The Royal We (35 page)

I tried folding Lacey into Project Bex in other ways. I arranged best man and maid of honor confabs for her and Freddie, figuring she would appreciate a sanctioned excuse to be in his orbit, but each time he produced a reason to beg off, ranging from legitimate (a Navy search-and-rescue) to slender (planning a garden for the Chelsea Flower Show) to apocryphal.

“I can’t right now, Killer,” he’d told me on my last attempt. “I’m in the middle of the Master Cleanse.”

I had been unable to suppress a very loud snort.

“The Master Cleanse is no snorting matter,” Freddie said very seriously.

I knew Lacey was taking this personally, beyond her general disappointment at Freddie having given her tractor beam the slip—how could she not, when she’d allegedly been bumped below
bloat
and
bowels
on Freddie’s priority list. So I sought out the next best thing for her: shopping. Marj handed down an edict to spiff myself up even if I was just dashing out to the drugstore, along with a monthly wardrobe budget triple the size of my rent, and when I invited Lacey to help me spend it I got the first hug she’d initiated in months. But Marj had other ideas, assigning me a facilitator—Eleanor loathed the Hollywood air of
stylist
—and my own concierges at Harrods, Harvey Nichols, and Selfridges (the Queen also thought
personal shopper
sounded too spendthrift). That long-ago day trying on gowns in Harrods’s private utopia became my normal shopping experience, thanks to Donna, a smartly suited brunette who’d guided eight starlets into adulthood without once falling into a vortex of transparency and tube tops. She adeptly meted out the budget and had a knack for suggesting alterations that gave an expressive pop to something I’d never have glanced at twice. She knew to strategize sewing weights into any hem, if a dress inhibited the way I had to sit or stand, could weather a traffic jam, or would look discordant with any of Nick’s blue suits. And she didn’t need any help.

Lacey responded with that dog-with-a-bone mentality that helped her pass algebra when we were in middle school and got her to med school (if apparently not through it) and even into Freddie’s bed. As we slowly stockpiled outfits for any occasion that might arise, Donna bumped up against Lacey at every turn, pushing the boundaries, desperate to make her mark.

“I like this one for an evening event,” Lacey said, pulling out a sexy gold strapless dress.

Donna made a polite noise and put it back on the rack. Lacey turned to me and examined the suit I was trying on, for my eventual first meeting with the Archbishop of Canterbury.

“That skirt could be a bit shorter,” she said. “You’re not eighty.”

“The Palace prefers to abide by certain rules,” Donna said pleasantly. “Rebecca’s nice long legs make any length work.”

“But it’s so off-trend,” Lacey complained.

“The Palace prefers not to bow to trends,” Donna said. “Rebecca has to look timeless.”

“But look at this day dress,” Lacey said, pulling one off the rack. “It’s so mumsy. That
neckline
. Bex is flat-chested so she can wear something low-cut without it looking vulgar.”

“The Palace prefers not to involve a lady’s sternum,” Donna said, calm but firm. I wondered if Marj had handed her a list to memorize.

“Well, fortunately, I have some accessories that will help,” Lacey said.

“The Palace prefers a minimum of fuss,” Donna said.

“The Palace prefers a minimum of
fun
,” Lacey groused.

I tried to make whatever concessions and conciliatory gestures I could, but I caught myself deferring to Donna more and more because, frankly, she was right. There were certain parameters I was not free to wiggle around, or at least, not during what was essentially my rookie year. After two full days of push-pull, Lacey retreated to the couch, giving only one-word answers and perfunctory smiles. Then she bailed and never returned. I tried tempting her with outings that had nothing at all to do with me or the wedding, but Lacey found conflicts with them all. By May, our conversations were just laundry lists of items she’d bought, restaurants she’d gone to, or men who were secretly in love with her, and she never, ever asked
me
anything. Not about how I was doing, or how Nick was, and not even razzing me about my thickening hair. Lacey was as finely attuned to my scalp as musicians are to their instruments, and she was the one person I’d counted on to tease me about the six hours I would spend letting Kira fuse bundles of a vegetarian Indian girl’s hair to my own inferior head. It was tedious and weird—before they were trimmed, they came down to my elbows, making me look like a cut-rate reality-TV star—but I didn’t want to bring it up for fear of looking like I was all me, me, me.

