London, England
November 2015
We both know we're just hanging on
Simone's final sentence is drowned out by the excited cheering and chattering of the children.
Sam turns to me, grinning. "This is your doing, you know," he informs me, his voice raised to carry over the general conundrum.
I shake my head decidedly. "I had nothing to do with this," I call back, but find myself being drowned out.
He leans closer, the better to understand me, before giving up and pointing at the door behind us. I nod to signify understanding and we both slip outside, leaving the gaggle of over-excited children and teenagers in Simone's capable hands.
"This is your doing," Sam repeats when the door is firmly closed behind us.
Again, I shake my head. "Simone organised it."
"But you made it possible," he insists.
I frown, trying to figure out what he means. "I think the trip is sponsored, isn't it? What's left of my donation from that court case wouldn't even have begun to cover it." (It was quite amazing how quickly 40 grand could disappear when spent on sprucing up a half-derelict youth centre.)
"It wouldn't have," confirms Sam. "And the trip is sponsored. I just meant that you made it possible."
My frown deepens. "I still don't get it."
What Simone just announced to such excited reactions was an upcoming weekend trip to one of England's premier theme parks, fully paid for by corporate sponsors and open to every kid who comes to the youth centre with some regularity. It's a great opportunity for these children, some of whom have never been on any holiday to speak of. It is, however, definitely not my doing and I don't understand why Sam insists otherwise.
"Why do you think those companies noticed us in the first place?" Sam asks patiently.
I look at him, feeling a little reluctant. "Because of me, you mean?"
"Because of you," he confirms. "Before you came here, this was a tiny, unimportant charity forever teetering on the brink of having to fold due to a lack of funds. You really turned everyone's fortune around."
"No, you did," I correct with a smile. "You were the one to run after me that day in April and to have the chutzpah to send me here."
He laughs. "Touché. But while I congratulate my past self for his quick thinking, I can't claim to have planned this."
"I should hope not!" I exclaim, feigning indignation.
Sam flashes me one of his trademark grins. "Pure coincidence," he promises.
He's just teasing, as I'm well aware. There's no possible way for him to have planned our first meeting. And if he took a chance when he gave me the youth centre's address… well, who can blame him?
"Either way, it worked out for the best," I remark peacefully and when I smile at him, it's genuine.
"Absolutely," agrees Sam and returns my smile readily.
As if by silent agreement, we both start walking and stroll over to the stony table tennis table near the side of the building. I hoist myself up to sit on the table, while Sam remains by my side, leaning casually against it.
"Do you really think it was my presence that made this trip happen?" I ask after a moment of companionable silence.
"I'm pretty sure of it," confirms Sam matter-of-factly. "No-one ever bothered about some kids from Croydon before, but people pay attention to where you go and what you do. You being here was what made the world take note of the centre and the children, which is also why the donations started coming in."
"I guess that's a good thing," I reply, though not without reluctance.
Sam nods and smiles sympathetically. "It is."
"It's a good thing the kids get to go on that trip and it's a good thing the centre is not about to go bankrupt anymore," I add, being unable to shake the feeling that I'm convincing myself much more so than Sam.
"It is a good thing," he agrees. "You might dislike the principle of it, but the outcome is worth it, isn't it?"
I nod, suppressing a sigh. "I suppose so."
Turning his head, Sam considers me from the side. "You have no idea what kind of power you have, do you?"
That succeeds in making me laugh, though there's not much humour in it. "I have no power whatsoever. In fact, the lack of power I have over my own life is laughable, not to speak of anything else."
"I disagree," states Sam simply, still keeping his eyes on me.
"How can you?" I ask, turning to look at him quizzically.
"Because people pay attention to you," he elaborates, choosing his words carefully. "A lot of them even copy or emulate what you do. That's an amazing kind of power."
I snort in disbelief. "No-one would willingly emulate me."
"But don't they?" Sam wants to know, his expression sincere and open. "I read that when you wear new clothes, they usually sell out within the day."
"Clothes," I spit out the word disdainfully. "So, my great power is selling other women a new floral skirt they didn't need in the first place?"
"That's not what I said," Sam clarifies, "nor is it what I meant."
