London, England
April 2015
Someone to perform with
Hide in plain side.
I never thought it would actually work. It seems nonsensical, to go to the very place where everyone can see you when you don't want to be found. And yet, paradoxically, people see what they expect to see and little else.
Me, they expect to see at work, at home, at various castles, at upmarket restaurants and even, oddly, at expensive boutiques I couldn't afford in my dreams. Where they don't expect me is at London's biggest tourist hotspots and because they don't expect me there, they don't recognise me even when I'm right in front of them.
I do put on a bit of disguise, of course, because if I went there as me, even the most clueless tourist would cotton on. Thus, I put on a cheap pair of sunglasses, a baseball cap with the Yankee emblem and a pronounced New York accent. To blend in even better, I make sure to carry a London guide book and a camera and to make copious use of both.
The ruse only works when I'm in places so crowded that everyone wants to leave as quickly as possible and no-one has time to look at anyone for any length of time. It requires a bit of planning and navigation – for example, at the British Museum, I'm safe in front of the Rosetta Stone and the Elgin Marbles, but consciously steer clear of the Japanese Galleries – but that's a small price to pay.
Not only does my little deception give me an opportunity to go somewhere that is not work, home, the supermarket, or various royal residences, it also means I get to see places in London I couldn't go to as me without making headlines. Last week, I stumped up the entrance fee for Madam Tussaud's and even, for a crazy moment, considered taking a picture with the wax figures of the royal family, but that likely would have gotten someone to recognise me, so I didn't.
It's rare that I feel that spark of, well, silliness anyway. There's a sense of freedom in the anonymity offered by crowds, but that doesn't miraculously mean everything's alright. It's still… it's the way it is, I guess. I miss Ken, while at the same time resenting myself for missing him, and then there's that diffuse feeling of discontent that overcomes me at the most inopportune moments and that I haven't yet been able to puzzle out.
Still, going outside is better than staying at home all the time and at least today's lunchtime visit to Borough Market means a respite from the kale diet I inflicted upon myself. It's for that reason, but not for that reason alone, that Borough Market is a favourite destination for my anonymous excursions.
I buy a portion of udon noodles from a stressed out vendor at one of the many food stands and stroll through the crowds, feeling strangely secure amid their pushing and shoving. No-one here spares me even a glance and after years of being recognised wherever I go, that is a refreshing feeling.
Below the railway bridge, there's the usual gathering of people, eating lunch and listening to the street musicians playing there. I join them, sitting down on the pavement near a pillar and eating my noodles while the music washes over me. At first, there's a pair of hip hoppers with a questionable talent for rhythm, followed by a young woman who doesn't quite hit all the high notes. They earn polite applause and a reasonable number of coins, but the audience doesn't show any real enthusiasm until a young man with a guitar takes the place up front.
If the first two acts were decent but unremarkable, he certainly stands out and not only because of his Australian accent. It's more that he's actually good. I wouldn't go so far as to call him very good – he's no Freddie Mercury on vocals and no Eddie Van Halen with the guitar – but his sound is pleasing and his lyrics are interesting, enough so that I stay even after my noodles are long eaten.
When he has finished his set, I get up to throw some money into his guitar case – only to find him looking at me and see surprise registering on his face.
Busted.
Lowering my head and hiding my face with the brim of my cap, I quickly withdraw. I don't dare make eye contact again, but even so, I silently implore him not to blow my cover, hoping that somehow, my pleas will find a way into his mind. Whether they do or whether he's just too surprised to act, I don't know, but as I stumble backwards, I notice him turning back to his case and stash his guitar away, quite as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
I don't wait around for him to change his mind, instead turning and walking away in long strides, binning the takeout container in passing. No-one else seems to have recognised me, but I don't slow down until I've rounded two corners and have left the place beneath the railway bridge safely behind me.
Or, that's what I think.
Because just when I feel that I've safely submerged back into anonymity, I hear a voice behind me call out, "Hey!"
I recognise the voice. After all, I just spent several minutes listening to it sing.
Cursing him silently, I duck my head and walk on. Unfortunately, the crowds have thinned out somewhat, so with some pushing and shoving, he's next to me sooner than I'd like. (Whoever that guy is, he's clearly never heard of being inconspicuous.)