And yet, even without its emotional stalwarts, Team Bex was bigger than ever. Marj drafted a phalanx of expert strangers who diagnosed me as a Neanderthal hunchback with Clydesdale tendencies, and began shepherding my way through Duchessing for Dummies. No longer could I clomp from point A to point B. I had to glide, each leg crossing slightly in front of the other, my foot going heel-sole-toe at exactly the right smooth pace. I was taught to don and doff coats without them hitting the floor; to use only my left hand to hold drinks at official events so that my right would never be damp or clammy for handshakes; and accordingly, that I’d be better off never taking an hors d’oeuvre, lest I be forced to shovel it into my mouth. Before sitting, I learned to bump the chair ever so gently with my calves to be sure of where it was without glancing behind me. I must only cross my ankles, never my legs, and when getting up from that position, it is a discreet ballet of scooting to the edge of the chair and then standing quickly
while
uncrossing things. I am not uncoordinated, but that tripped me up six times the first day. In flats. Marj made my instructor sign a second confidentiality agreement on the spot, and then suggested some off-hours practicing. It’s a wonder it took me as long as it did to hire Cilla permanently, because her suggestion to bring Lady Bollocks into my Duchess for Dummies training was a masterstroke. There was a reason Bea was so successful in Thoroughbred competitions that rewarded obedience.

“
No
, Bex,” groaned Bea on a hot May afternoon. “You look like you’re sitting on the loo.”

I tried again.

“Rebecca, we cannot literally glue your knees together,” she scolded me.

“They barely came apart,” I protested. “It was a sliver.”

“A sliver is all they need.”

I groaned, smacking the car, then ducking back into it. “This is way harder than it looks.
Ow.
” I had forgotten to, per my crib sheet,
place a gentle hand on the doorframe so as not to crack one’s head
.

Barnes had implied that the only transgression that would rain down greater hellfire than a photo of my underwear would be getting pregnant, especially now that there was at least one paparazzo on Crotch Patrol trying to nab the upskirt shot that would set him up for life, and an entire website called The American’t dedicated to shots of me embarrassing myself. And so, in the privacy of the Larchmont-Kent-Smythe manor’s gated driveway, I practiced Remedial Vehicular Entrance and Egress with the dedication I once applied to practicing fastballs.

“Brilliant. Does that one come with a complimentary Pap test swab?” Bea crabbed after my umpteenth try.

“It could not have been that bad,” I said, sinking back into her parents’ Bentley. “There is no way I’ve spent my entire life flashing people every time I’ve gotten out of a car.”

“Believe whatever you like. Go again,” she said. “Oh yes, marvelous. Now you’ll go down in history as the American who can’t keep her bits to herself.”

“When will people stop caring that I’m American?” I grumbled, sliding back into the car.

“When you give them something else to talk about,” Bea said blithely. “Which had better not be your cervix. Come on, go again.”

“Can I at least have a glass of water first?” I fanned myself.

She checked her watch. “It has to be quick. I have a date with my mount in an hour.”

“You can just call her Gemma.” I couldn’t resist.

“I assume that is your concussion talking.”

“I’m just teasing, Bea,” I said. “Cheer up.”

“I will do no such thing,” Bea said, stomping toward the front door, her riding boots aggravating the gravel into crunching protest.

All complaining aside, there was something perversely soothing about Bea cracking the whip on me, as if she believed I was perfectly capable of being correct the first time and was simply pretending to be inept. But that it took so much work to make me presentable in the first place felt like another item on The Firm’s long list of my flaws, right above “pre-cellulite on the upper rear thighs”—never mind that the only person who ever saw my upper rear thighs had already agreed to marry me—and “inability to distinguish fish fork and oyster fork.”

“What’s got you frowning?” Bea asked, steering me into a seat in her parents’ rustic country kitchen, and passing me a depressingly sensible snack of fruit, crudité, and raw almonds.

