London, England
May 2015
Breaking all of the rules that would bend
I tap my finger on the next problem in the maths book. "Okay, twenty-two minus fourteen."
Preti frowns in concentration and I can see her trying to count the answer on her fingers under the table.
"You don't have enough fingers," I remind her gently. "Nor enough toes, come to think of it."
Her frown deepens. "But I don't know!" she complains.
"Of course you know," I encourage her. "Look, we'll try it differently. Let's say Sujata has twenty-two sweets and gives you fourteen –"
"Sujata never shares her sweets with me!" Preti declares grimly.
She isn't wrong. As far as older sisters go, Sujata isn't the worst example, but the only scenario under which I could see her give sweets to Preti is if she were to start yet another diet. (Why these teenagers with their super slim figures ever think they're in need of a diet is beyond logic, but then, I haven't forgotten the pressures of being a teenage girl, so some part of me does understand it.)
Shaking my head, I focus back on Preti and concede her point. "Okay, let's say I have twenty-two sweets –"
"Do you?" she interrupts, looking hopeful.
Her sheer cheek makes me laugh. "No, I don't. But if you finish these problems now, I'll bring you some sweets next time."
It's bribery and I know you shouldn't bribe children into doing their homework, but luckily, Preti isn't my child, so her upbringing isn't on my conscience. And since her parents, by all accounts, are loving but strict (and super busy with several jobs, hence her being at the centre in the first place), I don't think a handful of sweets will spoil her.
Preti beams at me and immediately bends over her maths book, proving once again that sometimes, a little bribery goes a long way. (As I well know from years of bribing Izzie, whose upbringing is also not on my conscience.)
Together, we make good progress with Preti's maths problems, showing that I was right and that she's really better at them than she thinks. Fifteen minutes later, her homework is done and she gleefully stuffs her books into her backpack, before she runs off to play, casually throwing a "thank you, Rilla!" over her shoulder.
"Anytime," I mutter, smiling to myself.
A look at my watch tells me it's time to go if I want to make it home before the daily rush hour on the tube starts, so I gather my own things together. As I walk through the centre, I say goodbye to several of the children in passing and finally stop at Simone's office.
Knocking in the open door, I wait until Simone looks up and inform her, "Preti's homework is all done. She did well, though I might or might not have promised her sweets in return."
Simone laughs. "So long as the homework is done, that's fine. It can be hard to get her to concentrate on her schoolwork sometimes."
That's true. Preti is a spirited child and not prone to sitting still for very long. Sujata, her sister, is a model student and I think Preti is unconsciously rebelling by being as different from her older sister as possible. (It's a sentiment not utterly foreign to me.) She is, therefore, what some people might term a wild child, though at the same time, she's also a little charmer and has most adults wrapped around her little finger – me included, I'm afraid.
"She's outside playing now," I tell Simone, meaning Preti. "I'm leaving now. I want to beat the rush hour."
"Of course. Thank you for your help. We really appreciate it," Simone assures me with a smile.
She tells me this often, as if she still can't believe I'm actually here. I'm not entirely sure how much of a contribution my presence is, but I try to drop by twice a week, either on the weekends or when there's a short day at work. I actually enjoy spending time with the children and there's the convenient side effect that helping out at a youth charity is above any reproach. No-one could properly criticise me for it even if they tried. (And they did try, mostly by suggesting that I only do it for attention. But then, that was hardly a surprise and the allegation didn't really take off anyway.)
"I have to work late tomorrow and have plans for Saturday, but I will try to come in on Sunday afternoon," I state.
"That would be lovely." Simone smiles at me. "The girls are already so excited for Sunday!" Some of the younger girls are staging a little play on Sunday and strongly impressed upon me the need to see it.
"I'm absolutely sure it will be fun. See you on Sunday!" I return Simone's smile and raise a hand in a wave, before stepping back from the office door.
As I walk to the exit, I pass the table tennis table where Sam is playing with some of the older boys. Upon seeing me, he passes his bat to Kevin and jogs to catch up with me.
"Already leaving, Princess?" he asks.
"I have a long day at work tomorrow and need some rest beforehand," I explain with a shrug. (I also have a phone call with Ken tentatively scheduled for this evening, though of course I don't mention that to Sam.)
"Understandably," concedes Sam and holds open the door for me.
