London, England
March 2015
Knocked your crown and ran away
"Evening, Georgie," I greet the cat.
"Meow!" George comes running down the stairs, his claws skittering on the floor.
"Yes, I'm pretty tired," I reply. "Very considerate of you to ask."
"Meow!" George winds himself around my legs (and gets fur all over my trousers in the process).
"You're right. My day was pretty intense," I tell him. "How did you guess?"
"Meow!" insists George and looks up at me.
"Oh, just the usual. Annoying clients, obstinate suppliers and a co-worker with a massive case of heartbreak," I answer. (The last one hit a little too close to home.)
"Meow!" Getting impatient, George swats at my leg with his left front paw.
"Right, right. Dinner first, conversation later?" I ask, smiling.
"Meow!" agrees George and stalks ahead towards the kitchen.
I quickly drop my bag, shed my coat and kick off my shoes, before following the cat to where he's hovering near the kitchen entrance, watching me with unblinking eyes.
Before I even dare to consider dinner for myself, I get an opened tin of cat food for George from the fridge and empty the remaining contents into his food bowl. George lunges for it like the famished cat he undoubtedly is.
With a sigh, I drop down on one of the kitchen chairs and watch George devour his food. (It's lamb and green bean, which is always a favourite.) Absent-mindedly, I wiggle my toes, which are a bit crampy after many hours spent running around in three inch heels, and reflect on my day.
I told George the truth earlier about my day having been intense. It started directly in the morning, when I had to have a not very friendly call with one of the bakers who delivered a less than stellar cake to yesterday's birthday party, and it didn't improve from there. The already stressful day cumulated in a meeting with a bride whose craziness was only topped by the mother of the bride – and don't even get me started on the mother of the groom! When they all three started snapping at me for daring to caution against an outdoor reception in Yorkshire in the middle of November, I was almost ready to throw it all. (I didn't, of course. Instead, I took a deep breath and agreed to organise the reception. Picturing them all getting rained upon definitely helped me suffer through the rest of the meeting.)
Listening to George munching away, I consider what to make for my own dinner, but my thoughts are rudely interrupted when my phone rings.
Immediately, my heart beats faster, but I angrily will it to slow down again. It's not him. I know it's not him. He might technically still be in Europe, but active combat duty means restricted contact. There's a schedule to the calls and even that doesn't always work out. (Part of me wonders why I look forward to his calls anyway. We try, painfully so, but the calls are no less awkward than our goodbye was and afterwards, I invariably cry myself to sleep.)
Dragging myself back into the hallway, I rummage through my bag for my phone and just manage to accept the call before it goes to voicemail. I don't recognise the number. (See? I knew it wasn't him.)
I raise the phone to my ear. "Yes?"
"Miss Blythe?" comes a male voice. "This is Oliver speaking. Oliver Warboys."
I frown at my reflection in the hallway mirror. Why would Ken's private secretary be calling me?
"Yes? How can I help you?" I ask tentatively.
Oliver clears his throat. "I don't want to disturb you for long. I hope this isn't too late to call?"
"No, it's fine," I answer, my frown deepening. Why is he stalling?
"Good, good," replies Oliver, before falling silent.
Mirror Me raises an eyebrow. This is one odd call already and it's not even thirty seconds long.
(For the briefest of moment, the worst thought flits through my head, but that's nonsense. They wouldn't have Oliver call me if the worst happened. Owen would come himself. I know he would.)
On the other end of the line, I hear Oliver take a deep breath. "What I'm calling about, Miss, is… well, some people here want to make sure you haven't told anyone about His Royal Highness's deployment."
Immediately, I feel myself bristling. "No, I did not tell anyone. As a matter of fact, I stuck completely to the party line of him doing very boring and immersive research and office work in preparation for Kingship. The plain truth of that is, of course, that I'm constantly lying to my family, my friends and basically every other person I encounter."
"I didn't mean to offend you, Miss," Oliver assures me. "No-one suggested you were acting in any way untoward."
"And yet, you're calling me," I observe. Mirror Me narrows her eyes.
Oliver awkwardly clears his throat. "Again, let me emphasise that I in no way mean to cause any offence. I've merely been asked to call you, because… well, there has been some concern about you being… too visible."
"Too visible?" I repeat, incredulous.
"Ah." I can almost hear Oliver squirm. "The concern was raised because… there were some snaps in the Mirror today of you going out last weekend."
"I went dancing with friends," I answer curtly. "I hardly see how that's anyone's business."
There's a moment of pause, before Oliver replies, "Normally, it wouldn't be. But the worry is that you being in the papers makes the public wonder where His Royal Highness is."