“That,” I said, nodding to my plate. “I was hoping for scones.”

“No cheating,” Bea said. “There will be no royal muffin top, and you cannot get spots.”

“Fine.” I grudgingly bit into a carrot. “I’m doing all right, I think. I hate that Eleanor made me quit the Soane. I miss it. My boss actually cried. I think I’m the only person who listened when she explained why ecru tissue paper is better than eggshell.”

“I did warn you that being with Nick is a job in and of itself,” Bea said.

“Yes, Bea, you were right, as always,” I said, and she very nearly smiled. “Honestly, I don’t begrudge it, but it’s a real mindfuck to give up a job that made me feel like
me
in order to take a job that’s all about making me into someone
else
.” I scrunched up my face. “And I miss having somewhere to go that isn’t my living room, or Marj’s office.”

“
Wrinkles
,” Bea said, smacking me on the hand.

“I am allowed to have facial expressions!”

“Debatable,” she said. “When is Nick back?”

“Next month,” I said. “Finally. I can’t wait.”

“Excellent. Then Joss can push off back to Fulham and stop trying to guilt you into letting her design something for you.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what I’m going to do about her,” I said. “I got home the other day and found her wearing my clothes. She said she was studying them. Do I just give in? I’m worried she’s losing it.”

“Stop talking nonsense,” Bea said. “You cannot give everyone the pleasure of your patronage, Bex.”

“It’s stressing me out, though,” I said. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

Bea leaned back in her seat. “Why isn’t Lacey helping you with this? The least she could do is take Joss off your hands.”

“They barely know each other. And it’s been weeks since we really talked,” I said glumly. “If she even knows I quit working, it’s because she read it in the
Mail
. Sometimes I think she’s avoiding me.”

I’d called Lacey the minute I’d taken that large, sobering step away from what I still thought of as my real life, but I’d hung up on her voice mail, and the window to tell her unprompted slammed shut. She’d have to ask. And she hadn’t.

“Snap out of it,” Bea said, poking me with her nail. “You have too much on your plate to worry about Lacey.”

“That’s rich, coming from someone who spent years stressed about Pudge,” I said.

“And did that work? No,” Bea said. “In fact, it was once I stopped bothering about her that she pulled herself together, and now look at her. Norway is obsessed.”

“Lacey and Pudge aren’t the same, though,” I said. “Pudge had an addiction.”

“I’d argue Lacey does, too.”

“To what?” I asked.

Bea bit into a slice of apple. “To attention. To you. To
your
attention.”

“That’s not fair,” I said automatically. “Our relationship is different. Twins are—”

“Yes, yes. You’re bonded. It’s special. Etcetera,” Bea said. “I may not be a twin, but that doesn’t mean I can’t read one. Lacey is trying to get your attention by giving you none, and you are so desperate to make her happy that you’re going to ruin everything for yourself.”

“I can fix this, Bea,” I insisted. “She’s invited to Royal Ascot with me. It’ll be a great way to remind her that we can still be the Porter twins even when I’m the Duchess of Wherever.”

“Doubtful,” Bea said, snagging the last piece of celery. “But I have said my piece. Now, back to work. And if you flash me any of your knickers at all this time, I will call the
Daily Mail
and tell them you’ve never worn any.”

B
y summer, unbeknownst to us,
The Bexicon
was rushing toward its conclusion so it could hit bookstores in time to stuff people’s Christmas stockings. Aurelia Maupassant chose to close her trove of flattering fallacies with this interpretation of my debut at Royal Ascot:

If that’s what she saw, then I’ll take it.

