In Another Life

“Harry?” Amanda repeats in a puzzled tone. “Did you just say Harry?”

“No,” I answer immediately and then pause, realizing just how ridiculous I sound. “Well yes, I-I did say Harry. But you wouldn’t know him. It’s-it’s no big deal,” I try to be casual as I stuff the slip of paper back in the envelope, but my voice has gone all high and tinny and I know I’m not fooling anyone.

“You’re certainly acting like it is,” Jeanette points out. “What’s in that letter?”

I fold the envelope squarely in half and then shrug. “I just—a few months back, I went into a shop to buy some equipment for Griffith, because apparently polo is coming back into style back home and I-I signed up for a polo newsletter because it gave me a discount. So I get mail occasionally,” I offer up my friends a feeble smile. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Jeanette’s face suddenly blossoms into a sunny smile. “You totally have a crush on this Harry character! Oh Bryn, you’re so see-through.”

“You’re insane,” Raina agrees softly, turning around and heading towards her seat in her favorite armchair. “Like we wouldn’t be able to tell by that ferocious blush you’re sporting in your cheeks. Is he the clerk who suckered you into signing up for the newsletter?”

It all comes into crystal clear focus for me at this point. As I look into the hopeful eyes of all of my best friends, I find myself nodding slowly. And I cannot tell you why the lie bubbles to the surface so easily. I’m not sure why I can’t just open my mouth and announce that it’s not a clerk and that it has nothing to do with buying polo equipment for my little brother.

It’s about a prince, one of the most powerful and influential men in our country, and I think he’s interested in me. Why else would I be getting invites to all of these outrageously social events? Especially when I was a nobody just a few short months ago and now, now I have socialites asking for my number.

Maybe I’m embarrassed to tell my friends because I don’t want to jinx things. It sounds ludicrous, doesn’t it? I bumped into a prince at a polo match and now everything’s falling into place. He’s going out of his way to get me invited places and I’m just a nobody, a simple girl from Essex with barely any money to my name. I can hardly afford to attend all of these events—my wardrobe isn’t glamorous enough to allow that.

How long before everyone realizes I’m an imposter? That I’m not as rich or as well-connected as I think they think I am. How soon before all of this slips out of my grasp and vanishes completely?

“Yeah, that’s Harry,” I answer quietly. “He’s just that… boy from that polo thing.” I look up and catch Amanda studying me closely, so I turn to Jeanette for a distraction. “I’m going to use the restroom and then we can start the show, yeah?”

Jeanette nods and begins to talk to Amanda about getting the last of our junk food together. I turn on my heel and enter my bedroom before I close the door behind me and lean up against the cool wood, a deep sigh welling up in my throat.

Slowly I push off of the door and move towards my bed in slow motion. My laptop is lying open on my comforter. I can only assume that one of the girls used it while I was out at my interview. But at this point, I really don’t care.

My knees are shaking as I sink down onto my mattress and I inhale deeply before I unfold the envelope and take out the piece of paper that I hadn’t been able to read before in the presence of my friends. For some reason, I am unbelievably nervous and I am keenly aware of the way my hands are shaking.

I read over the words carefully, my eyes tracing each individual letter and word slowly. As if I could make a mistake reading over the short typed blurb. But I cannot believe exactly what my brain is telling me. I cannot understand why.

Disappointment drops into my stomach like a rock and I can’t stop the frustration that sweeps over me.

It’s only a stupid invitation to another polo match. Here, I’d gone on and on, thinking that it was something monumental and personal from Harry himself. Of course I was being stupid and foolish. Why on earth would he take time out of his monumental, aristocratic life to bother with me?

I crumble the paper up in my hands and throw it into the waste bin next to my desk. My eyes are smarting and I shake my head sternly, heavily kneading my eye sockets with the palms of my hands. All of this romantic nonsense needs to leave me alone. I have better things to concentrate and focus on, rather than waiting on a prince to come sweep me off my feet.

In the next room, I can hear my friends laughing about something and I latch onto the familiar sound hungrily. This is what I need to be absorbed with: my friends, my family and my school work. There is absolutely no place in my life for a boy, royal or not.