"I thought the media agreed not to publish anything about his deployment," I remark, confused.
"They did," confirms Oliver. "However, that deal does not extend to them agreeing not to cover anything about you and whenever you are in the papers, the public is reminded of him. As you know, it's imperative for his own safety and that of his fellow soldiers that no-one learns of his deployment, so we need to ensure that no-one starts asking any questions."
I do know that. In fact, it was strenuously impressed upon me that the moment the enemy finds out Ken might potentially be in one of those airplanes, there'll be a heightened danger of them trying to kill or kidnap him, which also means more danger for every other pilot in a fighter plane over Iraq. (Somehow, the kidnapping option seemed to make everyone more nervous than the one that could see him getting killed. Those palace employees are a weird bunch and I'm not altogether sure I agree with their motives.)
"So… what does that mean?" I ask, trying to understand where Oliver is going with this entire talk.
"We'd be very grateful if you could… well, lie low until his return," Oliver answers.
"Lie low? Do you want me to just not leave the house anymore and effing starve?" My voice is dripping with sarcasm.
"Of course not!" Oliver quickly assures. "We understand you have to leave the house to go to work and get groceries. We'd prefer if you would cut back on the evening entertainment though, or at least keep it within your home. If you're photographed clubbing without him, people will invariably wonder where he is and we'd prefer for them not to wonder about him at all while he is deployed."
Swallowing heavily, I force down the words I want to say. Instead, I settle on, "Basically, you want me to put my life on hold until His Royal Highness deigns to return from playing soldier. Correct?"
"Uh," stutters Oliver. "Um…"
I sigh, the fight leaving me. "It's okay. I know this isn't your fault."
"Thank you, Miss." Oliver's relief is palpable.
"It's okay," I repeat. (Mirror Me pinches the bridge of her nose.) "Anything else you wanted?"
"No, Miss," Oliver assures me quickly. "That's it. Thank you for your cooperation."
"Sure," I reply wearily. "Sure."
A moment ticks by silently.
"Right, um," begins Oliver. "I think that covers everything I meant to speak to you about. I will let you get back to –"
"Oliver?" I interrupt.
"Yes?" he asks, sounding wary.
"If I weren't his girlfriend anymore… would I be allowed to live my life?" I don't know what makes me say it. The words have left my lips before I really considered them. But now that they're out in the open, I find myself strangely curious to hear the answer.
There's silence on the other end of the line and for a moment, I think Oliver will hang up on me. (Part of me couldn't even blame him.) But then he speaks and his voice is sympathetic. "No, Miss. If you weren't his girlfriend anymore, you'd be his ex-girlfriend and that doesn't change all that much. In fact, you'd always be his ex-girlfriend, for the rest of your life. One way or another, people will always think of him when they see you."
Great. Bloody, sodding great.
(Will I ever be an individual person again, I wonder? A person that functions separately from him? A person that is more than just the prince's girlfriend? Or am I doomed to forever be defined by the man I fell in love with?)
I don't torture poor Oliver with my despondent thoughts for any longer though. With a sigh, I thank him for his advice and wish him a nice evening. He says his goodbyes a little too eagerly and I wonder whether they drew straws to determine who'd call me. The conversation can't have been any more comfortable for him than it was for me.
There's a touch at my left leg and I look down to see George nudging me with his head.
"You just had dinner, Georgie," I remind him. "Like, five minutes ago. I remember it very clearly."
"Meow," answers George pityingly, sounding like a very starving and neglected cat indeed.
"No," I tell him sternly. "You did have dinner, even if you forgot it."
George rubs his head against my leg, before sitting back and looking at me with wide, imploring eyes to rival the be-hatted cat from the Shrek movies.
I shake my head. "You won't sway me, not even with the Cat-from-the-Shrek-eyes!"
(Seriously. A fetching hat and a Spanish accent and he'd be a dead ringer.)
Steeling myself against his begging, I turn around. George, filled with hope, runs toward the kitchen, but I walk to the stairs instead. Behind me, George protests loudly and even lunges for my right foot, but when I glare at him over my shoulder, he runs off to sulk.
With the cat angry at me and my hunger vanquished by Oliver's call, I make my way up the stairs and to the first floor bathroom. A relaxing bath with lots of foam and bubbles sounds like just the right thing at the moment.
Putting my phone down on the edge of the tub, I reach for the taps to get the water running. From the mirrored cupboard on the wall, I grab the lavender-scented foam bath – and freeze.
The bottle of foam bath slips from my hand, as I stare at the blue cardboard box in the cupboard and my blood runs cold.