The five-day, multimillion-pound Royal Ascot race meet every June is characterized by crazy hats, extremely rich purses—both in terms of prizes, and handbags—and the prestige of Eleanor’s daily attendance. This year, Nick’s ship would arrive in port in time for him to join the Queen’s procession, a prime opportunity for The Firm’s PR machine to capitalize on the mounting yen for a Posh and Bex sighting. The world seemed to feel that being given royal lovebirds, only to have them ripped away for half a year while one of them shipped out to the Indian Ocean, was voyeuristically unfair. So when word got out that we’d be there on Ladies’ Day, the
Guardian
ran the headline
AND THEY’RE OFF
, and the best of the Bex-themed fashion blogs, Bex-a-Porter, put a countdown to Ascot on the homepage along with a poll in which 73 percent of voters wanted me to wear a hat that made me taller than Nick.

Royal Ascot’s dress code already falls in line with the litany of rules I have to obey: Sleeves are mandatory, or at least straps wider than an inch. Skirts must fall no higher than the vaguely defined
just above the knee
, and hats must have a base of four inches or larger (I wish I’d been present when they decided three inches was too trashy to bear). Lacey was still allergic to Donna—it was mutual—so it was Cilla, at loose ends now that she’d quit nannying and moved in with Gaz, who acted as my wingman during the flurry of emergency fittings.

“You’ll want something bright, I think, Rebecca,” Donna theorized.

“You’ve pulled some ripping patterns,” Cilla observed. “In the right spots, they’ll hide any wrinkles from the car ride.”

“I was thinking a floral,” Donna said, impressed.

“But just a touch of it. She can’t look like a throw pillow.”

Donna pulled from the rack a summery white dress with a fiery cluster of poppies at the waist, a few wafting petals sprinkled in both directions.

“My first pick,” she said. “You’ve got a keen instinct.”

“You did the hard part.” Cilla beamed. She was the anti-Lacey. A love match was born.

The day of the races did not dawn fortuitously. We had to be in place well before the royal procession at two o’clock, but Bex Standard Time didn’t exist yet, so my usual well-intentioned struggles with punctuality resulted in Kira nagging me to tears. And then Lacey made Mom and me wait an additional half hour before texting that she’d have to meet us there. It was only thanks to PPO Stout’s lead foot that we were almost back on schedule when we drove in through the pack of wobbly racegoers spilling toward the grandstand. The racetrack has tried curtailing the party atmosphere, even adding an amnesty box inviting you to deposit any drugs you might have planned to sneak inside. (Freddie told me very seriously, in front of a stone-faced Twiggy, that they are doled out as Christmas bonuses to the PPOs.) I wish I’d attended just once when I could still anonymously people-watch, but instead we took an elevator above the fray to the curved, blue-carpeted Royal Box, jutting out like a flying saucer from the rest of Ascot’s grandstands. Clive and the rest of the Fitzwilliams had beaten us there, with his father, Edgeware, holding court among the other toffs about a recent rugby match in which his fourth son Tim majestically shattered his nose. Dim Tim himself stood by, listening, and offering little other than a vacuous smile and a wonderful view of his new Picasso of a face: flat where it should be strong, his nostrils too close to his eyes. His brothers’ buffet of distortions, to go with their matching hulking blondness, made Clive even more of an anomaly in the family than he already was.

“Clive!” I called out, spying him from behind.

He turned around, and with him, Paddington Larchmont-Kent-Smythe, in a yellow chiffon day dress straight out of a Fred Astaire movie.

“Rebecca!” Paddington said, gliding over to embrace me. “It’s so fulfilling to be reunited.”

“Um, yes, with you, too, Pud—er, Padding…Larchmont…?” I fumbled.

“You may use whichever name speaks to you,” she said, warm but still somehow remote, like she was communicating from a dimension a half step out of sync with my own. Per
Tatler
, she was spending every third week in an ashram.

“Bex.” Clive ducked in to kiss my cheek, dashing in his tailcoat. “It’s been ages.”

“Got any sure winners?” I asked.

“He’d better,” said Thick Trevor as he passed, yanking painfully on his brother’s earlobe. “Horse racing’s the only kind of sport he plays: one where you don’t actually do anything.”

Clive shot him a disgusted expression as Pudge waved at the throngs outside.

“I was trying to absorb psychic energies from the people, because it’s so
fucking
electric down there.” Her new-age veneer made her old favorite word sound like a spiritual orgasm. “But nothing came to me. I shall meditate on it.”