"Hey, Princess," he greets me cheerfully.
I glare at him from beneath my Yankee cap. "Would you be quiet?"
He raises both eyebrows in surprise. "Huh?"
(Not very eloquent, is he? I wonder if he even writes his own texts!)
"First of all, I thank you not to call me princess," I hiss. "And if you could stop drawing attention, that would be most marvellous as well." There's so much sarcasm lacing my voice that even he can't miss it.
"Oh." His face lights up with understanding. "Sorry."
"No matter," I lie. "But my lunch break is almost over, so I've got to leave this here. It was nice meeting you. Lovely music."
If, however, I thought he'd catch the hint and leave me alone, I was thoroughly mistakes.
"Did you really like my music?" he asks eagerly, falling into step beside me.
I swallow a sharp retort and give a half-nod instead. "It's nice." I don't dare be any more enthusiastic, for fear of never shaking him off at all.
We've reached the exit of Borough Market and step out on the hectic London streets. Luckily, London is always busy, so that I entertain some reasonable hope of not being recognised out here either, even with my new follower in tow. Because as I continue walking along the pavement, dodging the people around me, he keeps up with me easily. (Seriously. What does the man want?)
"I was trying out some new songs," he is currently telling me conversationally. "I'm trying to gauge reactions to see what songs the audience likes best, to decide which of them to put on my demo tape."
He looks at me expectantly from the side, so I volunteer, "Your performance was well-received, from what I saw."
"I thought so, too," he agrees brightly. "I made some decent money as well. Should be enough to cover dinner and a few beers."
I eye him suspiciously, half-expecting him to make some ill-advised attempt at inviting me to dinner, but he does no such thing. Instead, he considers me curiously and, pointing at my baseball cap, asks, "So, why are you pretending to be a Yankee?"
"Why are you pretending to be Australian?" I counter, arching an eyebrow.
He purses his lips unhappily. "What gave it away?"
"Your accent is good, but not that good," I answer with a shrug. "I can see why you're going for that whole surfer boy aesthetic, but you didn't grow up on Bondi Beach any more than I did." (Though even as I say it, I have to admit he looks the part, all golden tan and tousled blond hair.)
"Nor do I surf," he confesses with a smirk, finally dropping the affected Australian accent.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. "So, let me guess – Home Counties?"
He nods ruefully. "Yeah," he admits. "But Samuel from Reading is just not as interesting as Sam from Down Under."
Sam, is it?
"It's supposed to be pretty, Reading is," I remark, because it seems to be a safe thing to say.
"It's not ugly, but it's one of the most mind-numbingly boring places out there. People are respectable to the point of being uptight and everyone is up to their elbows in everyone else's business." There's a note of distaste in his voice now that I find myself whole-heartedly agreeing with.
"The real life equivalent of No. 4 Privet Drive," I observe drily.
Sam laughs, the clouds immediately gone from his expression. "Pretty much." He nods. "I see we understand each other."
I shrug, not wanting to agree, but not wanting to lie and disagree either.
"I suppose there are worse places to grow up in than Reading, but the only interesting thing that ever happens there is Reading Festival," he tells me, picking up his earlier thread seamlessly. "I remember sneaking around the perimeter when I was too young to go, trying to catch as much of it as I could. When my parents finally allowed me to attend, it was the highlight of my summer and I haven't missed it since. I think I must have been eight years old when I decided I would play there one day." He pats his guitar case appreciatively.
I laugh. "Playing Reading Festival? My, you have big dreams indeed!" Too late, I realise that I'm teasing.
If Sam notices, he doesn't let on. "The festival is bigger than the location would suggest," he explains, grinning. "Besides, you have to start somewhere."
"I guess you do," I concede. 'Even if it's below the railway bridge at Borough Market,' I normally would have added, but swallow the words just in time. "And you think Sam from Down Under will have a better chance at making it than Samuel from Reading?" I add instead.
He shrugs, then nods. "I sure hope so."
"But once you're famous, don't you think people will figure out that you really hail from trendy Reading?" I wonder.
"If I'm famous enough, no-one will care," he declares confidently. "It will be my funny human interest story. Every star needs one."
"If you say so," I retort, not sure whether to be amused or sceptical.