He sounds a little bit frustrated, but I know it's not because of me but because he can't make himself understood. So, instead if pressing my point, I sit back and wait for him to figure out what he wants to say and how he wants to say it.
"Yes, they pay attention to what you wear, but that's because it's almost all they know about you," he finally explains his thinking. "Their interest in the youth centre shows that they'd be interested in more of what you have to say, if only you would say it."
"I don't think so." I shake my head and sigh. "Most of the time, the press rips me apart because – oh, I don't know! Because not all of the clothes I wear are exclusively British or some such nonsense."
"That's the tabloids," Sam points out. "But I think there's genuine interest in you and your views among normal people."
I look at him sceptically out of the corner of my eye. He, however, actually seems to mean what he says.
"Even if you're correct," I make sure to put extra emphasis on the 'if', "it still isn't right."
Now it's Sam's turn to frown on confusion. "Not right?"
I shrug. "Any interest in me is really just interest in the royal girlfriend," I clarify. "It's… it's borrowed interest. It's nothing I earned."
Sam doesn't miss a beat. "Because you don't allow yourself to earn it! If you let people see the person you are, completely unrelated from your relationship, I have no doubt they'd be interested in you and what you have to say."
Smiling wanly, I shake my head. "That's sweet of you to say, but that doesn't make it any truer. I'm really quite unremarkable."
"See, and that's where we don't agree," Sam replies confidently. "Quite apart from anything else, you have a knack for dealing with people. I mean, just look at how those kids respond to you! They positively adore you."
I jab a finger in his general direction. "They adore you more."
He waves the argument aside. "That's beside the point. What I'm saying is not only that you could have an incredible power to do good if only you stopped hiding from it, but that people would absolutely like you for who you truly are if you allowed them to get to know more about you than what you wear and who you're in a relationship with. You could achieve some pretty good things if you put your mind to it, completely unrelated to him. You're so much more than just the royal girlfriend."
Briefly, I consider walking him through the details of how I have absolutely no power at all and how even the royal staff delights in trying to control my life, followed by a lengthy discourse about how my relationship is really the only note-worthy thing about me, but the very thought is depressing, so I don't. Sam seems to sense my reluctance to discuss it further, because he doesn't press the matter anymore either. Instead, he bumps his shoulder into mine companionably and, when I look at him, smiles encouragingly.
"You should come with us," he declares out of the blue.
I blink. "What? Where?"
"On the trip," he elaborates. "I'll be fun. Plus, Simone certainly won't mind another pair of eyes to keep the kids in check."
"A nice, relaxing weekend, you mean?" I ask, daring a tentative smile.
Sam laughs. "You won't get a wink of sleep and will likely shout yourself hoarse trying to make them behave, but it'll be an experience."
"It'll be like herding cats," I point out and immediately imagine three dozen Georges marching through my mind, each one to their own tune, all stubbornly refusing to stay in line. It'll be exactly like herding cats.
"Come on," Sam encouraged. "It's the last weekend in November. Don't tell me you have other plans."
"I don't, in fact, have other plans," I confirm. "And I will, in fact, come along, even though I'm pretty sure I'll end up regretting it."
He beams at me. "I promise it'll be fun! Harriet will look after the younger girls, which means we'll put you in a room with the older ones and you can spend two whole nights reliving your school days in great detail."
"As if anyone ever wants to relive their school days!" I exclaim, pretending to be horrified at the mere thought.
Sam grins. "Oh, don't look at me like that! We both know you were one of the popular kids in school and therefore have no reason to dread the reminder."
"Hmmm… you might have a point there," I admit, drawing out the words to feign reluctance.
"It'll be fun," Sam promises once more and this time, I don't argue. It will be fun. Exhausting, but fun.
"You won't drag me on those rollercoasters though," I warn Sam. "Those days are firmly behind me!"
He smiles a fine little smile. "We'll see about that."
I box him in the arm, but he just laughs, not even bothering to dodge my fist.
"So," Sam remarks after a moment of relaxed silence. "Any plans for this evening?"
I turn to look at him, but don't answer.
"If not, maybe we could grab a bite to eat. I have some good news that warrant celebrating," he continues.
"What kind of news?" I ask, immediately curious.