She kissed Clive on the mouth and then floated away.

“You two? I never would have called that,” I said. “Hard to believe she’s the same Pudge who could barely sit up at Klosters.”

“Hard to believe you’re the same Bex,” he said, giving me the once-over, then pulling me to the window. “Have you taken in the view yet? Pretty impressive stuff.”

The racecourse was set in countryside as green as my emerald. The crowd hummed with excitement as the bookmakers began taking punters’ money for the day’s races under their colorful umbrellas, and every ten seconds another wonderful, ridiculous hat wandered into view: a bust of David Beckham; a Mad Hatter’s tea party recreated in elaborate clay sculptures, the Cheshire Cat’s tail flicking the wearer’s ear; even a tiny topiary trimmed in the image of Nick’s face. And directly beneath us, a drunk woman was being escorted out under great protest—possibly because
her
hat, while chaste looking at eye level, from above was clearly a graphic depiction of a vagina. In her defense, it
was
Ladies’ Day.

“Amazing,” I said. “I never thought I’d be standing here.”

“Nor did I,” Clive said frankly.

I cast him a sidelong glance. “Yes, I know.”

“How are you doing with all of this?” he asked. “You look smart, but if I know anything about The Firm, it’s that appearances are deceiving when they need to be.”

“Yes, no one ever accused me of being smart by any definition,” I quipped, though his remark needled me. “I’m…so-so. It’s hard without Nick. Marj is throwing stuff at me faster than I can keep up, and every day I find out I’m supposed to have a stance on, like, monograms, or something. And, man, the press is weird—no offense.”

“None taken,
man
,” he said.

“The other day, Xandra Deane said Nick and I are fighting because I want our children to be born in America.” I shook my head. “Nick was at sea, and the last thing I want to discuss when I finally see him is childbirth.”

“Xandra Deane is a professional royals hater,” Clive said. “No one knows why—maybe because vitriol sells papers. But she’s mysterious in general. Loads of people claim they know someone who’s met her, but it’s never a firsthand story.”

“Maybe you can hunt her down,” I said. “Weren’t you applying for stuff at the
Mail
?”

He stiffened. “No takers,” he said. “I missed the two biggest Lyons stories to come out in years, so I lost my momentum. But I’m making my way. Human interest profiles are very enriching. It’s a real way to touch people.”

I saw through him. His recent
Recorder
piece on an ancient male MP, who writes raunchy mysteries under the pseudonym Petunia Cortlandt, had read like Clive found it beneath him after the heady rush of the polo scoop from a year ago, and I think he regretted discarding the supremely socially connected Davinia Cathcart-Hanson before his ascent had been assured. I felt responsible. Bea said I didn’t owe everyone my patronage, but no one taught me the distinction between that and loyalty.

“I’ll talk to Marj,” I said. “I know it’s a delicate balance between being our friend and…”

“…and my career?” Clive supplied. He smiled absently, staring out the window. “It is hard,” he said. “Nick only knows the half of how discreet I’ve been over the years.”

“If it’s Paris you’re alluding to,” I said with a slight edge, “neither of us did anything wrong that night, so maybe I’ll just tell Nick and be done with it.”

“No, Bex. No,” Clive said. “Don’t tell him. My point is only that it’s hard to make it clear to him just how loyal I am, when I can’t do it without…you know.”

“You’ve been great,” I said. “I bet we can work something out.”

Clive lit up, which made me wonder fleetingly if I’d overpromised. I was saved by Gaz and Cilla, with Bea in tow, looking impeccable in blue.

“Incoming,” Cilla breathed.

I glanced past her and saw Lacey heading over from near the elevator, smart in a red suit and a striking black hat, albeit one that looked hastily affixed.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, and I detected a distinct whiff of alcohol on her breath. “I came with Tony’s friends, and they had to make a stop.” She gestured at the small purple button attached to my dress. “Where can I get those little passes for them to come up?”

I froze. Did she really think I could invite random guests? This wasn’t even my party.

