tune back in for the important part. "– but this time, it was through what we can only assume was a calculated friendship with a daughter of one of America's oldest family's that Rilla met her next conquest. It was none other than Tristan Fairfax, descendant from a Mayflower settler and therefore, practically American royalty of his own!"
On the screen, Tristan's face appears and at first, I think it's a picture, too, only – only it's moving. Not a picture, then.
(Moron!)
"Uh, yes. We dated for, um, almost a year," Screen-Tristan stutters. (He's usually more eloquent than that, but then, he usually doesn't have his mother and his sister hovering at his elbows.) "She was, uh, sweet? Funny. Very pretty. We had a lot of fun, but it wasn't, um, anything permanent."
Yes, you allowed Mummy take care of that, didn't you?
(Idiot.)
He's allowing Mummy to take care of it now, too, because Mrs Fairfax muscles into the foreground. Clearly, she's unhappy with her offspring's handling of the matter. "Rilla Blythe was a… a nice girl, but ultimately, there was no doubt that she would be but a temporary episode in my sons's life. In a family like ours, we have standards to uphold and she did not meet them, nice though she was. I'm sure the royal family will understand that as well, with time."
What the…?
That horrible, odious, arrogant, scheming harpy!
Spluttering in indignation, I stare at the screen, where Mrs Fairfax looks very smug and self-righteous and Yseult nods like some especially moronic bobblehead. (Tristan has the decency to look uncomfortable.)
At least they don't appear to have anything else to say. Their image freezes on the studio screen and the camera focuses back on the two presenters.
"Certainly a very thought-provoking assessment from members of a very distinguished American family," opinions the woman. (Ha! As if!)
She looks over at the man, obviously expecting him to take over. He, however, has a finger pressed to his ear piece, apparently receiving instructions or information or something from the director.
"I've just heard that we have… we have a caller," he explains, sounding confused. "He asked to be put through directly to the studio."
The woman frowns at him. Looks like this is unusual.
I wonder who –
"Good evening," sounds a voice over the studio loudspeakers. A vaguely familiar voice...
"My name is Eric Reese," continues the voice. "You talked about me a few minutes ago."
Eric!
My God, yes! It is Eric!
But what…?
How…?
"Good evening, Eric," greets the man, beaming into the nearest camera. "We're so happy to have you with us! Did you call to shed some light on –"
"I did," interrupts Eric. (Unusual. I don't remember him to be the type to interrupt anyone ever.) "I wanted to let it be known that Rilla did not cheat on me at any point in our relationship. We mutually agreed to end our relationship before she left for Mexico. She was, therefore, single and in no way bound to me during that trip or anytime afterwards."
That –
That is a lie.
That is absolutely and categorically untrue.
On the screen, the two presenters exchange a confused glance. I feel as dumbstruck as they look.
"Let me further state that Rilla Blythe is a very nice, caring and kind woman," continues Eric. "We parted ways because we were at different stages in live and for no other reason. I thank you to report it as such in the future."
(Suffice to say that that, too, is a lie.)
"Eric!" calls out the woman, sensing that Eric has said his piece and is about to slip through her fingers. "Eric, if you would just –"
But the only answer is the beeping sound of the dial tone. Eric hung up. (And the presenters lost what could have been their prime witness. Serves them right!)
"Ah." The man blinks. "That was… that was certainly a… a surprising development." He's clearly grappling for his wits and I'd watch, if only to see him squirm, but I have more important things to do.
Putting the laptop on mute and setting it aside, I stretch to pick up my phone from where it lies next to my pillow. A quick glance tells me that I have several missed calls and even more messages, all from family and friends (I spy Seraphina threatening to kill her aunt, Shirley offering to somehow take Chad's computer ransom and Dev telling me to keep my head high and be fabulous), but for the time being, I don't pay them any attention.
(To be honest, while I know they want to be supportive, it means they all saw it and somehow, I wish they hadn't.)
With flying fingers, I do a quick google search. When it turns up the desired result, I type the number into my phone. My hands, I notice, are shaking.
