In Another Life

“Ten more minutes,” I whine into my pillow, though I’m quite alone in my bedroom. I fling my right arm out and my palm slams against the table with a sharp crack. Slowly I inch my way across the nightstand until I feel the familiar cool face of my alarm clock. And then my fingers climb to the top before I push the snooze button. “Ten more minutes,” I mumble again, my eyes already drifting shut.

Normally I’m not so difficult about getting out of bed. But last night I had been up late studying for my art history final, the one that I’m due to take at 11:30 this morning. Originally, I’d gone to bed at a decent hour. I was curled up and just beginning to doze off to the steady hum of my fan, but somewhere in the flimsy realm between sleep and consciousness, I realized that I couldn’t remember the name of the person who is considered the greatest American artist of the 1800’s. So I leapt out of bed and studied until nearly 5 AM.

It’s not like I didn’t know it. I did, I just had to revise a bit. I’m feeling fairly confident about my exam today. I just have to take this test and I am free for the summer. Two whole months, eight uninterrupted glorious weeks of freedom and I intend to take full advantage of it. I’ll spend my first weekend at the beach with the girls, but the following week is going to be spent in Essex with my family. I’m so looking forward to lazing around and chatting with Mum and just generally being irresponsible and stress-free.

The alarm clock starts to beep again and I pout into my blanket before I roll over and hit the snooze button once more. Ten more minutes won’t harm me. It’s not like I’m in any rush to leave—it’s only just after 9 and I don’t have to leave until quarter to 10.

I snuggle back down into my warm cocoon of blankets and sigh contentedly. I should really just get up and be done with it. It’ll be like a bandage, right? Rip it off and then it’s done. That’s all I have to do. Just get up, shuffle into the bathroom and have a wash and then I’ll feel as good as new.

At any rate, as soon as I’m done with my testing, I can come back home and curl back up into bed. It’s not like I have any other plans for the rest of the evening. I had fully intended on crashing in bed after my strenuous week of finals and then gorging myself on ice cream and pizza, because I deserve it.

The alarm goes off yet again and I grumble under my breath, but reach out and hit the off button. It’s time to get up. I can do this. I’ll go start to brew a pot of coffee and by the time I’m out of the bath, it’ll be ready for me. And then I can enjoy it on my way to the tube.

God, I need to top off my oyster card. I forgot to do that last week. I’ll have to remember to ask Tad for a few extra pounds so I can renew my pass. Wait, do I even have my card? I thought I gave it to Liv since she lost hers and couldn’t be bothered to queue in the ticket line. No, she gave it back to me at Gilberts. I remember now.

I yawn and stretch at the same time, my hands running into the wall behind me as I slowly start to wake up. I sit up and scratch at my head, well aware of how crazy my hair most likely looks right now. A quick peer at the mirror on my vanity proves me correct and I wince at the kinks and knots that had formed overnight.

Wrinkling my nose, I rub at my bleary eyes and glance over at my alarm clock. And then my heart skips an entire beat. It’s 9:32. 9:32 as in I have to leave my house in 15 minutes in order to make it to school to take my final on time.

“Fuck,” I screech, throwing back the blankets and running into my bathroom. Hurriedly, I scrub my face clean and brush my teeth before I run my brush through my hair. I rush back into my bedroom and pull on the first clothes I find that aren’t dirty and match before I leap to my vanity and start to apply my makeup.

The entire time I’m moving, all I can think about is how disastrous it would be if I got locked out of my exam. Professor Astor was known all around campus for being anal about time and he’d made it common knowledge that the doors to his classroom will lock promptly at 11:30 on exam day. Those who couldn’t be on time, he said, didn’t deserve to take his final or pass his class.

I pull my hair back in a loose ponytail before I slip my feet into sandals and grab my bag. I toss in my mobile, double check to make sure that I do have my oyster card, tuck both my text and my revision cards into my oversized bag and I move towards my front door.

I fling it open, temporarily blinded by the bright light and then nearly collide with someone. “Oh,” I inhale sharply. “Sorry.”