Sam shakes his head. "No, not here. This isn't a good place for my news."
I roll my eyes at him, but he grins and doesn't budge.
"Then I'm afraid your news will have to wait," I reply, feeling a genuine twinge of regret. "I told Ken I'd be home for dinner tonight. In fact, I probably should have been home half an hour ago."
Disappointment flashes over Sam's face for a second or two, before he has his features back under control and manages to put on a neutral expression. "Another time then?"
"Another time," I confirm, trying not to think too hard about what it means that I'd rather eat some greasy fast food and get to hear Sam's news than have home-cooked dinner with Ken at Kensington Palace. Wherever that thought leads, it's nowhere good.
Much as I try though, I don't quite manage to shake the feeling. When, roughly an hour later, I punch in the entrance code to the front door of Wren House, there's still a vague sense of reluctance that I try my hardest to ignore, but know deep down not to be a good thing.
Of course, the vague reluctance turns into pure dread the moment I enter the dining room and find myself confronted with a perfectly-set table. There is gleaming silverware and glistening glassware and gold-rimmed china and the only sign that something is amiss is the fact that all the candles have burned to stumps.
That, and my disgruntled-looking boyfriend sitting in one of the chairs and looking at me with one raised eyebrow.
"Hello," he greets me and his voice sounds all odd. "Did you have a nice evening?"
"I'm late," I state by way of reply. "I was at the youth centre and just lost track of time. I'm… I'm sorry. I should have called or something."
Ken gets up from the table and walks over to one of the windows. "Dinner is certainly cold by now," he remarks. "And what little of it isn't stone-cold is likely burned to charcoal."
I drop down on the chair he just vacated. "I didn't know you were putting on this whole… extravaganza! If you'd just said something, I would have been here sooner."
"I told you I'd cook dinner for us," he points out, turning to face me and leaning against the window sill.
"Yes, dinner!" I exclaim, exasperated. "I thought we were talking… I don't know, spag bol or some pie or something. I didn't realise you meant… well, this." I indicate the set table with a sweeping motion of my hand.
"I specifically asked you to be home so I could cook dinner for us and you didn't think it would be something special?" asks Ken, disbelief lacing his words.
I shake my head. "No! I thought it would be just… just food."
"Well, it's not just food," he retorts tightly.
"Yes." I take a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "I can see that now."
Ken sighs and tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling. I let my eyes drift, from him to the beautifully set table and back to him. And as I look at him, a sudden thought strikes me.
He doesn't deserve this. No matter what else is going on, he did something nice tonight and he doesn't deserve to get snapped at.
"I'm sorry you went through such an effort," I tell him, my voice suddenly sounding much calmer. "And I'm sorry for being late."
He jerks his head up and down in a nod, but doesn't say anything in return.
"Is there… is there any kind of… of special occasion?" I ask tentatively. I mean, I know today's date and I know there isn't any official occasion, but at the same time… there has to be a reason for all this, right?
Ken turns his gaze on me and shrugs. "We weren't together on our anniversary, so I thought we could make up for it tonight."
Immediately, I can feel myself getting defensive. "It wasn't our real anniversary," I point out quickly. "That's in December!"
"It was the anniversary of our first meeting," Ken insists.
I look away, shaking my head slightly. "I didn't realise it was a big deal! Lucy was having a bad day and asked me to be with her. You and I spent that day apart before and I just… I didn't think it would matter so much."
"I didn't say that," Ken replies. "I just thought it would be nice to have dinner, just the two of us. We barely do anything together anymore."
He isn't wrong there. We see each other, but we don't really do much anymore. It just… it just doesn't work out, I guess. He's busy, I'm busy… It's that kind of thing.
"Dinner is nice," I agree. "I'm sorry for having ruined it. Maybe we can do it some other time?"
"There's my birthday," he suggests, raising both eyebrows slightly.
I wince. "Ah, about that… didn't I tell you?"
"Tell me what?" he wants to know, suddenly sounding suspicious.
"I have a client that day, up in Yorkshire," I admit. "I… I won't be here."
"On my birthday?" he asks, as if needing to clarify.
