Mainland Europe
December 2017

Suitcases of memories

"So, what's your verdict?" asks Ken as he leans down and kisses my cheek.

"My verdict?" I repeat, puzzled.

Ken drops a stack of newspapers on a chair and sits down opposite me at the breakfast table.

"Do you prefer the Ritz or the Four Seasons?" he asks. "I promised I'd show you both and let your decide."

Indeed. He did promise, didn't he?

"Hmmm…" I hum thoughtfully. "I still maintain that the Ritz is nicer from the outside, but I think I liked the inside better in the Four Seasons. I'm not entirely sure the décor here always falls on the correct side of 'luxurious' vs. 'tacky'." I indicate the sitting room of the fancy Ritz suite we're in, which looks as expensive as could be, but is also the slightest bit gaudy.

"So the Four Season gets your vote after all?" teases Ken.

I shrug, making a point to look unimpressed. "The service was impeccable in both hotels, so on the whole, I'd call it even."

"Sounds fair," Ken acknowledges. "We'll see how the hotel at our next destination ranks in your esteem."

"Our next destination?" I prick my ears.

Laughing, he shakes his head. "Oh, no. Not yet. You have to wait until we're there."

I pout, but it's mostly for show. In truth, I'm very pleased by the honeymoon Ken planned for us and he knows it. He's very smug about it, too.

Had someone asked me before the wedding, I would probably have put my money on an exotic beach honeymoon similar to our island holiday earlier in the year. I would have thoroughly enjoyed it, but I must say, I like Ken's actual idea even better. It involves a lot more subterfuge and careful planning, but that makes it even more special. Ken planned our honeymoon exactly like we envisioned it during our stay in yet another luxury hotel in France in spring. Back then, I never thought we'd be able to pull it off, but somehow, we've managed so far.

We started in Prague, before travelling to Lisbon (which we visited, I'm sure, because it irks Ken that all my Lisbon memories are tied to Jorge – not that he'd admit it though) and were halfway through our stay in Budapest before the press and public cottoned on to the fact that we didn't fly off to an exotic island after all. Ever since, we had to make more effort to dodge reporters, but luckily we have some ways to do that.

One is to criss-cross the continent without any logic and never staying anywhere for more than two or three days. Another is to go visit the sights in the mornings and evenings when they're closed to 'normal' tourist, while spending the days unwinding and relaxing at whichever local five star hotel Ken picked in any given city. Plus, there is our security detail, currently double the size compared to before our engagement and more than ready to chase away all overeager people with cameras.

Our presence in Paris was discovered last night when we returned from a late and very romantic trip up Eiffel Tour. I have no doubt that there are now more reporters than ever gathered in front of the Ritz, but it will do them no good, because by noon today, a lear jet will have taken us to our next destination – wherever that is.

"Don't I get at least a hint where we're going next?" I plead, making my best wide-eyed Hungry George face.

Ken, alas, won't be swayed. "It's a surprise and it will be revealed soon enough," he informs me, maddeningly cheerful. "In the meantime, would you like to have a look at the papers?"

I purse my lips. "Is anything of interest in them?"

"We are." With a flourish and a soft thud, Ken places the stack of newspapers on the table in front of me, between a jug of orange juice and a plate of waffles.

Staring back at me from every single front page is my own face. And Ken's, too, of course.

"I take it they released the wedding pictures?" I ask rhetorically as I skim though the newspaper stack.

"It would appear so," Ken confirms.

We picked the pictures for public release during a lazy afternoon spent at the Grand Hotel Europe in St Petersburg. There were very many photos, some of them too similar to detect a difference, but eventually, we settled on three photos taken in the throne room – one showing just us, one with the bridal party and one with both our families – and two photos from the impromptu evening shoot in the garden – one with us looking at the camera and one with us looking at each other. There's talk of releasing some of the more informal photos taken during the day, but Ken and I begged more time to go through them, so the public is unlikely to get them before the new year.

"This is still my favourite," I announce and hold up the newspaper that gave the entire front page to the evening photo of us looking at each other.