My postman, a lanky, blonde older man, smiles at me and holds up a stack of mail. “Begging your pardon, I was just about to drop this off in your mail slot, ma’am.”

“It’s fine,” I smile at him and extend my hand. “I’ll just take those from you, thanks.”

He tips his hat at me and says goodbye before he moves on to my neighbor’s house. I lock up my flat behind me before I start on my way towards the tube station at a brisk pace. As I move, I pull out my mobile and glance at the time. 9:53, only eight minutes late. Not bad.

I slow down as I realize that I will make it to class in plenty of time to beat the locking doors. My heart, it seems, has just resumed normal operations and as I walk, I realize how nice of a day it is out here. It’s not too hot, for it’s far too early yet. And I know that later on today, on my way home, I’ll be annoyed with the heat and the humidity. But for right now, I enjoy the warm sunshine and my journey to the tube.

It takes me only a few moments to swipe my card and find an empty seat on the carriage. I settle down, my mail in my lap and my bag on the seat next to me. I glance down at my pile of post and notice that the first letter on top is addressed to me in familiar curly writing.

I rip the envelope open and pull out a stiff cardboard invitation. Immediately, a huge smile lights up my face and I have to laugh. My Aunt Shellie is already throwing Mum a baby shower. Here it is, the end of June, and Mum is only 12 or 13 weeks gone. She’s not due until December. Most likely Aunt Shellie is just throwing the party as a chance for all of us to get together and celebrate and I know that there will be plenty of other baby showers thrown for Mum in the coming months.

I make a mental note to RSVP to Aunt Shellie as soon as I get off the tube and get reception on my phone. Neither she or Mum would forgive me if I missed this.

I spend the rest of my tube ride brushing up on a few last minute facts and by the time the Goodge Street station is called, I am more than ready for this exam. I slip off the tube and make my way back into the open air before I pull out my mobile and send off an SMS to Mum telling her that I’d be at her baby shower.

“Bryn!”

I turn in time to see Hannah, a pleasantly plump girl in my art history course, coming towards me. “Hannah, how are you?”

“Stressing out about this exam,” She answers honestly. “I was up nearly the whole night cramming for it. I feel absolutely awful, like it’s all gone out of my mind.”

I pull a sympathetic face. “You know the material. Don’t stress out about it. Take your time and do your best. God, I sound like my mum.” I laugh as a pang of homesickness sweeps over me.

“Yeah, you do,” She agrees good-naturedly. “But I guess it must be true if everyone says it, right? Those old clichés, I mean.”

“Yes,” I nod as our building comes into view. “So you will be just fine. Plus, Astor likes you. Just put your mobile number at the end of the exam and you’ll be sure to get top marks.” I dodge her playful swat, laughing merrily at the outraged look on her face. “I was only kidding.”

Hannah laughs along with me as she pulls open the heavy oak door of Swift Hall. “Actually it’s not a half-bad idea. I’m sorely tempted to try it.”

“Can you imagine how terrifying it would be to receive a phone call from him at, like, 11 at night?” I ask as we start to climb the stairs to the second floor. We both think of our 80-year-old professor and try to imagine him being romantic and loving before we both shudder collectively. “That was an awful mental image.”

“Yeah,” Hannah chimes in from behind me. “Thanks for pointing it out right as we’re walking into his class.”

I smile cheerfully over my shoulder at her. “No problem, any time.”

We enter the pretty vacant classroom and find our seats. Hannah pulls out her notes to study the last fifteen minutes before the test, but I make myself comfortable in my chair and pull out my stack of mail instead. I have done all of the studying that I can stand and I know that if I even attempt to look at my history text one more time, I’ll just end up confusing myself.

So instead, I’ll amuse myself by sorting through my post and waiting patiently for the exam to be distributed. I slide the few bills back into my bag, along with a magazine that I fully intend on devouring as soon as I get home—perhaps while soaking in a bubble bath—before I crumble up a few pieces of junk mail.