At quick glance at the narrow street running next to youth centre reveals it to be devoid of any paparazzi, which is always pleasing. Of course, back when the papers first got wind of me not only giving the compensation money from that legal case to the youth charity, but also volunteering here with some regularity, they were all over it. However, when they realised that the pictures of me entering and exiting the centre (invariably wearing nondescript jeans and the ever-same jacket) were not all that interesting and that the children were also far less ready to talk to them than most adults I've encountered, they quickly lost interest. The number of photographers camping in front of the centre dwindled pretty soon after that, eventually falling to zero. (Which might also be down to the fact that they don't enjoy spending time in Croydon more than the average person does.)
"There's no-one there," Sam observes, looking from me to the street and finally settling on studying my face.
"I know." I nod, then sigh. "I guess paparazzi watch has become my second nature."
"It sucks, doesn't it?" asks Sam with sympathy.
I lean back against the wall next to the entrance door and sigh again. "Yes. Yes, it sucks. So, so much."
"Does it ever get better?" he wants to know.
I shrug. "Sometimes it's better, sometimes it's worse. But there's always the possibility of someone following me, so I have to act like they do wherever I go."
"Always on your best behaviour," deduces Sam.
"I try to be, anyway," I reply with a wry smile. Letting my gaze drift along the mostly empty street, I add thoughtfully, "You really should be careful what you wish for."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him frown. "What do you mean?"
"I mean with your music. You want to become famous, don't you?" I raise my eyebrows at him.
"I want people to hear my music," he corrects.
I brush it off. "Same thing. If people hear your music, they know you and them knowing you leads to them being interested in you and interest in you leads to fame."
He leans next to me against the wall and ponders that for a moment. "I guess you have a point."
"Of course I do." I give him a little smile, pleased with being right.
Sam doesn't respond and when I look over at him, I see he's looking a bit downcast. "I just want to play my music and for people to enjoy it. I don't want to be famous and for people to be all up in my business."
His expression makes me feel bad for bursting his bubble (though he is rather naïve, I can't help noticing), so I amend, "I suppose it would be different. If you were to get famous for your music, at least it would be for something you did. For something real."
That piques his interest, judging from the curious way he studies my face. "Something real?"
I let my head drop backwards against the wall and briefly close my eyes, pondering how much I want to share. I haven't known him long and just as I have to continuously watch out for paparazzi, I always have to watch my back around people who could potentially sell me out to the press. But at the same time, Sam has expressed a marked distaste against privacy invasions on more than on occasion and in the almost two months since we met, nothing I said or did in his presence has made its way into the papers (not even my Yankee get-up). Besides… at some point, you just have to decide to put your trust in someone or you never will.
"What I mean," I begin, opening my eyes but not looking at him, "is that if you become a famous musician, people will love you for what you do and for your achievements, whereas they're interested in me solely because of whom I'm dating."
"That might be what got them to notice you in the first place, but I'm sure it's more than that now," Sam argues loyally.
I smile wanly. "That's nice of you to say, but it's just not true. There's not a week without the papers writing about me and the public reading it all, but they could care less about me as a person. To them, I'm not Rilla, I'm the prince's girlfriend and if he was dating another woman, they'd write about her the same way. I'm interchangeable."
"Not to him, surely," remarks Sam, his expression sincere.
After the briefest moment of hesitation, I shake my head slowly. "No, not to him. And it's not like it matters much what all these strangers think about me, but… it would be nice to be acknowledged as an individual for once."
He looks at me thoughtfully, before stating, very plainly, "So give them a reason to."
"Meaning?" I ask, bemused.
"Give them a reason to," repeats Sam and shrugs. "You can't expect them to see you as more than the royal girlfriend without giving them more to see.
"You say it like that's easy," I comment, frowning (and trying not to be irritated).
"It's not easy," acknowledges Sam, "but it's still true. You've got this entire public persona, but it restricted to being the textbook royal girlfriend. How is anyone to see behind that if you allow yourself to be synonymous with the prince's girlfriend?"
"Being his girlfriend is not all that I am," I insist, feeling a little closer to irritation.
Sam smiles a lop-sided smile. "I know that. I'm just not sure you do."
Okay, now I'm totally confused.
"I have no idea what's that supposed to mean," I inform him, a little haughtily.
"Which is why I'll explain," replies Sam peacefully. "That is, if you want me to."
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, before giving a curt nod.
"Look, I'm not pretending to know you very well, but from talking to you these past weeks, I got the impression that…" Sam hesitates, searching for words, "…that you define yourself by your relationship as well, at least in part."
He pauses and I can feel him looking at me, but when I don't tell him to shut up, he continues, "I understand that dating a royal is huge and one has to adapt to make it work, but I can't help wondering… I can't help wondering if you have maybe allowed this to take over your life too much?"