Driven by pure instinct, I feel for my phone, almost knocking it into the slowly filling bathtub in my haste. I rescue it just in time and blindly turn off the water, while frantically scrolling through my contacts until I have Joy's number. With a shaking hand, I raise the phone to my ear and listen to the dialling tone.
Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up, please pi–
"Rilla!" Joy greets me cheerfully. "How are you, littlest sister?"
I'm so relieved to hear her voice that I can't even muster an answer. My throat feels too tight to get words through. I just sink down on the floor, my back against the side of the bathtub, and cradle the phone closer to my ear.
With me not participating in the conversation, Joy continues on blithely. "I just left court. I won a really great settlement for my client. Her ex-husband is such a son of a –"
"Joy-Joy?" I whisper, my voice somewhat cooperating again.
Joy immediately stops whatever she meant to tell me. "Sweetie? Are you okay? Is something the matter?" Her cheerfulness is immediately replaced by concern and it almost makes me cry.
"I'm…" I take a deep breath, but the words still come out all croaky. "I'm… late."
There's a long moment of silence on the other end of the line, only interrupted by footsteps and the sound of a door closing. "Are we talking… late-late?" asks Joy carefully.
"Yes," I confirm quietly. "Late-late."
My sister blows out a breath of air and it sounds like a storm of static in my ear. "By how much?"
I shrug, even though she can't see it. "Three days? Four?"
"That's not a lot," she points out. "Could be nothing."
"Yeah…" I draw out the word. "Could be something though."
"You aren't usually late," she remarks and it's not a question.
"No," I agree tonelessly. "I'm not usually late."
I draw my knees up to my chest and wait. I know Joy's mind is running a mile a minute, trying to come up with the best strategy how to handle this, which is just as well, because my mind is completely blank. There's not a single useful thought, just a whole lot of suppressed panic.
"Have you told Ken?" Joy wants to know.
"No," I answer simply.
"You should tell Ken," she advises.
"No," I repeat.
She sighs. "You need to tell him, Ril."
"No," I insist, jutting my chin out stubbornly.
"Don't you think he should know?" she asks, sounding very reasonable indeed.
I consider the question briefly. Then – "No."
Joy hums quietly and I know she's trying to remain calm. "Okay, no Ken. Do I have that right?"
"Yes," I confirm, nodding so forcefully that I hit my head on the side of the tub.
"Right," replies Joy. "Right."
She's back to thinking, so I go back to waiting. I sit silently as I rub the back of my head where I can already feel a small bump forming.
"You need to be sure," Joy states after a moment.
Yes. Being sure sounds good.
"But you can't go out and buy a test," she continues.
No. I can't be seen buying a test.
"Is there a person you trust implicitly?" Joy asks. "One you could ask to get the test for you?"
"Lucy," I answer immediately, not even considering the question.
It has to be Lucy. It's not that she's the only person I trust here, but this is no job for a man, which rules out Dev, and as for my British female friends, they were all part of Ken's life long before they entered mine. Not that they'd prattle, but… for this, I need a friend who is mine, with no connection to him. Lucy is the only person I could ask.
"Call Lucy, ask her to get you a test, take it and call me back immediately," orders Joy.
"Okay," I answer. There's a strange sort of fatality washing over me, but I know that it's but temporary and liable to turn to panic at any moment.
"Good." Joy pauses and when she continues to speak, her voice is softer. "And Rilla? It'll be alright."
Of course, that does set me off. I just manage to croak out a goodbye to Joy, before curling up on the cool floor of the bathroom and starting to sob. (Part of my hates how cliché this is, but the bigger part just doesn't care.) It takes a long few minutes for my tears to have ceased enough for me to be able to call Lucy.
When she picks up, I immediately hear that she's on the train home and feel my heart sink.
"Hello! Nice of you to call!" she exclaims.
I try to answer, but find that I can't. The moment I speak, I know I'll just break out in tears again. The only thing that escapes is a strangled sob.
"Are you okay?" Lucy asks, clearly concerned.
Another sob.
"Okay. I understand." Her voice is all resourceful now. "Wait a moment. I'll get off this train and we can talk."
I nod at the empty bathroom and wait, trying to control my breathing as I do.
On the other end of the line, there's some rustling and the faint sound of a loudspeaker announcement, then footsteps and the sound of a train door opening. When Lucy speaks again, it's accompanied by the wind whistling on the platform.
"I'm outside," she informs me. "I'm taking the next train back to London and no argument!"
"Not arguing," I manage to choke out. It's selfish to call Lucy back here when it's this late and she probably has better things to do, but the very thought of being alone tonight, not knowing, terrifies me. Right now, being selfish is the only option I see.