The last letter in my stack is a rich creamy envelope with unfamiliar writing on the front. I go over the loose letters and the sprawling text closely, as if I could recognize the writer by just the words, before I toss away the trash mail.

I return to my seat and flip open the light envelope and slit the back open with my index finger. Peering inside, I find that there are only two slips of paper inside. One is a shiny plastic bit and the other is a handwritten note with more of the foreign writing on it.

I pull out the note first and spread it open on my desk before I begin to read. As soon as I read the greeting, my stomach explodes in a bundle of butterflies and my heart leaps up into my chest. Slyly, I peer to my right to see if Hannah’s noticed my sudden change in demeanor. But she’s far too busy pouring over a text on American art to notice me.

So I slowly uncover the letter again and start from the beginning, willing myself to slow down so that I can savor each and every word. With some annoyance, I realize that my hands are trembling and the paper is being quite loud, so I place the note on the desk, inhale deeply and try again.

‘To a secret polo fan:
We haven’t got any polo matches coming up, but maybe you’re also a closet tennis fan. I’m hoping you are, because I’d like to see you again. Join me at opening day for Wimbledon. I still need to even up our score, don’t think I have forgotten it.
-H.’

And below that lovely swirly ‘H’ is his mobile number. My heart pounds in my throat as the realization that I have the phone number of a prince comes over me. I have a prince’s number. I can theoretically call a prince any time I wanted. I have a member of the Royal Family’s mobile number. No big deal.

I suddenly feel a bit lightheaded at this realization. I have Prince Harry’s phone number. Right here, in his own scratchy handwriting. Does he really expect me to call him? I can’t even begin to imagine dialing those digits and waiting for him to pick up.

God, what if he has an assistant or something and I have to leave a message with them? How does one go about dictating that? Do I call him Harry or Sir or Your Royal Highness? Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll pick up—

As soon as I think that, I realize that I’m rather hoping that he won’t pick up. Knowing me, I’ll stammer and fidget my way through an awkward conversation and as soon as we hang up, he’ll immediately regret his decision to invite me to Wimbledon.

Wimbledon! Jesus Christ. Tad watches that every year on the telly and this year, this year I’ll be watching it live from a seat in the audience. Of course, provided that all goes well and according to plan. I’m gripped with the sudden mental image of the camera panning across the audience and Tad pausing the live broadcast to see if he can spot me and Mum shrieking and taking pictures of my blurry face to send out to everyone she knows.

“I’m going to make a phone call,” I announce unnecessarily to Hannah before I grab my mobile and the piece of paper. I hurry outside and step off the pathway and onto the grass, so I can give myself some sort of privacy to make my call.

Inhaling deeply, I tap in his eleven digits carefully, checking and double checking to make sure that they’re correct, before I exhale heavily and hit call. As I bring my phone to my ear and fold the note up into a tiny square, I desperately work to keep what little bit of courage I’ve managed to sum up. I wish that I could hang up right now, but I know that my number will already have shown up on his missed call list and that I’d just look crazy for not leaving a message or anything.

I slip his note into my pocket just as the ringing stops and his voicemail kicks on. I listen to his deep, rolling voice with a tiny smile on my face before I hear the telltale beep in my ear. “H-hi, uhm, it’s Bryn…I, uh, I got your note in the mail today and it was really sweet of you to invite me. I-I, uh, I’d be delighted to go with you. It sounds like loads of fun,” I realize that my Essex accent is starting to slip out and that my words are getting thicker by the second and I curse my upbringing inwardly before I continue. “And, and I’m really looking forward to it. I can’t wait.” Above my head, the clock tower chimes 30 past the hour and I remember my final. “I have to go now, I’m on campus and I have to take an exam in, like, 30 seconds. Uh, wish me luck and I will speak with you soon hopefully.” I say softly before I disconnect.