“This isn’t a nightclub, Lacey, it’s the Royal Box at Ascot,” our good old Lady Bollocks said, and I shot her a grateful look. “You can’t just have the bouncer lift the rope.”

“Why not?” Lacey asked. “This place is huge, and they’re with me, and I’m with her, and she’s with the heir.” She looped an arm through mine, wobbling in her heels. I wondered what all had been consumed in that limo.

“If you don’t understand, then I am not wasting my breath explaining,” Bea snapped.

Nigel sidled up, white as a sheet. “Er, did you say Tony is coming?” he asked quietly, tugging at his waistcoat. “Bloody hell, I owe him a hundred…never mind. Just tell him to, er, be cool.” He scampered away.

“An excellent demonstration of why your drug runner can’t come up here,” Bea said.

Lacey looked crestfallen. “But I can’t tell them I couldn’t get them in,” she said.

“Why ever not?” Bea said, then glanced down at her racing form as if the subject were closed. “Great Scott, ten-to-one odds on Jolly Roger in the first? He’s a brute. Can’t pass that up.”

Lacey bit her lip. “Shit,” she said, loudly enough that I saw Pansy Larchmont-Kent-Smythe swing around and glare at us. “Fine. But when I get back, I have some news,” she said, steadying herself ever so briefly before leaving.

“It never ends,” Cilla said under her breath.

As I watched Lacey go, my mother and I met eyes across the room. I didn’t want to ruin her day, so I gave her a sprightly thumbs-up, then turned back to my friends and sighed with what amounted to my whole being.

George IV was, by all accounts, a fatuous king and a worse husband, but he had an undeniable knack for pageantry: A lot of the things that are now hallmarks of the monarchy were his initiatives, including the redesign of Buckingham Palace that yielded its current famous façade, at least half the sparkle of its interior, and the Royal Procession at Ascot. The carriage parade begins at Windsor Great Park and winds around onto the racecourse past the grandstand, where a band strikes up “God Save the Queen.” There’s something magical about the rousing, carousing sound of sauced, exultant male and female voices shout-singing that anthem. If I’m around to hear “God Save the King” sung to Nick, I will cry every time. I got misty enough seeing through my binoculars how enthused he was by his first time in the procession with Eleanor. Her famous halting, semicircular wave had over the years become a flick, like she was halfheartedly shooing a gnat, but Nick’s was so hearty he almost banged into Her Majesty’s hat.

“Honey, he’s so handsome,” Mom said, squeezing my arm.

“He’s always been a dish,” agreed Gaz. “Can you imagine Nigel’s ugly mug on our money? If I’m going to make a fat pile of dosh at the track, I want it to be attractive.”

When Nick finally came up the elevator, and I saw him for the first time since January, I practiced my very best Barnes-approved walk and gave him a demure (if tight) hug and a kiss on both cheeks. Eleanor is lucky we didn’t tear into each other like some kind of Animal Planet show.

“Welcome home, sailor,” I said.

“You’ve no idea how good it is to see you,” Nick said, flicking my flag pin, which I’d put on the brim of my hat. “And also agonizing, because there are no hidey-holes in here for acting on these extremely inappropriate thoughts I’m having,
oh, hello
, Gran. Didn’t see you there.”

Eleanor’s face betrayed nothing—a lifetime of living behind a mask means hers very rarely slips, even in private—as she came around and laid an affectionate hand on Nick’s arm.

I curtsied. “Your Majesty. I was just telling Nick that I hope he can give me some insider tips on how to read a racing form.”

Nick shook his head. “I’m useless. I go by the jockey’s colors.”

“And I go by horse names,” Freddie said, joining us. “There’s some revolting nag in the Gold Cup called Dynastic that I hear is a lock to come in last. Know anything about that, Gran?”

The mask dropped and Eleanor all but vibrated with competitive fire. An inveterate horsewoman and Thoroughbred owner, she’d won some hardware over the years, but the Gold Cup—the most prestigious in British distance racing and the first leg of its own Triple Crown—cruelly eluded her. Bookmakers said Dynastic was her best shot at it in twenty years.