Rising to my feet, I plaster a smile on my face and start for the door, already preparing myself for the evening that lay ahead of us. Plenty of laughter and gossip and food as we celebrate my minor accomplishment in the art world.

But as I reach out to grasp the door knob, snatches of a previous conversation come to mind and this suffices to stop me straight in my tracks. The more rational part of my brain is shouting for me to just open the door and rejoin my friends. But there is still that one bit that is pestering for me to turn around and get the scrap of paper back out.

He’d said that we’d have to meet up again. So that we could decide who’d won that silly points game that he’d started. Maybe this is his way of getting us together again?

It had been a joke. Nothing more. I’m reading into this way too much. I probably only got the invitation because I’ve been showing up at polo matches recently and they figured I like the game.

But what if it hadn’t been a joke? What if he really did want me to show up and I don’t? Will he be waiting for me for the entire game or will he just give up on me entirely? And then what if he never bothers with me again? I’d lose any chance—

Before I go any further, I stop myself. It’s not like I really had any chance to begin with. I really need to stop getting my hopes up so high, because I’m going to end up hurt. And then I’ll be angry with myself for allowing myself to get so emotionally invested in such an improbable unrequited romance.

But don’t I deserve the chance to love, too? Just as much as any other person, I expect. And if Harry’s brother, William, found love with a “commoner”, doesn’t that mean Harry can, too? That means that this isn’t that insane of a daydream. What if I’m that girl for him? What if I’m his Kate?

Before I can talk myself out of it any further, I whirl around and retrieve the wadded up bit of paper and smooth it out with my fingers before I tuck it safely up on my desk. I give the swirly words one last look over before I turn around to finally rejoin my friends.

Besides, I think I’m actually starting to like polo.



“This should be it,” I announce, leaning forward to peer out my window. The cab driver brakes accordingly and I look down at my wrinkled invite for the hundredth time. “Petersham Road?”

The cab driver, an older grubby man, gives me an unimpressed look in the rearview mirror. “That’s what the GPS says.”

Perhaps had I not been so nervous I would have had a snappish reply ready to fire off because of his surly attitude, but as luck would have it (for him, anyway), my anxiety has rendered me essentially speechless at this point.

So instead, I nod and wait patiently for the line of cars ahead of us to move. Slowly but surely, we make our way forward and the closer the taxi gets, the more I realize just how stupid this idea of mine is turning out to be so far.

I’m by myself at a swanky private polo club. I’m about to walk into a room full of people that I don’t know—people so fabulously wealthy with the kind of riches that people like me only dream of privately—and I somehow have to manage to spend the next several hours in their presence without embarrassing myself or Olivia.

She’d murder me if I somehow managed to tarnish what little credibility she’s built up since the beginning of her marriage to Philip.

A burst of laughter bubbles up in my throat and I hastily cough to cover it up. I can only imagine the look of absolute fury on my cousin’s face if I screwed this up. On the bright side, she has no idea that I’m here, so it’d be a while before she ever heard about my faux pas. At least I’d have time to think of a good cover story.

“That’ll be £39.30.”

I jump, a bit startled by the interruption, before I begin to dig through my bag for some money. “Here you go,” I hand him two 20 pound notes before I open the door and step out onto the sidewalk.

There’s a gentle breeze going and the wind plays with the hem of my skirt mischievously. Absentmindedly, I trail my hand across the soft filmy material as I gaze about me, curiosity temporarily making me forget my manners.

The clubhouse is an overwhelmingly large affair with towering white pillars and dramatic sweeping staircases. There are large bay windows that I know Mum would die for and through the glass, I can see several glittering crystal chandeliers.

Even the people strolling into the mansion are fabulous. There are men here in morning suits and women in grand dresses that are worth more than my entire year’s paycheck—I should know, I’ve sold my fair share of these gowns at work. Suddenly, my flimsy £35 dress doesn’t seem as gorgeous or chic as I’d thought it to be back home.

Maybe they’ll think it’s vintage if I wear it with enough confidence. That’s the key, isn’t it? It’s what I always tell my customers: don’t let the clothes wear you; wear the clothes.

So I take a deep breath and then start to make my way up to the entrance. I wander into the front hall and then hesitate on the threshold. Will anyone be able to tell that I am completely out of my element here?