For a second I stand completely still in the grass, biting down on my lower lip and wondering how exactly I’ve managed to get through that without embarrassing myself too badly. But then I remember Professor Astor, so I hurry back inside and slip into the room just as he begins to shut the door.

“So nice of you to join us, Miss Matthews,” He says dryly, raising his thick eyebrows up at me.

I smile and return to my seat, setting my phone on silent and placing it back in my bag. The excited, girlish grin on my face doesn’t dim as the exams are administered and Professor Astor gives a few last minute instructions in his thin, reedy voice. Finally, he gives his consent to begin and I fill out the cover page with my name, the date and the class info. And then I flip open the packet to look at the first question before all traces of Harry leave my mind completely for the next 2 hours.



He called me back while I was having my soak in a bubble bath a few hours later. I missed the call as I was busy reading my magazine and listening to the radio while I pampered myself. A part of me was sorely disappointed that I missed his return call, for I longed to speak with him again, but I was still glad that I had missed it at the same time. I’d need time to prepare myself for speaking with him, to make sure that I don’t embarrass myself.

He had left a warm, friendly message for me with the details of the game. Opening day was planned for the 20th of June, only two days from now. The beginning ceremonies were due to start at 1 o’clock, so he suggested that I arrive at about noon in order to get through security and everything. I was to look for a man named George outside of the arena, he was one of the security guards and he would escort me to my seat.

I had listened to his message twice just so I could hear him say my name. It was cute the way he said it, all soft and warm in his comfortable tone. I liked the way it sounded coming from him and on my own, I experimentally tried running both of our names together.

Harry and Bryn. Bryn and Harry.

It had brought such a huge smile to my face and I remained in a good mood all the way to Amanda’s apartment. She had texted me that we were having drinks to celebrate our newfound freedom and that I was to join them at 7 promptly.

So I rode the tube with my head in the clouds and floated the rest of the way to her home, thinking of what I’m going to wear and how excited I am to finally be able to see him again. I hardly realize that I’m already at Amanda’s house. In fact, I very nearly walk right by, but I stop in time to save myself from strolling down the street, completely lost in my daydream.

I push open her front door and shut it behind me quietly. “Hello?”

“We’re in here!” Amanda’s voice rings out and I follow it to the kitchen where Amanda’s rummaging through her cupboards and Raina is seated at the small dining table, a beer in front of her and a bowl of salty crisps in front of her. “Hi,” Amanda calls over her shoulder.

“Hey,” I reply, putting my bag on the counter so it’ll be out of the way before I grab a beer from the fridge and join Raina at the table. “What’s going on?”

“Happy summer, bitch!” Jeanette shrieks, appearing in the doorway. “I have brought loads of booze so we can properly celebrate,” She pushes it all up on the counter and then begins loading it into the fridge. “I plan to get so hammered tonight—I want to start this holiday off properly.”

“You shouldn’t drink that much,” Amanda chides, peeking into our friend’s purchases. “You’ll be a miserable twat all the way to Camber Sands and I am not sitting next to you while you bitch and moan about your head aching and your stomach being upset.”

“I will not,” Jeanette replies, giving Amanda the sternest glare she can muster. “I promise to be a perfect angel in the car.”

Even Raina snorts in disbelief as she reaches forward and grabs a chip. “I, for one, cannot wait to leave Friday. Three whole days at the beach. I intend to spend as much time lying in the sand as possible; I’m dreadfully pale,” She finishes up, peering down at her white shoulders concernedly.

At the mention of Friday, a heavy stone settles in my stomach. “Friday?” I ask slowly, trying not to panic. “As in Friday, the 20th?” But even as I’m speaking, I know that it’s the right date and I know that I’ve just made a huge, horrible mistake.

Jeanette looks over at me, a queer look on her face. “Yeah, we’re going to spend the weekend at the beach, remember? We’ve only been obsessing over it for the past two weeks.”

“Oh no,” I lean forward and cup my face in my hands. My mind is scrambling as I try to understand how I’ve somehow managed to agree to going on holiday with my best friends and to go out with Harry on the same day. How could I have forgotten that? “Oh shit.”