"You should know," he replies matter-of-factly.
I shake my head. "I'm not a star."
"But you're famous," he counters immediately.
I grimace. "Gee, thanks for the reminder."
Sam considers me for a few moments and though I hope my sunglasses might provide a good barrier, they don't seem to be enough. "That's why you're pretending to be an American," he realises. "I'm pretending to be someone else to get more attention, you're pretending to be someone else to get less."
"Got it in one." I sigh. "Though you still recognised me, so it's clearly not working all that well."
"Hard not to notice when a princess drops money in your guitar case," he states with a grin.
"I'm no princess," I contradict immediately. (Four months ago, I might have let the statement slide, but four months are a long time and it doesn't sit easily anymore.)
He doesn't argue the point. "Either way, I recognised you, so I thought I'd find out what you thought of my music."
"Which is how you came to be following me around London," I observe drily. We have, after all, covered quite the distance since leaving Borough Market and he's still here.
Sam has the good sense to look sheepish. "I admit I didn't think that through. I must look like a crazy stalker to you."
"Well… pretty much," I confirm, but allow myself the tiniest of smiles.
"I didn't want to creep you out," he promises, suitably contrite. "I was just excited to recognise you and decided that I needed to find out whether you liked my songs. I'm afraid I didn't consider how it would look to you."
"I did like the songs," I tell him generously. "And if you go to the papers and tell them about my nifty disguise, I can always get a cowboy hat and pretend to be from Texas next time."
For a moment, he looks puzzled. "Why would I go to the papers?"
"Because that's what people do." I make a point to sound more nonchalant than I feel. "I hear they pay decent money for what they consider news."
"They write a lot of nonsense. And they're always up to their elbows in someone else's business," remarks Sam with a frown and I don't miss the fact that he's using the same expression for the papers as he did for the Good People of Reading.
"That they are." I sigh, shaking my head.
"You're suing them though, aren't you? I read it in –" He breaks off abruptly.
I smile wryly. "In the papers?"
He nods, looking awkward.
"It's okay," I assure. "I guess I'd be reading, too, if I wasn't the subject of these articles."
"Will suing make them back off?" Sam wants to know.
I shrug. "Perhaps. At the very least, the lawyers are pretty confident we'll win the case. I was already told to decide which charity I want to donate my compensation to."
(Because of course, keeping it myself is not an option. I mean, whatever would the papers write?)
Sam perks up at the mention of donations. "I know a great charity that could really benefit from a little boost," he tells me excitedly.
The snarky part of me wants to point out that I wasn't exactly asking for suggestions, but the more sensible part reminds me that the sheer number of charities in the UK is so overwhelming that on the four separate occasions when I sat down to pick one or two, I lost patience and made no progress at all. If whatever charity Sam has in mind does decent work, I suppose it's as good a choice as any.
"Which charity are we talking about?" I ask him.
"I could show you!" he suggests eagerly and suddenly reminds me of Dog Monday in a way that it both apt and amusing. "I have my bike parked at Borough Market, but we could go back to get it and I'll take you there."
I shake my head, smiling wryly. "Okay, first of all, the times when I got on the backseat of the bike of a perfect stranger are long past and second of all, I need to be back in the office sharpish."
Sam is not to be deterred. "So, check it out some other time," he suggests.
Considering him for a few seconds, I come to a decision. "Okay," I agree. "Write down the details for me, will you?" Not wanting to give him my phone, I instead rummage through my handbag until I've procured an old theatre ticket and a pen, both of which I hand to him.
He scribbles something down on the back of the ticket and when I take it back I'm pleasantly surprised that it's indeed the name and address of what looks to be a youth charity. A more brazen man would have added his phone number and for some reason, I'm pleased that he didn't.
I pocket pen and note and hold out a hand for him to shake. "Well then, good day, Sam. It was nice meeting you."
He grasps my hand for a moment. "It was nice meeting you, too – princess." There's a flash of a grin as he says the last word, almost as if he's daring me to tell him off for it.
I don't. Instead, I shake my head at him, willing myself not to smile. He laughs and then, with a nod and a wave, he's off, jogging back in the other direction. I turn much slower, making my way towards the office and reflecting on this strangest of meetings. I mean, if that wasn't the oddest encounter I ever had, I don't know what was. (There's a little voice, reminding me of spilled drinks and red wine stains, but I silence it quickly.)