“Welcome to the HAM Polo Club, ma’am.” A waiter dressed in an impeccable black suit bows stiffly at the waist. “Are you in need of any assistance in finding your seat?”

“Yes please,” I reply in a quiet voice, completely in awe. When was the last time I’d been referred to as ma’am? “Um, shall I show you my invitation thing or—“

“That will not be necessary,” He smiles, revealing blindingly white teeth. “Just your name shall suffice.”

“Bryn,” I say meekly, feeling rather small. “Bryn Matthews.”

After consulting with a list, he returns with another smile. “Right this way, Miss Matthews. You have the undeniable pleasure of viewing this afternoon’s polo match from the premier suites. These are our largest and most exquisite lounging areas for our patrons who request the utmost privacy. There are waiters who will cater to your every need so that you may never have to leave your seating area.”

As his words wash over me, I start to feel a bit lightheaded. Premier suites? Personal waiters? Utmost privacy? Who does he think I am? He must have me confused with someone else. I don’t care if I’m seated outside with everyone else. In fact, I’d prefer it. These suites are probably chock full of stuffy businessmen who’ll spend the whole time smoking cigars and drinking aged brandy that cost six month’s salary for me.

At the thought of money, the queasiness sets in. How am I supposed to pay for this? I brought money for my cab ride home and a little bit extra, but I won’t be able to afford any of this. I’ll have to call Olivia to bring me some money. I thought that all of this was free—that’s how the other matches worked. I don’t ever remember having to pay for anything.

“Here we are,” He announces, opening a door. “Your waiter shall be with you presently; his name is Edward. The match begins at 1 o’clock sharp. Is there anything else that I can get for you before I leave you, Miss Matthews?”

Somehow I manage to shake my head and stammer out an appropriate response, because he bows once again and then exits the room. I take a few hesitant steps forward, a bit daunted by the room’s very atmosphere. Even the chairs look expensive.

Carefully, I gingerly ease myself onto a velvet-covered seat in the corner of the box and set my bag in my lap. I’m all alone in the suite so far and I wing a silent prayer to whoever’s listening that maybe it’ll stay this way the entire game.

But as my luck would have it, the door opens and a few rowdy men enter the room, flutes of champagne in their grasps and loud conversation already flowing. They seat themselves haphazardly, making themselves comfortable on the settees while their girlfriends (or wives?) settle themselves primly in the available seats.

For the longest 20 minutes of my life, I remain invisible up against the back wall and I am thankful that I learned to blend into crowds during primary school. Because I’d never be able to handle the way their conversation seems to revolve around a recent group outing and some poor girl’s drunken antics with one of the blonde guys in the front row.

But thankfully, the game begins and the boys settle down enough to watch the match. It’s a bit like magic actually, as soon as the first pitch is done, the girls disappear completely. I’ve no idea where they went and a tiny part of me wishes I did know, so that I could have followed them. But then I realize that it’d be a bit weird if a complete stranger was found just tagging along with their group.

So I resign myself to the next few hours on my own. The first half of the match passes by rather slowly. Without someone else’s company, I’m forced to pay attention to the game itself and much to my surprise, I find that I know more about polo then I thought I did. Maybe I’d soaked up some knowledge via osmosis in the last couple of weeks.

The halftime break begins and the room slowly empties until I’m the only one left once again. I exhale deeply, an audible sigh of relief, before I start to rummage through my bag for my mobile. I need to call a cab to take me home. Obviously showing up here was stupid and I’ve just wasted a perfectly good afternoon.

I tap at the screen of my phone impatiently and groan a bit in frustration at my lack of bars. I tuck my purse under my arm as I stand up and move towards the glass that looks out onto the pitch. I hold my mobile up, hoping to get better coverage. But nothing happens, much to my chagrin, so I open up an SMS message and start to text Raina, asking her to call me a cab.

Which means that I’ll have to give her my address and that means I’ll have to explain why I’m willingly at some posh country club watching a polo match between two teams I’ve never even heard of before in my life. Bollocks.

“Your Royal Highness.”