"It's a particularly striking one," agrees Ken.

I shift through the papers that, nearly two weeks after our wedding, still appear to be finding ever new ways to write about it. "To them, we really are the gift that keeps on giving, aren't we?" I muse.

"Comes with the territory," Ken replies, shrugging. "But it doesn't mean we can't have a little bit of fun with them ourselves. Once they realise we've left Paris, there's going to be a right frenzy to figure out our new destination."

"Which you still won't tell me about," I grumble.

He laughs and reaches overt the table to tap my nose. "I won't. But here's an idea – how about we finish breakfast and get into that plane? The sooner we lift off, the sooner you'll know where we're going."

Hmm… That's not a bad idea at all…

"Deal," I agree, before rolling up my crepe and taking a big bite.

The benefit of lear jets, I've found, is not only their level of privacy and security, but also that they wait for you and take off exactly when you want them to. Thus, we're in the air just three hours later, sailing high over Europe.

Next to me, Ken is reading the papers and in theory, I'm reading a book, but in truth, I keep sneaking glances out of the window to figure out where we're flying.

"Are those the Alps?" I ask, peering down at a band of mountains below.

"Could be," replies Ken mysteriously.

When I glare at him, he just smiles smugly. I hit him with my book and pointedly turn back to the window. Behind me, I can hear him chuckle.

"Those are the Alps," I announce, studying he mountains below.

"Could be the Pyrenees," he suggests.

Hmm…

"No," I decide. "I'm sure they're the Alps."

"And what follows from that conclusion?" asks Ken, still distinctly amused.

"That we're flying south," I reply. "And south is Italy. And in Italy is –"

"Venice," he finishes for me.

I turn my head just enough to look at him, not sure whether I dare hope, but his expression is open and honest, if a tad teasing.

"Really?" I ask, just to be sure.

Ken smiles. "I promised I'd take you there, didn't I? I mean, what good would a honeymoon tour of Europe be if we didn't stop in Venice?"

"No good at all?" I guess, inclining my head.

"No good at all," he confirms, before reaching out and letting his hand trail gently along my cheek.

I consider him for a moment, before announcing seriously, "I'm not getting in one of those gondolas though. They're so tacky!"

For a second or two, he just stares at me, before breaking into loud laughter. "No gondolas," he repeats. "Got it."

Satisfied, I sit back in my seat. Venice, here we come!

And come we do, in style. From the plane, we're transferred to a fleet of cars and from there to a private speedboat driving us over to the laguna. It's all a bit too slick and too organised to be authentic, but it's also incredibly easy. I mean, if there's one thing I'm definitely not missing about my normal tourist days, it's taking hour-long trips on overcrowded busses with a backpack wedged between my knees and a sweaty person without contact issues next to me. Ken's way is much more comfortable!

Also comfortable (or rather, the height of luxury) is Hotel Danieli, the exclusive luxury hotel he chose for us, which occupies an old Venetian palace overlooking St Mark's Basin. Our suite is no less fancy than the one at the Ritz was and the bathroom might be the best I've ever seen.

"Have you seen that tub?" I call out loudly to Ken in the other room.

There are footsteps and moments later, he sticks his head through the door. "Want to give it a try?"

Tempting, tempting…

"I might be persuaded to keep you company," he adds, eye twinkling with mirth.

Very tempting…

But no.

"Thanks, but no thanks," I tell him firmly.

He raises an eyebrow, as surprised as he's amused. "No?"

"Later," I amend. (We are on our honeymoon after all!)

Ken grins. "That's more like it. And what would you like to do in the meantime?"

"We're going to explore the city," I answer in a voice that disallows any opposition. "And we're doing it my way."

"Your way?" His expression has now settled on fully amused. "And what does your way entail?"

"A shocking lack of plans, for one," I explain. "And a complete lack of destination."

"The PPOs will hate the very idea of that," Ken remarks, but he doesn't give the impression of someone who cares overly much what the PPOs will think.