I shift slightly on the chair. (Why are these dining room chairs so sodding uncomfortable anyway?) "Yes, on your birthday. I know it… look, it know it isn't ideal, but we spent your birthday apart more often than together."
In fact, at least twice we spent it apart because he chose it that way. And don't get me started on my birthday and how often I celebrated it without him by my side!
Ken doesn't reply immediately, so I feel compelled to add, "I can't chose when I have to work!"
Even as I do, I resent the fact that I'm defending myself. I shouldn't have to defend myself for having an actual job and earning actual money.
He frowns, evidently disagreeing with my thoughts. "Pamela knows better than to schedule you to work on my birthday."
That succeeds in rendering me temporarily speechless.
"Did you just…? Do you really…?" I stammer when my voice has somewhat returned to me. "I mean, God, how entitled could you possibly be?" I laugh in disbelief.
"I'm not entitled." Ken folds his arms in front of his chest, the very picture of defensiveness. "I'm merely saying that you can ask Pamela to pass along that event to someone else."
"It's my job, Kenneth!" I inform him, my own voice rising. "I can I assure you I can think of a hundred better ways to spend my time than to oversee an outdoor wedding at the end of November in Yorkshire, but it is how it is. This is my client and I will take care of it. My workmates had to pitch in for me all the time earlier this year – because of you, I might add – and I certainly won't make them do it again when I'm perfectly capable of doing the job myself!"
Ken grits his teeth, but we both know he couldn't possibly argue the point. He knows what was asked of me in light of ensuring his safety and that makes it a knockout argument. When I mention the sacrifices I had to make so he could go be a solider, he has nothing to pit against that. It automatically decides any argument for me.
"Well, okay then." With a hissing sound, he lets go of a breath he'd been holding. "How about the weekend after my birthday? We could go someplace nice, just you and me. Some hotel or country house or something. Or we could even fly somewhere if you want to. Didn't I promise to take you to Venice one day? We could fly down Friday and come back Sunday. I bet it won't even be that crowded in November."
I press my lips together tightly, but then give myself a push and admit, "I can't. I have plans that weekend."
He blinks, then shakes his head. "Go figure," he mutters.
"Don't!" I snap. "Don't get up on that high horse of yours and pretend I'm deserting your unfortunate self just because it pleases me!"
Ken turns his head sharply and when he looks at me, his eyes are blazing. "It's beginning to look like it!"
"Well, whatever it looks like, it's wrong!" Instinctively, I rise from my chair to even out the height difference between us some. "The kids at the centre have been invited to spend the weekend at a theme park and I was asked to come along. They need more adult supervisors and the children are looking forward to it. I could hardly decline and disappoint them!"
(Yes, it's a fib. Yes, I'm perfectly aware of that. But I think I can be forgiven for fibbing a little in the interest of making my point, can I not?)
Jutting my chin forward, I meet Ken's gaze straight on. For a moment, I think he will retort something, but then he abruptly breaks eye contact, pushes away from the window sill and crosses the room with long strides.
I follow him with my eyes, but remain standing by the table. Its careful set-up almost feels like a mockery now.
"Will that Sam fellow be there?" Ken wants to know, turning to look at me again.
The sudden change of topic throws me for a moment, but I quickly compose myself. "Yes," I tell him primly. "Sam will go on the trip."
"Why am not surprised?" he murmurs and turns his back to me again.
Immediately, I feel my temper flare. "If you're suggesting –"
Ken whirls around and cuts me off. "I'm not suggesting anything! I'm just saying… I'm saying… I don't even know what I'm saying anymore!"
"Well, that makes two of us, because neither do I!" I snap and glare at him. "And just for the record, that thing you're not suggesting about Sam and me? It never happened. Nothing ever happened!"
We stare at each other for a long moment, before he looks away. "I didn't think anything happened."
"Good," I reply sharply. "Because nothing did. Nothing will."
Sighing, he walks back to the window and looks out of it. I can see his reflection mirrored in the dark glass and find, to my surprise, that he looks resigned. "And yet," he remarks after a moment, "we're fighting."
I take a deep breath. "We seem to be making a habit out of that," I admit quietly, feeling the fight go out of me just as he says it.
"If we talk at all," Ken adds, still looking out into the dark.