"Stoddard and Candlewick," chirps a female voice down the receiver.
"Good evening," I greet. (Or is it still afternoon in Madison, Wisconsin?) "I'd like to speak to Eric Reese, please."
"Mr Reese doesn't speak to the press," responds the woman primly, all cheer gone from her voice.
Sensing that she's about to hang up, I call out, "I'm not a reporter. I'm… I'm an old friend."
"They all say that," argues the woman.
Quick! Think of something, Rilla!
"Bugs Bunny socks," I blurt out.
A beat on the other end. "Excuse me?"
I can't even blame her.
"Bugs Bunny socks," I repeat. "Tell him that, please. He'll know."
At least I hope he will.
I can feel the woman's disdain radiating down the line, but she obliges and puts me on hold, hopefully to contact Eric.
A minute or so passes and just when I think the annoying, jingling hold-music will drive me mad, there's another voice. "Bugs Bunny socks?"
Eric!
"Well, it worked, didn't it?" I reply.
He laughs. "Apparently so. Though I remember you weren't so happy with me when I gave them to you. For a moment, I thought you would cry."
"For a moment, I almost did cry," I admit openly, smiling to myself. "Our first Christmas and you give me Bugs Bunny socks?"
"I thought it would be funny," mutters Eric and I can tell that he's a little embarrassed, even five years later.
"I know you did," I assure him, laughing. "I know you genuinely found them funny, too. It's just… God, Eric, you're definitely the nicest boyfriend I ever had, but you also have the dorkiest sense of humour."
I can hear him chuckle. "That's what my wife says."
"You're married!" I exclaim.
"Uh, yes," he replies. "Leyla and I got married three years ago. We have a little girl, Amina."
"That's great!" And I really, truly mean it. I fled his vision of a picket fence-future (and treated him abysmally while doing so), but I never begrudged him his happiness and I always wished him well.
(And, truth to be told, there are moments, dark and brief, when I find myself wondering whether the picket fence-life doesn't hold a certain kind of appeal, after all. And whether I wouldn't have been happy living it, in the end.)
"Thanks. We live a pretty ordinary life, but we're happy." I can sense Eric hesitating. "Whereas your life took a rather…"
"Surprising turn?" I supply when he breaks off.
"Ah, yes. Surprising is right," he confirms.
It leads us directly back to the elephant in the room and I decide to tackle it headfirst.
"I actually called to thank you," I tell him. "That was… You needn't have done that. Lie like that for me."
"I know," replies Eric calmly. "I just couldn't listen to them anymore. I wasn't sure whether it was alright with you that I called in –"
"More than alright!" I interject.
"– but I had to do something to stop it. For one, I didn't care for the way they were talking about me and I don't really want to forever be remembered as the man betrayed by the prince's girlfriend," admits Eric bluntly. "For another… that's character assassination, Rilla. There's no other way of putting it."
I sigh, but don't say anything.
"Look, I hope I'm not overstepping a line here, but you really should do something against all that," continues Eric, now more cautious. "Do you have a lawyer?"
"No." I shake my head, even though he can't see it. "We sent out some legal letters last years when they harassed my family too much, but apparently, I'm a public persona now. They're allowed to report about me."
"Perhaps." He still sounds sceptical. "But even people in the public eye have human rights, you know."
Do they?
Colour me surprised.
I suppress another sigh. "It's nice of you to care, but…"
"But it's none of my business," finishes Eric, understandingly. "I know."
"Sorry. And thank you. For, you know…" I trail off.
"You're welcome," he replies, sounding like he means it. "I hope it helps, even a little bit."
Yes. So do I.
God knows so do I.
(Suddenly, the call has turned awkward.)
"Thanks again," I repeat, unnecessarily. "And… I wish you all the best. Truly, I do."
"You, too, Rilla." A beat. "And good luck."
Yes. Looks like I'll need it.
The call ends and I lower the phone, staring down at the comforter covering my bed. The brief feeling of elation I felt at Eric's defence leaves me in a single breath. What remains is a feeling of… resignation.