I shrug. "Yes, well. I hate crushed velvet and Brussels sprouts and yet still, they exist in this world. Sometimes, we just have to deal."

Brushing past him (but not without stealing a quick kiss that doesn't end up being as quick as intended), I march from the room and over to where the PPOs are housed opposite us. I raise my hand to knock, but before I can, the door is already opened.

"Ma'am." It's McMillan. "Is there anything we can do for you? Did something happen?"

"Everything is just fine," I assure her. "I just wanted to tell you that we intend to go for a stroll."

My declaration is met by a moment of utter silence.

"A stroll?" Beckett finally repeats, looking distinctly queasy.

"A stroll," I confirm.

Beckett blinks. "But… to where? If you have a special destination in mind, we can organise a boat to take you there."

"To nowhere," I reply. "We're just going for a stroll. No route and no destination, just a bit of walking."

"But…" Beckett begins to protest, before trailing off, evidently not feeling up to the monumental task of explaining to me why royals don't go for strolls.

Turning away from me, he looks first at Hanson then at McMillan for help. The former shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching, and the latter just grins outright.

"Welcome to our lives," Hanson tells Beckett casually.

Beckett blinks even more rapidly. "Do you mean to tell me… that Her Royal Highness often goes on… strolls?"

'Her Royal Highness'. That's me. (If stranger things have happened, I don't know which.)

"Not so much strolls as impromptu trips to Kensington High Street or Camden Market," McMillan cheerfully explains to a shocked-looking Beckett.

"Camden Market?" he whispers and I can almost see him picture the hustle and bustle at the market and how it makes protecting a charge rather a bit more difficult.

"This is Venice," I remind him kindly. "Not Camden Market."

Beckett does not look like that makes things any better in his eyes.

"Anyway," I continue when no-one says anything. "I just wanted to give you a heads-up. We're leaving in a few minutes."

Hanson nods, a somewhat long-suffering smile on his face. McMillan honestly looks rather taken by the plan. (I secretly suspect her of having been a bit bored in Leslie's detail, considering that Leslie rarely ever ventures outside the protective boundaries of royal life.) Beckett just gapes at me, evidently at a loss for words.

I don't give him a chance to find any, instead turning in my heel and quickly walking back to Ken's and my room. Luckily, the door falls shut behind me before Beckett has regained control of his speech.

"And?" asks my grinning husband. (Husband!)

"I told them we're taking a stroll and there was no direct opposition," I answer blithely.

"Because you rendered poor Beckett speechless, I imagine," he responds, still with that grin.

I give him my best haughty look. "Those are mere speculations which I cannot confirm or deny at this point. And now, get your coat because you and I are going for a stroll. The PPOs are welcome to accompany us if they feel so inclined."

"If their inclinations played any role, we wouldn't leave this hotel room at all," Ken points out.

"Good thing I didn't ask for their opinion then," I reply briskly while already pressing his coat in his arms. "Hurry, please. If we have any chance at all to just experience the city like any normal couple would, it's before anyone has sniffed out our current whereabouts and you know as well as I do that that time window is quickly closing."

"I'm hurrying!" Ken quickly assures me, already shrugging into his coat.

I cover my treacherous hair with a woollen bobble hat and wrap a scarf around my neck (Italy or not, it's still December!), before allowing Ken to help me into my own coat. Thus bundled up, we leave the suite to find our combined security teams waiting in the hall outside.

Beckett immediately steps up towards Ken, but before he can so much as open his mouth, Ken shakes his head. "We're going for that stroll. Sorry."

To his credit, Beckett knows when there's no point in arguing, though I'm pretty sure I catch him stare darkly at me when he thinks I'm not looking. I try to give him an apologetic smile, but by then, he's already turning away to talk to Butcher.

(It's not that I don't feel bad about making his – their – job more difficult, but titled or not, Ken and I are still normal humans and we need to figure out a way to live life in a way that allows us to stay sane. If that entails the odd stroll against the will of our security people, surely that's not too high a price to pay? I mean, it's not like I decided to go on an illegal rave!)