"Very well." I can almost picture Lucy nodding briskly. "It wouldn't have done you any good anyway. I'm coming."
And I can't even express how grateful I am.
I hear Lucy's footsteps as she walks to switch platforms. "Do you want to tell me what's the matter or do you want to wait until I'm with you?" she asks.
I clear my throat and try to regain control of my voice. "Later. But could… could you… could you get a… a test? And bring it?" I can't seem to say the word. I hope she understands anyway.
"A –?" Lucy's voice is all puzzlement, before, suddenly, turning to understanding. "Oh. Oh!"
A loaded second passes.
"Bloody hell," she whispers.
Yeah.
"Bloody hell!" she repeats, louder.
"Yeah," I whisper and it comes out as a strangled, choked sound.
"Right. Okay." Lucy is back to being practical. "I will get the – the thing. In fact, I'll get more than one, just to be sure. I should be with you in an hour, depending on when this blasted train comes. In the meantime, don't you do anything stupid."
Stupid?
"Like… what?" The confusion briefly holds the panic back for long enough to enable me to speak.
"I don't know," replies Lucy and I know she's shrugging. "Just don't do anything stupid. In fact, don't do anything. Just wait until I'm with you and when you think of doing anything, just don't."
I'm a sobbing, blubbering mess, lying on the bathroom floor and barely able to speak, much less form a coherent thought. The chance of me picking myself up in the next hour to do anything at all is pretty much non-existent.
But Lucy appears to be waiting for verbal confirmation, so I pull myself together enough to answer, "Nothing stupid."
"Good. Do you want me to stay on the line?" she wants to know.
Part of me does, but I know it doesn't really change anything, so I take a deep breath and shake my head. "No, it's… it's okay."
"I'll be there in an hour," Lucy promises before hanging up. "George will look after you until then."
And he does.
After I've picked myself up from the bathroom floor, dragged myself to the living room and collapsed on the sofa, George materialises from upstairs and jumps up onto the sofa to join me. Purring loudly, he curls himself up in the crook of my knees and tilts his head backwards to be stroked under the chin. It's such a normal reaction on this evening where nothing is even remotely normal that it even calms me a little. I'm all out of tears anyway and my breathing slows somewhat as I sit on the sofa and listen to George's purr. It's all I concentrate on, because if the purring is everything I allow to fill my head, at least there is no more space for thoughts – treacherous, dangerous thoughts.
As promised, I don't do anything, stupid or otherwise, until Lucy arrives 57 minutes later and rings the doorbell with much emphasis.
It takes me longer than it should to walk downstairs, buzz Lucy in and open the door for her, whereupon I'm immediately drawn into a tight hug. Burrowing my face in Lucy's shoulder, I cling to her and realise that I'm not out of tears after all.
She gently sways me and murmurs soothing words, until I've calmed down enough to take a step back again.
"Better?" she asks sympathetically.
I wipe my wet cheeks and shrug.
With a concerned expression, Lucy puts an arm around my shoulders and steer me back up the stairs to the living room. As she does, she holds up a plastic bag with the swirly blue logo of a well-known pharmacy chain printed on it.
"I bought three," she informs me as she presses me down on the sofa. "And before you ask, no-one saw me. I did a little spiel of cursing my idiot boyfriend when buying them, but the clerk was much too interested in his phone to pay any attention. It's not like people recognise me anyway."
That's true, thankfully. Whenever I'm out with the likes of Tatty or Katie, the press makes sure to picture and identify them, but my Oxford friends usually get cut from the photos or else, remain unnamed background presences. It's not like the papers couldn't easily find out who they are, so it's a choice not to identify them, probably because they just don't consider them interesting enough. For them, of course, it's a blessing and one I am continuously grateful for. My fame-by-proxy has already affected too many people in my life and not for the better.
Lucy has upturned the bag and three cardboard packages fall on the sofa next to me. When one touches me, I draw back as if burned, so Lucy takes it upon herself to pick up one package and open it.
"I think you need to pee on it," she tells me, brandishing a white plastic stick, "and then we wait."
I eye the stick warily. "I might not want to know after all," I admit slowly.
"You don't want the test to be positive," Lucy corrects. "But you do want to know. Not knowing won't help you."
Why is she always so maddeningly logical?
Taking a deep breath, I steel myself and slowly reach out for the stick. It looks surprisingly harmless for having the power to, well, change everything.
When I return from the bathroom a few minutes later and toss the stick on the side table, I find that Lucy has used the time to make tea, which is really an English person's answer to any possible problem. It almost makes me smile.
With the tea still needing to steep and the test still needing to process, we both sit down and stare down at the stick.