I'm grateful to Eric, I truly am, but – but when it's all said and done, he isn't the man I want defending me.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'And So It Goes' (written by Billy Joel, released by him in 1989).
To JoAnna:
Well... let's say it's one of the bombs. But yes, I wasn't going to give Rilla a potentially controversial love life and then not use it. Where would have been the fun in that? ;)
For once though, I don't think Owen including that picture with Rilla was a big deal between Owen and Ken. Had Rilla been front and centre, Ken might have objected, fearing it would put too much pressure on her. But he respects his father as a professional and he knows that Owen plays the PR game really well. So, even if he wasn't consulted, I'd say he knew to take this for what it was - Owen showing his support for Rilla and for her relationship with Ken. On the whole, that's a good thing and while Ken has been known to be pretty thick on occasion, I believe he gets this.
I like Shirley, too! We know so little about it, but he's always among those of Rilla's siblings I return to most often. I even pledged there'd be less Shirley and more Walter in this story, and look how badly that turned out. I just like Shirley so much better! (Whereas Walter... look, I'm sure he's a nice fellow, but he and I don't connect. I don't understand him.)
As for the "googling yourself", my theory is that most famous people fall in one of two camps. There are those who religiously google their own names and keep up with everything written about them. And then there are those who try to ignore it as much as possible and only engage when they have to. I know which behaviour I find healthier and though Rilla is bungling some parts of her life, I agree with her decision not to look at the press unless she has to. I mean, it's bad enough as it is.
I'm thinking Marcia's company was employed to organise the engagement party before Rilla started working there. Parties of this scale take a while to set up and Rilla hasn't been working there for long, so that was mostly just an annoying coincidence. As for Marcia herself, she probably didn't realise Hew and Toppy would be known to Rilla, so she just did her usual spiel of sending Rilla to her most high-profile parties. Even if she isn't actually paid extra for her attendance, having Rilla there garners press and that press is likely to mention the company she works for. I can most definitely promise you that neither Hew nor Toppy paid extra money to have Rilla do the waitressing. They're not that mean.
In Germany, we haven't had a royal family since the Kaiser abdicated in 1918, but the Hohenzollerns are still about. They're currently suing the state to have art and property returned to them (worth several hundred millions). They say it's there private property, but it does make you wonder how that private property was acquired back in the 18th and 19th centuries... Let's just say I'm fine with them minding their own business, but I'm not a supporter of that particular court case.
Poland is such a beautiful country! I went to Warsaw some years ago and I so, so want to visit Krakow one day! I hear it's one of the most beautiful cities. (I imagine it to be a bit like Prague, which is also gorgeous. I could be wrong about any similarities, but I'm resolved to find out.)
To Mammu:
As you can see, Mexico Guy wasn't the only one to make an appearance. I dare say it's not the last we see of Rilla's various ex-boyfriends either, but as Eric demonstrated, it doesn't always have to be dire. Not all of her ex-boyfriends are idiots.
Ken ripped up Rilla's list about her past relationships (thereby, I think, implying that he wouldn't share the information he read), so the palace isn't aware of every man Rilla ever slept with. I do believe they probably checked out the known boyfriends (Carl, Eric, Tristan, maybe Alain), but wouldn't have been aware of Chad and still aren't aware of Jorge. There might be some pearl-clutching happening over at the palace right now, but I do believe Ken's actual family won't hold it against Rilla. They, more than anyone, know what the press intrusion feels like and they know better than to hold something she did years ago against her.
Ken's in a bit of a pickle right now. He can't just interrupt his training, so to go to Rilla right now, he'd either have to drop out completely or ask for preferential treatment. The press would crucify him for both and what's more, they'd blame it on Rilla, making things worse for her. Those "Moaning Mitzi makes hen-pecked prince give up his military dream"-headlines would just write themselves. I'm not saying staying away is the right course of action in this, but he is caught between a rock and a hard place a bit.
If you did stay up, I hope this chapter was worth it ;).