Of course, the PPOs would never let us stroll around Venice alone, but they do give us a wider berth than usual, with I presume is probably Hanson's doing. If I ignore Butcher and Gaffley walking ahead of us and the others some metres behind, it almost feels like we could be any newlywed couple on a romantic holiday to one of the most romantic cities on earth.

And one of the prettiest, too!

"It's even more beautiful than I imagined," I sigh happily, clutching Ken's arm, as we walk the narrow streets of Venice, lined by ancient building and intermittently leading us to little bridges crossing over the famous canals.

He smiles down at me. "I'm glad you like it."

"I'm glad you took me here," I tell him sincerely. "I thought I had missed my window of opportunity to see Venice and all those others places just as a normal tourist, and I can't tell you happy it makes me that you found a way for us to do this anyway."

"Anything for you." He gives a little mock bow, making me laugh.

"No, I mean it," I insist, wanting him to understand. "I would gladly have given up the opportunity to ever go sightseeing again to be your wife, but that you listened to me and made this work means a lot to me."

Ken looks at me for a moment, before a wide, foolish smile spreads over his face. "Wife."

"That's what you took from this, yes?" I shake my head, but can't help laughing softly.

He shrugs, still smiling widely. "I might have stopped listening after you said 'wife'. Did you say anything important after that?"

"You know what? I didn't," I reply, mirroring his smile. "Husband."

"Do you have any idea how much I like the sound of that?" Ken asks, slipping an arm around my waist and turning me so we're facing each other.

I stand on my tiptoes, raising my face to his. "I might have an idea." Then I kiss him, not really caring who's watching – and judging from his enthusiastic response, he couldn't care less either.

When I step back again, I briefly glance at the PPOs from the corner of my eye and see them turned away slightly, trying to give us whatever privacy we can.

"Do you ever get used to them following you around?" I ask Ken quietly and nod in direction of Memon, who actually appears to be whistling.

Ken grabs my hand and starts walking again. "I honestly couldn't tell you. They've been following me around since before I can remember."

"Right." I smile wryly. "Can you believe that sometimes, I still forget that your life has never been normal, not for a single day?"

"It's been my kind of normal," Ken replies with another shrug. "But it's been a much better normal since you came into it." He gives me a tentative, almost shy smile that is unusual for him.

I stretch up to kiss his cheek. "It's safe to say life has become considerably less normal since meeting you, but also in the best way possible."

Ken pulls me towards him and presses a kiss to my temple. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"Well, I mean it," I assure him. "And now, I want a mask."

He stops, clearly confused. "A mask?"

"A mask," I confirm, before proceeding to drag him into the little shop to our right.

Inside, there are hundreds or thousands of masks, lying on every surface and hanging from every wall. They're all exquisitely decorated and one is more beautiful than the next.

"Look at them!" Excitedly, I turn my head to all sides, trying to take it all in.

"Do you like them?" Ken sounds distinctly amused.

"Masks like these are the very definition of a Venice souvenir," I explain. "We need to get some!"

"To wear?" asks Ken, now more sceptical than amused.

"If the opportunity arises." I shrug. "But until then, I thought we could use them to decorate our living room."

He raises an eyebrow. "Didn't we get the paintings in Montmartre to decorate our living room?"

"Our new apartment has 41 rooms in total. I'm willing to bet on there being more than one living room," I deadpan.

"You might have a point," Ken acknowledges.

I said that, didn't I?

Giving him a triumphant look – which just results in making him laugh – I turn back to the masks and reach out a hand to tentatively take one off its hook. Mere seconds later, there's a loud voice protesting, "No, no, no, no!"

I barely have a chance to look where the voice came from, when the mask is plucked from my hand by an elderly Italian man who appeared from the shadows at the back of the shop.

"Um… uh… scusa?" I try to apologise, making use of the very little bit of Italian I picked up during a long ago trip to Rome.