"What makes you the judge of that?" I ask tightly.
Sam doesn't let it deter him. "I'm not judging, but you asked me for my thoughts and that's what I'm thinking," he explains calmly.
"But I don't understand what you're thinking," I claim, ignoring the fact that I may have a better idea than I'm willing to let on.
He makes a thoughtful sound. "Let me try something else… where would you be today if you'd never met him?"
"What kind of question is that?" I want to know.
Sam flashes me a brief smile. "A good one."
I roll my eyes at him, but feel myself soften just the slightest bit. "I don't have an answer to it though. I don't know where I'd be without him."
"Okay." He nods. "And where would you want to be?"
"Those are some seriously annoying questions," I inform him.
He, however, isn't so easily deterred. "Think back to before you knew him. What where your plans? What did you want to do? What did you want out of life?"
"I… I don't know?" I admit, the answer coming out as more of a question.
Now Sam is the one frowning in confusion. "How can you not know?"
I shrug, feeling a little defensive. "I was just twenty-one when I met him. I didn't have all that many plans."
"So, you just went along with what was expected of his girlfriend?" Sam prompts.
"I made the decisions that needed to be made to make our relationship work," I correct. "I don't think there's anything wrong with that."
"There isn't, not as such," agrees Sam. "But you said you'd like to be acknowledged as a person separate from him and I think to achieve that, you have to understand who you are without him. One part of that is to figure out who you'd be and who you'd want to be if not the girlfriend of a prince."
I let go of a long breath and don't answer.
"You came here, to Oxford and to London, and you stayed even when he went away to Scotland to train. You became all chummy with his family and you've been working at a job that makes it look like you're just biding your time," Sam summarises. "So, those choices were all influenced by being his girlfriend and I think it's valid to ask what your life would look like if you hadn't done all that.
"You're incredibly rude, do you know that?" I state, not sure whether to be curious about that theory of his or just plain offended.
"I'm just trying to help," replies Sam placidly and offers me a friendly smile.
I purse my lips. "I like my job, by the way, and I'm good at it."
"I didn't say you weren't," clarifies Sam. "But is it your passion? Is it your calling?"
"I don't have a calling. I never did." My voice, vexingly, isn't as nonchalant as I'd like it to be.
"Nonsense! Everyone has a calling. Just because you haven't found yours yet doesn't mean you don't have one," he states, sounding very sure.
"And you're saying I should give up my entire life and pursue this vague, mysterious idea of a calling?" I ask, a tad sarcastically.
Sam shakes his head. "I'm not telling you to give up anything," he corrects. "It's your life and you should spend it however makes you happy. I'm just thinking that if you want the world to see you as an individual person, it would help if you understood what separates you from the persona of the royal girlfriend."
Hm.
This makes sense, irritatingly enough.
"And how would I go on about that?" I ask. "I didn't lie when I said I never felt a calling and I don't think I will wake up tomorrow and find I've dreamed it."
"Stranger things have happened," Sam points out with a smile.
I give him a side-eye, but it's more amused than annoyed.
"You could start by not living your life according to some rules someone told you a royal girlfriend should respect," Sam suggest, his tone implying that that should be very easy indeed.
I shake my head, my laugh ending in a sigh. "That would just cause problems for everyone, me included."
"I'm not saying you should dance along Oxford Street wearing nothing but a tea cosy on your head. It's just…" Sam pauses and frowns. "Your entire life seems so well-controlled by these rules, but it's fun to do something unplanned sometimes. Like dressing as a Yankee tourist and sneaking around Borough Market."
"That paid off nicely," I admit, smiling despite myself.
"Glad you think so, too." Sam grins. "And you know what? I know something else that might pay off."
Turning to him, I incline my head questioningly. "Tell me?"
"My band and I are playing a gig on Saturday. It's nothing big, just some hours in a pub, but it'll be fun. You should come!" he suggests eagerly.
Slowly, I shake my head. "I can't do that."
(Is it me or is that disappointment flashing across his face?)
"Do the princess rules forbid you from going to pubs?" he asks and there's a note of something in his voice I can't place.
"Nothing of the sort. I just have friends over on Saturday," I explain.
Sam shrugs. "So bring them."
Briefly, I entertain the mental image of taking Tatty and a heavily-pregnant Katie to some dingy pub to hear Sam and his band play, and it's almost enough to make me laugh. "They wouldn't fit in well. If we were talking about my Oxford friends, I'd bring them, but not these friends."
"Princess friends?" asks Sam, grinning and raising both eyebrows.