Maybe it's the oddness of the entire meeting that causes me to make good on my promise and actually check out the charity Sam recommended. (A decision that is helped, I think, by him also making good on his promise and not a word about our meeting or my disguise appearing in any paper over the next few days.) A quick internet search proves the charity to be small, but legitimate, and when I find myself with some free time on Sunday afternoon, I don my Yankee cap and sunglasses and take myself down to Croydon.
(Croydon! Of all places!)
Even wearing my disguise, I half expect some nosy photographer to sniff me out, but I guess my life has become so boring that they don't even bother with me anymore. Plus, no sane person would put any money on me ever returning to Croydon, so I guess I'm reasonably safe for now.
When I reach the address Sam gave me, I find myself in front of a youth centre. The walls of the low building are painted in colourful graffiti and as I walk up to the front door, I have to dodge around a couple of teens playing with a worn-looking football (of the soccer kind). They don't pay me any attention, so I push open the door and enter the building.
Inside, I spot several children and teens of various ages, playing or chatting or even doing what looks like homework. Taking off my cap, I walk up to an elderly woman who vaguely looks to be in charge. "Excuse me?"
The woman turns, looks at me – and gapes.
I clear my throat uncomfortably. "Um… Hello."
"You're Rilla Blythe," states the woman, still staring at me with a mixture of wonder and bemusement.
"Yes, I am," I confirm, because what else is one to respond to such a statement?
"You're here," observes the woman unnecessarily. "Here!"
I nod, fidgeting a little on the spot. She's easily twice my age and it feels deeply awkward to have her turn my appearance into such a big deal.
"I heard about your charity and I –" I break off, searching for words. I can hardly promise her money I haven't yet been awarded, but without it, I don't really have a very good reason for being here. "I'd like to have a look around, if that's okay," I finish lamely.
I half expect her to send me on my way (she probably should send me on my way), but instead, the woman nods enthusiastically. "Of course! Anytime! We're just a small youth centre for local kids, but I assure you we're very honoured to have you here!"
How odd.
"I'm Simone Robinson and I'm happy to answer any question you have," continues the woman. She holds out a hand, but before I get a chance to shake it, she laughs nervously and withdraws it, settling on an awkward wave instead. (Does she think I'm not allowed to shake hands with people?)
"Right." I nod, trying to mask how weird I find all this. "That's very nice of you. I'll be sure to come back to that offer."
She beams at me, her hands fluttering by her sides. I give her a polite half-smile before turning towards the assembled children and teenagers instead. As I do, I hear the voice of Simone Robinson behind me, announcing, "I just love the royal family. I'm a real fan!"
"They'll be pleased to hear that," I reply diplomatically. (It's my default answer whenever anyone I'm not close to mentions Ken or his family.)
There's a nervous laugh from her, but I'm already turning my attention back to the kids. (I expect there will be questions later, so there's no need to say goodbye to Simone Robinson quite yet.) The majority of children don't appear to have noticed me, but there's a group of teenage girls by the window, all of them staring at me rather unabashedly.
I briefly consider ignoring them because they've recognised me, but then shrug and go there anyway.
"Wow," breathes one of the girls. "It's really her!"
"I told you it's her!" insists another one. (She really has very awful eyeliner, I can't help noticing.)
"But what is she doing here?" asks a third, puzzled, quite as if I wasn't standing right in front of her.
"I don't know, but this is crazy!" declares the last one.
(I'm not sure whether that's really so very crazy at all, but I know that their liberal use of italics amuses me. My fifteen year old self was so guilty of that as well. Sometimes, my current self still is.)
"Hello," I greet the girls and smile at them in turn.
They giggle and elbow each other.
"Are you really dating Prince Ken?" one of them blurts out.
(As far as questions go, it's not the one I would have asked me. I mean, it should be pretty common knowledge by now that Ken and I are, indeed, an item.)
Before I get a chance to answer, another girl grins widely at me and asks, "So, is he good in bed?"
I roll my eyes at her and ignore the question. If she wants to grandstand in front of her friends, I'm not going to get worked up about that, but I'm also letting her provoke me.