"What will you do?" asks Lucy finally, looking up at me searchingly.
Hm… what a curious question.
"I don't know," I admit with a nervous, shaky smile. "I'm still hoping I won't have to do anything."
"True," acknowledges Lucy. She pauses for a moment before adding, "What will they make you do?"
I frown, taken aback by the wording of her question. "What do you mean?"
Lucy mirrors my frown, but hers is one of concentration as she considers what to say. "Ken will be king one day. He can't have an illegitimate child running around without it messing with succession. Illegitimate children aren't able to inherit, but you also can't hide and ignore them the way you could in the 1800s. It would create all kinds of problems, with people arguing who's his real heir and… well, the royals don't need that. He can't have a child out of wedlock."
"No," I admit slowly. "I guess not."
"Which means… if this test comes back positive, you either have to make sure there won't be a child after all, or you have to get married," Lucy continues, her eyes searching my face.
"We'd get married" I tell her with utter certainty, not even having to think.
In fact, I can picture perfectly what will happen if the stick on the table turns up two lines instead of one. I will go to Owen, who, in turn, will talk to the Prime Minister, the Minister of Defence, the Chief of the Air Staff and probably a dozen other people I can't even name right now. They will get Ken home from Cyprus ASAP and we will be married by May. There won't be any possibility of fooling anyone about the shotgun nature of the wedding, but at least I should still fit into a dress and we all know that to a large extent, royalty is about the pictures they create, even with something like this. Maybe especially with something like this.
"We'd get married," I repeat, staring ahead unseeingly. "I just don't think I want it to happen like this."
With a sympathetic look on her face, Lucy reaches out to hug me. I lean my head against her shoulder and stare down at the white stick in my head, trying to ignore the tiny voice whispering in my head.
Do you want it to happen at all?
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Fool (If You Think It's Over)' (written by Chris Rea, released by him in 1978).
To Carrots:
You asked for AoGG podcasts in your review for chapter 77 and I handed the questions to my readers, who stepped up and delivered. With thanks to OriginalMcFishie, here are some sites that podcasted about AoGG in the past: www-stitcher-com, www-podbean-com, www-learnoutloud-com and www-player-fm. (Replace dashes with dots to get the links to work.) Hope this helps and you enjoy them!
To Guest:
First of all, thank you for your lovely words and your continued interest in the story! Secondly, I reckoned that since the story is called 'A Simple Twist of Fate', if it didn't take some twists and turns along the way, it wouldn't fulfil the promise the titles makes ;). It's also more interesting to write a twist-y story (and, I hope, more interesting to read as well). Personally, I also enjoy writing the sad and/or dramatic chapters the most, so I'm very glad you prefer them as well. Fluff is nice and also needed for balance, but there's just something about the meaty chapters that makes them more worthwhile and often more meaningful, don't you think? We're settling in for quite a few more chapters that are difficult for Rilla especially, so I'm hoping they will be to your liking :).
To Rach H:
Don't stop commenting! It's a very easy solution ;). I love hearing readers' thoughts and yours are so insightful, so whenever you feel the urge to write a comment, don't quell it! I genuinely appreciate every review and am very grateful for the time readers take to write one. So, thank you, truly!
What really jumped out at me from your review was this sentence: "Rilla needs to try and build a life in these six months for herself in England - if she wants be her own person and to try and make it work with Ken longterm". That's exactly it. Rilla has put their relationship first for such a long time and never stopped to evaluate what she wants her own life to look like. That doesn't mean she needs a life without Ken, but she needs to figure out who she wants to be independently from him. She made this relationship work and Ken has relied on her to make it work, but that isn't a sustainable situation anymore. She needs to understand who she is beyond being his girlfriend and he needs to take responsibility for their relationship. They both have a whole lot of thinking to do and there's no guarantee that at the end, they'll emerge on the same page.
I promise that we're not in for 3+ years of Ken off to war ;). I like to add some nods to RoI, but I don't feel bound by it, so while in some ways, we're mirroring Ken's departure for war here, he definitely won't be gone as long. I do plan for this to be a time for Rilla to develop as a person though and I hope I'll manage to get it right. We're at the beginning of what I think is a very important part of this story and I'm a bit nervous whether it'll work as I intend for it to.
Good thinking about Leslie, who will definitely struggle with her son being off to war. In some way, she'll deal with this worst of all, which really says a lot, considering Ken was so averse to allowing anyone to hurt her before, but is now the one to do the hurting himself. That's food for thought right there! Oh, and since you mention the chapter when Nan comes to Oxford... keep that in mind. It'll come up again soon-ish!