I don't deign that with an answer, just giving him a look and trying to keep from smiling as I do.
He remains unperturbed. "Okay, so not Saturday. What about tonight then? It's just the rehearsal, but it's the next best thing."
Briefly, I consider all the reasons I shouldn't go – a lot of them royal-related and some of them more mundane like that early morning at the office I have tomorrow – but even as I do, I realise that I've already made up my mind.
Sometimes, you have to put your trust in someone. And sometimes, you just have to make a decision and trust that it'll be alright.
"I'm free tonight," I tell Sam and he flashes me a wide smile.
"Great!" he declares, looking genuinely excited. "Wait here!"
Huh?
But before I can ask, he's already disappeared back into the youth centre and I'm left with nothing to do but to wait for him to reappear and explain. Luckily, it's just a minute or two until the door opens and Sam re-emerges. He's brandishing something that looks like a particularly hairy rabbit and I take a double-take.
"Is that…?" I begin.
"A wig from the kids' costume chest," Sam informs me cheerily. "I might be encouraging you to live a little more, but I don't want the press to give you a hard time, so I thought we'd adapt your Yankee tourist strategy."
Gingerly, I take the unruly blond wig and a bright blue fedora hat from him. Once his hands are free, Sam shrugs out of his well-worn hoody that is so unlike anything I'd ever wear, and offers it to me as well.
"I'll look awful," I tell him, grinning. "And you know what? I don't even care."
He just laughs and watches me put on my improvised disguise. With the wig being as objectively awful as it is, I don't even need a mirror. I just know without a doubt that I do look awful and no, I don't care. In fact, I couldn't care less.
After a brief call asking Rolly Faversham to feed George tonight, I allow Sam to point me over to where he has his ancient bike parked. The contrast to Ken's sleek sports bikes (or even Jorge's nifty red scooter) couldn't be greater, but Sam is a struggling young musician, so it's no real surprise. When I don't think too hard about it, I can even ignore the fact that the bike seems to be held together by five rusty screws, some duct tape and a fervent prayer.
The pub he takes me to looks just like I expected it to be. It's dim and dingy, with wood furniture that saw its better days sometime when Churchill was still alive and had its last deep-clean back in Thatcher's days. There's a stale, stuffy smell in the air and a feeling of worn neglect floating above everything. In short, it's just right.
When we arrive, Sam's bandmates are already waiting and loudly call him over. He deposits me in a corner booth with a too warm beer and the promise to introduce me later, before joining them on a makeshift stage. No-one else takes much note of me – or of them, really – with the pub being mostly empty anyway. There are just a few lone figures at the bar that I take to be regulars and a gruff-looking landlord who keeps everyone in a steady supply of draught beer. (I never could decide whether I like the stuff, but I fear that asking for a chilled white wine would get me thrown out immediately.)
Ignoring the threadbare cushion on the bank and the sticky table in front of me, I settle down in my booth and nurse my beer as I listen to Sam and his band play.
They're good, I must admit. Their sound is rockier than the bluesy, folksy music Sam makes when on his own, but it's not an unpleasant change. The Stones, they're not, but they do well with the various cover songs they play and even have some interesting songs of their own. When, two hours and two stale beers later, they finish, I can honestly say I had an enjoyable evening.
Sam makes good on his promise of introductions, too, and waves me over after having stashed away his guitar. His bandmates eye me with interest and amble closer as well.
"I'm Mo," says the one girl of the band and thrust her hand at me. She plays the drums and does it well, but if one expected her to look the part, they'd be sorely disappointed. Instead of dyed hair, piercings and a leather jacket, Mo wears a t-shirt with a comic character, glasses and her hair in pigtails.
"Mo," I repeat, committing the name to memory.
"It's short for Mauretania," she explains. "My father is a professor for Ancient African History at Cambridge. My sister is called Numidia."
That is unfortunate indeed.
"Hello, Mo. I'm Rilla," I introduce myself and take the offered hand. (It would be nonsensical to lie since I'm pretty sure she's recognised me despite my disguise and anyway, it would be super awkward to pretend to be someone I'm not in front of Sam's friend.)
"You're the girl who's been helping out at that youth centre Sam always hangs out at," observes the bassist.
"The very same," I confirm, weirdly pleased that that's the first thing he thinks about and not 'you're the girl who sleeps with our future king'.
The bassist grins at me. "I'm Sven from Sweden." It's clear that this is his line and that it amuses him to confuse people with it, because with his dark hair and slight build, he looks nothing like the picture book Swede.