There’s a short silence in the kitchen before Amanda touches my shoulder lightly. “Are you alright, Bry?”

I shake my head miserably, looking up at her. “I-I—I don’t think so. I can’t go on Friday. I made plans.”

“No, Bryn. No,” Jeanette begins, her entire face dropping. I already feel horrendous and the look in her eyes makes me feel a hundred times worse. “You can’t bail out on us! We’ve been planning this for ages.”

“I have this… this thing,” I say quickly, motioning with my hands. “And I can’t back out of it. I already committed—”

“You already committed to us!” Jeanette interrupts me, crossing her arms over her chest. “And now you’re going to ditch us?!”

“Jeanette,” Amanda begins in her quiet voice. “It’s okay. Bryn, is it for the internship? Because that’s fine if it is, we’ll just leave later in the day, after your interview. We know how important the Gallery is to you.”

I shake my head miserably. “No, it’s not the internship. It’s this thing for-for someone. I-I have to go to it, there’s a ticket in my name and if I back out now, I’ll lose…” I trail off, unsure of how to finish my sentence. I’ll lose Harry? I’ll look dodgy if I call him up and say I can’t go now. Maybe he’d think I wasn’t interested and I don’t want that. I am interested. I am. “I’ll lose this networking opportunity,” I finish lamely. “And I can’t do that.”

“Is this for your precious Olivia?” Jeanette spits out her words like they’re vile poison. “Because I am sick and tired if you blowing us off for that spoiled—”

“Name one time I’ve ever blown you off for Liv,” I reply in a tight voice, the strange stirrings of anger flaring up inside. She knows how important family is to me, how far I’d go to defend them. “And this isn’t for Liv, so don’t you bring her into this. Jeanette, calm down. You’re blowing this out of proportion. You can still go to the beach without me.” I point out in a vain attempt to diffuse the tension in the room.

She throws her hands up in the air. “That’s not the point! We were all supposed to go together, because that’s what best friends do. They take holidays together and hang out and have fun. And now you don’t want to go because you would rather network instead.” She flings the last half of her sentence at me challengingly.

And I rise up to the occasion and take the bait. My temper has always been a bit of a sore point with me. It takes a lot to anger me, but once I’m provoked, I erupt completely. “I would not rather network then be with you, Jeanette. This is really important to me, so I wish you’d just accept that I’m going to do it and support me. I’m not keeping you from your beach vacation and you know that if I hadn’t accidentally committed to this, I’d be just as excited as you are to be going. But I did and I’m sorry, but I can’t change that. So grow up and stop acting like a whiny little git. Christ, you are infuriating.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I cringe and I’m showered with regret. “Shit Jeanette, I’m sorry—”

“Yeah,” She says quietly, her eyes dull and full of hurt. “Me too,” She turns on her heel and leaves the room.

“Jeanette,” I call out, standing up and making to go after her. But Amanda lays a hand on my arm and I look at her questioningly.

She doesn’t look too thrilled with me either and I feel like I’m only five centimeters tall. When someone is disappointed in you, it hurts a lot more than if they’re furious with you. “I’ll go talk to her,” She says, already halfway out of the room.

I listen to the front door open and shut before I turn to Raina. She’s still sitting at the kitchen table, but she’s studying me closely with an unreadable look on her face. Great, I’ve managed to upset her as well. And now everyone hates me.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, wrapping my arms around my waist in a tight hug. “I didn’t mean to ruin it. Tonight or this weekend. I really want to go.”

She gets up from her chair and rounds the table before she envelopes me in a tight, warm hug. I lean into her happily and bury my face in her shoulder. “It’s okay, Bry. I know you’re only doing this because you have to. That’s the only reason I know you’d back out of the trip last minute.”

I don’t say anything, only wrap my arms around her and squeeze gently. Because suddenly I feel really, really awful. What would she think if she knew that I was skipping our holiday to hang out with Harry instead?

I’m such an awful friend.