"We do talk," I correct, but even as I say it, it feels somehow… futile.
"Not about anything that matters," he points out.
I can feel him looking at me through the mirrored glass, so I just shrug and look away. Disagreeing would be dishonest. Agreeing would hurt.
He doesn't say anything either and silence settles over the room, broken just by the large grandfather clock in the corner, ticking away time. There's something symbolic in that image, but I can't put my finger on what it is and I'm too exhausted to try.
Finally, Ken breaks the silence. "I wonder if you'll ever stop punishing me."
My head snaps up to find him turned back towards me and studying me closely.
"I'm not punishing you!" The denial is almost automatic.
"Aren't you?" There's a bleak kind of smile on his lips, which is really the worst kind of smile there is.
I shake my head, slowly at first and then ever more surely. "I'm not. I'm… I'm not punishing you."
"I'd like to believe that, but…" He pauses, as if to gather his thoughts. "See, the thing is that it sure feels like you are."
It would be an accusation, if he didn't look so utterly resigned while saying it. As it is, the words feel as bleak as his smile did.
I swallow heavily and look down at where my hands are gripping the back of a chair. I didn't even notice taking hold of it.
"I'm not though," I insist. There's a nervous, cheerless laugh on my lips that couldn't be any more misplaced. "Or maybe I am, at least somewhat. But the truth is… I honestly wish it was as simple as me just wanting to punish you. I really wish it was that simple."
Ken hesitates, then nods slowly. "It never is simple."
"No," I agree tonelessly. "No, it never is."
It would be easier if all of this were simpler, even just a little bit.
"And now?" asks Ken carefully. "Do you… want to talk about it?"
I look up at him. "Do you? Can you?"
There's a long silence and I don't even know what kind of answer I'm hoping for. In the end, he just shrugs, which is really no answer at all.
"And now?" I ask, repeating his earlier words, though I don't know what kind of answer I'm looking for with this either.
"Now we try to do better," Ken replies, his tone cautious, even a little unsure. "Right?"
I take a deep breath, then another. "Right."
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'On Silent Wings' (written by Tony Joe White and James Ralston, released by Tina Turner in 1996).
To the first Guest:
In my original plan, this chapter was supposed to be Rilla talking to Walter, but the writing gave me trouble, so I switched it to Shirley and that worked much better. Walter has appearance in two upcoming chapters, so he isn't forgotten either, but writing Shirley just comes easier to me. I like him as a character, I find him interesting to write about and I feel that as the youngest two siblings, he and Rilla ought to be closer than they usually are portrayed to be. That's why writing them together is always enjoyable.
Walter was the last Blythe who remained untouched by the fallout of Rilla's relationship, but now it got to him as well. They all suffered over it now, with varying degrees of seriousness, and the talk with Shirley was a stark reminder of that. Rilla has to face up to the truth that her family has to deal with problems that only crop up because of a relationship that she's increasingly unhappy in, so at some point, she's got to wonder whether it's all worth it.
To the second Guest:
Ah, you're very nice! Thank you for your lovely words. You see, to a writer, emotional investment is a good thing, because it means something went right. So that's making me a little proud =).
I must admit that I am actually a bit sorry sometimes for all the twists and turns I'm putting Rilla and Ken - and the readers! - through. Back when I wrote the Balmoral chapter, I seriously considered having Ken not go to war and popping the question instead, resulting in a much earlier Happily Ever After. The problem was that I have these plot bunnies hopping around on my shoulder for nearly two years and they protested most strongly. In a way, the story has been building up to the plot arc we're now in since the beginning and I couldn't cut it. I tried, but I couldn't. (The plot bunnies were pleased with their victory.)
Now, the rest of your reviews leaves me in a bit of a pickle, because it's the kind of review that makes me want to reveal too much of my plans, but I know I shouldn't spoil anything, especially as this reply is public for everyone to see. So, let me just say this: Your review has some very, very good thoughts and some very, very good guesses. I do have a few tricks still up my sleeve, but you brushed at more than one of them, though perhaps not always in the way you think just now. And yes, I know that's a maddeningly cryptic comment, but I promise it will all be revealed - some things sooner, others later, but give me two more months to weave my web and it should all be clear. (I hope!)