Having shook Sven's hand, I also introduce myself to Rashid, the keyboarder, who has such a pronounced Cockney accent that it's no wonder he never sang a single line tonight, and Archibald, the second guitarist, who is the only one dressed even a little like he plays in a rock 'n' roll band and, as he informs me, detests being called Archie. (I have a feeling it's all anyone ever calls him anyway.)
Sam returns with another round of draught beer and we all withdraw back to my sticky corner booth. Prudence would dictate for me to leave them here and go home, but truth to be told, I could care less about being prudent right now. As Sam said, sometimes you have to live a little and I know that if you do it right, it means consequences be damned.
Thus, I slip my watch into my handbag and resolve to just enjoy tonight, despite the warm beer and the itchy wig.
The company is exceptionally pleasant, too, and I don't even really notice time slipping by. When Archie gets up to get the third round of beer, I notice with some surprise that most of the regulars have disappeared, leaving only us and the landlord who's carelessly wiping the countertop of his bar and humming along to the Janis Joplin LP he put on after the band finished.
"You want to take a puff?" asks Sven next to me and when I turn back to the able, I see him offering me a hand-rolled cigarette. Or, at least I think it's a hand-rolled cigarette at first, but when I get a whiff of the familiar, if almost forgotten smell, I realise that tobacco is not the only thing it contains.
"Isn't there a smoking ban?" I blurt out, because it's the first thing coming to my mind – and even as I say it, I hate how stuck-up it sounds.
"He won't care," drawls Rashid and nods at the humming landlord, while reaching out to take the roll-up from Sven.
Well, no. The landlord probably won't. But at the same time… there are limits to risk-taking and there are limits to trust.
"Okay," interjects Sam, business-like, "phones off and on the table, everyone!"
I meet his eyes over the top of Mo's head and give him a tentative smile. He nods understandingly.
The others, too, follow his order without too much complaint. Only Archie looks at me expectantly and asks, "Doesn't she have to?"
Sam opens his mouth to reply, but I shake my head to tell him it's alright. "Of course she does," I tell Archie and fish in my handbag for my phone.
The screen comes alive as I check it automatically and the words practically spring out at me.
Two missed calls.
And only then do I remember.
My first instinct is to get up, rush out and call Ken back, hoping he might still be awake – but even as I start pushing my chair back, I feel myself pause. Very slowly I sit back down, move my finger to the off button and watch the screen of the phone go dark.
"Something the matter?" asks Sam.
I hesitate, then shake my head. "No, everything is fine."
Tossing the phone on the table between the half-full jugs of beer, I turn to smile at Mo and accept the roll-up she offers me.
In the background, Janis still croons.
Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose…
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Against the Wind' (written by Bob Seger, released by him in 1980).
To Rach H:
Your review made me laugh at myself, because I pretty much miscalculated the impact of the previous chapter when I posted it. I see now that it really needs the context of the next part of the story to work, but as I knew what's going to happen, I posted it thinking, "Heads up folks, there's a really important chapter coming up!" And everyone was (understandably) like, "Uh, well, this is random..." ;) All of which is to say, no, it definitely wasn't a filler chapter, though I appreciate that I might have looked like it. I hope the reason for its existence becomes clearer as we move forward.
You raise some very, very good points about Sam there! I don't want to say too much right now, but we're definitely not looking at a typical, run-of-the-mill love triangle with him. I mean, love triangles do the job, but they're also a bit overused (and also much more prevalent in fiction than in real life, I've observed). I'm not saying I won't use elements of it, but I hope to have build a story arc that is a little bit more than that. I can say that you're certainly right on the mark with your thoughts about Sam opening up alternative life views and new ways to pursue dreams, as I hope this new chapter already started to show.
I tried to write the girls at the youth centre in the way of fangirls meeting a star, because to them, that's what Rilla is. If their reaction wasn't quite on the mark, it might be because the most those girls and I have in common are our inability to apply eyeliner well. I myself never got fangirling (nor was I ever much of a teenage girl, which I sometimes regret today). I'm a child of the 90s, but even then, when you put on music from any poplar boyband, I ran from the room screaming ;). Give me some more Janis any day!
To Mammu:
You're certainly not the only one not to know what to think of Sam, though I hope this chapter helped in making up some minds. My personal assessment is that he's not perfect but not a bad egg either - which helps you not at all, because that description applies to about 99.6% of the world's population ;). I can confirm that Sam will, indeed, stick around as a friend for now and that he has an important role to play yet. What you said about Rilla being the one whose eyes will be opened... let's just say you won't do wrong to keep hold of that thought as we progress!