Immediately I stop as I hear a familiar voice coming from the entrance of the room. “Thank you.” There’s the sound of the door closing softly and the sound of the people outside the suite disappears entirely. I remain frozen in front of the glass and later, I’ll be able to recall just how pinched and terrified my face looks in the reflection and I'll laugh. But right now, I am absolutely paralyzed with both nerves and fear. “I knew you were a closet polo fan.”

Slowly I turn around, my heart hammering wildly in my chest, and the tiny guarded smile on my face bursts into a full-out grin once I see Harry standing next to me, his hands shoved into his pockets. “Your Royal Highness,” I answer softly, bending my knees in a graceful curtsy. “You remembered,” I reply before I can stop myself, before I can realize my brash breach of etiquette.

But if Harry realizes my mistake, he makes no mention of it. “Of course I did. We’re tied, remember? I can’t let you win. And I can’t make it to the next polo match, so I decided that we’d settle the dispute here today.”

“So you’re competitive then?” I remark as he sinks down into a seat and gazes up at me. I don’t hesitate in slipping into the open seat next to him as I wait for his reply.

“Is it that obvious?” He quirks an eyebrow at me, his eyes twinkling merrily. “I can’t just let a girl win.”

“Because that would tarnish your good name, right? And also because I would lord it over you every chance I got,” I tease, laughing a bit and ducking my head once I realize he’s laughing too.

He makes a rolling motion with his hand. “Something like that. I have to uphold the family name and everything. I can’t let you besmirch my titles and whatnot.”

I laugh openly now. “And who said chivalry was dead?”

“I’m your knight in shining armor,” He says quite seriously once he catches my eyes. But the twitching in his lips give him away and he smiles at me, lighting up his entire face. “Or your army captain in a helicopter, whichever you prefer.”

“I would think a helicopter would be more exciting,” I muse thoughtfully, biting down on my lower lip. Inwardly, I’m quite thankful that I’d applied a fresh coat of lip gloss just as the halftime break began. “I mean, you could ride horses any day. It’s not often that… a helicopter presents itself to you.”

“The next time I’m in at Buckingham Palace, I’ll be sure to borrow the Royal Helicopter and I’ll stop by your place, shall I? We can grab some dinner or something,” Harry’s tone of voice is joking, but his eyes seem quite serious.

For a split second, I’m rather unsure if this is his roundabout way of asking me out on a date. Or maybe I’m just reading far too much into all of this. But I know that, either way, I would very much like it if Harry showed up on my doorstep, helicopter or not.

“It sounds like an amazing idea,” I answer, breaking our eye contact to look at my skirt. I’m afraid that my cheeks are betraying me, because I can feel the heated blush creeping up my neck. But I toss my head, shaking my fringe out of my eyes. “I’ll hold you to it.”

“I would be delighted,” Harry begins, but a shrill whistle interrupts his words and he stops speaking abruptly.

We both turn towards the glass confusedly. Much to my horror, the second half of the game has begun and I’m screaming at the players in my head. Couldn’t they have just given me 5 more minutes of time with Harry before they interrupted?

Harry stands and I scurry to follow his lead, brushing out the wrinkles in my skirt quickly. He turns and looks down at me, his face unusually somber and pensive. I keep his gaze steady, wondering what is going through his mind right now.

But before I can ask, the door to the suite opens and the boys from earlier start to troop back in. They come to a rather unceremonious halt once they realize that there is royalty in their box and then they practically elbow each other in the stomach as they all scramble to bow at once.

A quick glance up at Harry reveals that he’s fighting back laughter at their unorthodox entrance before he turns to me and flashes me a brilliant smile. But then he nods his head at me and I take this as a dismissal, so I curtsy once again, well aware of how rigid and uncomfortable the atmosphere has become.

Harry glances back at the men, who all quickly pretend to be absorbed in something else, before he takes my hand and leans in. His lips brush my ear and I can’t help the full-body shiver that sweeps over me. “I’ll see you soon, Bryn.”

And then he lets go and nods at everyone else before he leaves the room. A few curious stares are cast at me, but I keep my eyes trained on the ground as I make my way back to my seat. I look at the door once, as if I’d be able to see through it and catch a glimpse of Harry again, before I allow the brilliant smile that’s been bursting to explode onto my face free.

But that’s before his words register in my mind. He’ll see me soon? What does that mean?