The shopkeeper replies with a waterfall of Italian, which I do not understand a single word of, before he turns and proceeds to bustles around the shop. Fearing I might have offended him, I turn to Ken for help, but his Italian is apparently no better than mine, because he just raises his shoulders in a shrug, looking as confused as I feel.

I just consider leaving quietly, when the shopkeeper returns, brandishing four different masks and holding them out towards me. I just stare at them, resulting in another torrent of Italian.

"I think he wants you to look at these," Ken murmurs from behind. "He probably thought the one you'd picked out first wouldn't suit you."

"Oh, um… grazie." I nod and smile as I cautiously reach out for the masks. The shopkeeper smiles back briefly, before he is off again, collecting more masks from all around the shop to present them to Ken.

The next half an hour, we spend trying on masks under the watchful eye of the shopkeeper (and of Beckett and McMillan who wait by the door). Whenever he thinks that a mask doesn't suit one of us, he snatches it away within a fraction of a second and replaces it with a different one. When he's finally happy with our choices, he nods, satisfied, and bombards us with yet more Italian.

"Do you have any idea how much we have to pay?" I mutter at Ken.

"None at all," he answers quietly. "But I suppose he does." Pulling a wad of money from his coat, Ken hands it to the shopkeeper and gestures at him to take whatever he needs.

The man nods and starts counting bills from the stack, before giving the rest back and proceeding to wrap our masks in packing paper. He doesn't present them to us though, instead taking the bag himself and waving for us to follow him. I exchange a quick glance with Ken, but he just raises both eyebrows and gestures for me to follow.

As we pass Beckett and McMillan on our way out the door, the former asks, "Where are we going, Sir?"

"Not idea at all," replies Ken, sounding incredibly unconcerned. Beckett looks like he might start hyperventilating. McMillan looks like she's biting back a laugh.

"Muoviti!" calls out the shopkeeper and waves for us to follow him down the street.

"I think he wants us to hurry," I point out.

"Then we don't want to disappoint him," Ken decides and, taking my hand firmly in his, starts walking.

Beckett, McMillan and the other PPOs have no choice but to follow us, though Beckett is still muttering under his breath. Poor guy is really not happy about Ken and me discovering our adventurous streak, but alas, we don't live to appease Beckett, do we?

The shopkeeper, it turns out, is leading us to a small restaurant down the road, where we're greeted by a woman speaking even faster Italian. Gesticulating wildly, she ushers us to a table for two near the back of the mercifully empty restaurant. The PPOs enter a little reluctantly, but are immediately shown their own table, which is, I notice gratefully, at the other end of the room.

"Do they even eat when on duty?" I ask Ken amusedly.

"Not usually," he replies, grinning. "But I don't suppose they'll have much of a chance not to in here."

As it turns out, he's exactly on the mark. Within minutes of us entering, the woman chases two younger men from the kitchen, both laden with plates and bowls. "Mangiare!" the woman announces proudly, which I take to mean 'food'.

"I don't suppose we get to order what we'd like to eat?" I whisper to Ken as the plates are placed in front of us.

"Doesn't appear so," he murmurs back. "Just eat what you like and I'll finish off the rest."

"My gallant knight!" I declare dramatically. He just grins, not at all bothered by my teasing.

Pulling one of the starters towards me, I take a forkful and chew it carefully. "This is really good!" I inform Ken. "It's also not poisoned, so you can tell Beckett to start breathing again."

"I don't think he has any plans to breathe until we're safely back in our hotel room," replies Ken easily after a quick glance at his head of security.

And indeed. While the rest of the PPOs actually look like they're enjoying this unexpected meal, I don't think Beckett relaxes even for a second. I can't fully blame him, either. Here we are, being lured away by total strangers while on his watch, and there's nothing he can do about it.

"Do you think they know who we are?" I want to know, nodding at our hosts.

Ken swallows a mouthful of pasta and inclines his head in thought. "Maybe, maybe not. Does it matter?"