Not that there's much danger of that happening, because the girl standing next to her immediately hits her friend over the head. "Shut it!" she hisses.
The last girl in the group stares at me with eyes that are perfectly round. "Do you really know the King and Queen?"
It seems a safe question to answer, so I do. "Yes, I know them. They're very nice. They often invite me for dinner."
Or, technically, Owen does, at least at the moment. Leslie is not well and hasn't been since Ken left. According to Teddy, she held up during the goodbyes, but practically collapsed once Ken was gone. She stayed in her rooms at Buck House for almost a week, never once going outside, before Owen sent her to Sandringham to recuperate. I haven't seen her since (actually, not since I left Balmoral in such a hurry), but of course I feel awful to know that she's struggling so. (Though if I'm being completely honest, there's also a part of me that feels some relief at Ken putting himself before his mother as well, just like he put himself before me. At least I'm not the only one.)
Not, of course, that I can explain any of that to the wide-eyed teenager girls hanging on my very lips, hoping for some juicy bit of gossip. That age, after all, is a prime age for prattling.
To deflect their interest, I nod at the girl with the awful eyeliner. "Your eyeliner is smudged," I fib. "Do you have your make-up kit with you? I could touch it up for you."
The girl shares an excited look with her friends – one of whom barely swallows her squeal – before looking nervously at me, quite as if instead of asking to touch up her make-up, I announced that I needed her to take part in a voodoo ceremony
I smile in what I hope is a reassuring way and accept the small make-up bag the girl holds out for me. There's eyeliner in there and though it's on the cheap side, I suppose it will do the job.
And do the job it does. In fact, the girls are so enthusiastic about my little eyeliner tutorial, that they demand I redo their eyeliner for each of them. That I do seems to convince them that I'm not, in fact, scary, which in turn makes them chatty. By the time I'm done with it, I not only know their names (Sujata, Lindsay, Jasmine and Kelly), I know all about their mean teachers, clueless parents, annoying siblings and god-awful ex-boyfriends.
(I know that peril well.)
Their chatter is mostly amusing to outsiders, but I can still remember being fifteen and I know how severe all these problems appeared back then. The girls seem to appreciate my understanding of their situation, because as time ticks by, they definitely try to outdo each other with their stories, adding more embellishments or flourishes here and there.
I listen to them all equally, not even noticing how one hours slips by and then some. Thus, it's fairly late in the afternoon when I look up by chance and spot a semi-familiar tousled head of blond hair, bend over a guitar with one of the younger boys.
As if feeling my glance, Sam suddenly looks up, grins at me and mouths, "Hello, Princess."
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Hey Jude' (written by Paul McCartney, released by The Beatles in 1968).
To Rach H:
Yes, things are definitely settling down for Rilla. It's not the way she would have wanted her life to look right now, but at least she's got some consistency back. Silver linings and all that!
Oh, you're perfectly justified to feel disgruntled about Rilla's isolation and even more so to feel disgruntled with Ken. This all makes sense on a factual level, but we should never forget that she's being asked to stop living her life for half a year just to protect him while he's off playing solider. He made the decision he considered the best for him, but she's the one having to deal with the consequences. Basically, he failed to take her side into consideration, while she's being made to live her life according to what works best for him. "Disgruntled" is really too good for Ken right now.
Jem and Faith's appearance definitely started to get the wheels turning for Rilla - but slowly. Basically, she looks at them and sees two people who're equals and work together to achieve a shared dream and follow a shared passion. That's so not what she has in her own life right now, not with regards to her relationship and really not with regards to anything else either. She's become complacent in calling herself the stupid little underachiever of her family, but she's got quite a lot going for her, if only she'd allow herself to see it. Totally unrelated to Ken, she needs to find something in her life that can fulfil her. Jem and Faith are a reminder that such a thing exists for other people, so why not for her?
One of my main goals is always to write characters that are realistic and believable, so for you to say that my Ken feels "nuanced, flawed and real" is very high praise for me! Yes, he's also an idiot right now, but everyone is an idiot at times, so if people start wanting to hit him over the head with something, it's a sign for me that I did something right with the writing. I mean, isn't there always that one person in yout life whom you want to hit over the head with something?