Truth is, I would have enjoyed the idea of being able to fly under the radar, but Ken's right – there's definitely a chance higher than zero that someone recognised us at some point. Overall, it doesn't even matter though, because the masks are beautiful and the food is delicious and following the nightly stroll back to our hotel actually romantic. (It helps that in the dark, the PPOs are very nearly invisible.)

If they did recognise us, the nice Italians don't rat us out to the public, which means we get another half-day in Venice before the hyenas descend. Once they do, it's back to scheduled and supervised visits to the local sights after normal opening hours, which part of me is admittedly a little irritated by. The bigger part, alas, recognises the amazing privilege of being able to view the wonder that is St. Mark's Cathedral as it lies completely empty and silent or being allowed to spend as much times as we want inspecting the Duke's Palace next door. (It also means that I can take as many photos as I want without having to cleverly crop out any sweaty tourists!)

Our Venice stay, in short, is a roaring success and it ends even better than it began when, instead of being flown on in an airplane, we're collected by a helicopter instead for a sightseeing flight over the Alps. I can unashamedly admit that I spend most of the flight with my nose pressed to the window to take in as much as possible, much to Ken's delight. The highlight, alas, doesn't come until we've started leaving the mountains behind us. He pilot steers the helicopter above a turquoise lake on the ground, before taking a sharp turn left and bringing into view, right before my window, a white castle that looks like it materialised straight from a Disney movie.

"Is that…?" I begin.

"Neuschwanstein Castle," comes Ken's voice over the headphones. "A flyby, just as milady ordered."

Turning, I see him smiling tenderly at me. I feel a rush of affection for this amazing husband of mine, but with our positions in the helicopter preventing any other show of affection and the pilot being able to hear every word we say, I have little chance to express it. So, I just grab his hand and squeeze it extra tightly. Immediately, Ken's fingers close around mine, squeezing back (though perhaps not quite as tightly).

"You," I tell him through the helicopter's intercom, "are having a seriously good showing in the race for most perfect husband of the year. Just in case you didn't know."

"If I'm perfect, it's only because you make me so," he immediately replies.

And if that isn't the cheesiest possible thing to say, I don't know what is. It's awfully cheesy and terribly soppy and rightfully, I should roll my eyes and tease him mercilessly about it, but to be totally honest?

I secretly love it, cheese and soppiness and all.


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Time after Time' (written by Cyndi Lauper and Rob Hyman, released by Cyndi Lauper in 1984).


To DogMonday:
I hope you continue to enjoy the time spent with your guests and thank you for taking the time to leave me a (really not so short) review!
I love that you picked up upon Leslie going first during her speech with Owen, because I did that very deliberately. Because her mental health issues are so defining for her and her behaviour, that makes up a lot of what we've seen of her in this story. It's not all she is though and not only has she moments when she's better, she can also pull herself together to a certain extent when she thinks it's important. She was always going to be there for this wedding, no matter what, but for her to take on such an active part during the speech is a sign that she's in a good phase. That, in turn, stems in no small part from her happiness for Rilla and Ken, because seeing those she loves happy does help her feel happier, too.
I really thought about having Lucy do a speech as well! In fact, I strongly considered it, but decided against it for three reasons in the end: a) it would have made an overlong chapter even longer, b) Lucy really isn't someone who feels very comfortable with having all attention focused on her and c) I already had Tatty for Mark to interact with during his speech and she does fill the role of "friend of Rilla" nicely. Hence there ended up being no speech by Lucy, even though my own feminist sight wanted there to be one, too.
The purple mini dress was a joke, but the Disney Prince Uniform, alas, was not. I think Ken agrees with your assessment of it, hence why he jokes about it. Humour probably makes the reality of having to wear it easier to bear. I mean, I guess at least he didn't have to wear the bearskin hat this time, so it could have been worse ;).

To Guest:
I'm glad you enjoyed the speeches! Originally, I brushed over them with a single sentence, but upon re-reading, I realised people might want to 'hear' them in full - and that's how the previous chapter was born, as a sort of unplanned late addition. It takes the full chapter count for this story to 136, so there are two more to go now!