In Another Life

Friday morning dawns brilliant and sunny.

In a way, I’m thankful. The sun means that it’s going to be a gorgeous day, one that I’m spending outdoors. But it also means that the day is going to be fine for the trip to Camber Sands. The holiday that I’m not going on anymore, because I bailed out at the last minute to spend time with Harry instead.

My stomach clenches and I roll over, burying my face into my pillow, like I can hide from the fact that I’ve been such an awful mate. God, I cannot believe I bailed out on my friends just to hang out with Harry. I’ve no idea why the girls are still even friends with me. I’d be furious beyond belief if one of them blew us off just to see a boy.

But not just a boy, my mind pipes up. It’s to see a prince, the boy that you have a massive crush on. You can go to the beach anytime you want, but you only get one chance at going to Wimbledon with a red-haired prince.

I still can’t believe that I’ve double-booked. I should have just called Harry back and told him that I couldn’t go. I’d agreed to go out with the girls first, before he’d even invited me, so proper etiquette dictates that I should cancel on the last made plans and continue with my original schedule. Even if it means cancelling on Harry, even if it means turning down the chance to be with him, even if it means ruining whatever slim chance I have at furthering my relationship with him.

But my friends should understand, shouldn’t they? I mean, I’d be upset if one of them did this to me, but I’d do my best to understand if they explained why they were skiving out on our mini-holiday. So they should extend that small courtesy to me, too, right?

And then that annoying voice in the back of my head reminds me that my friends have no idea that I’ve been meeting up with a prince for the past couple of months. I’ve carefully neglected to tell them anything about him, always neatly sidestepping their probing questions and answering in vague, non-committal terms so that they wouldn’t have a definitive picture of the guy that I’m seeing. So because I’ve done such a fantastic job at keeping my special little rendezvous secret, how can I expect them to understand if they’re in the dark?

I sigh as I roll over onto my back and stare up at my ceiling. I know what this means. I have to tell them now. I have to let them in on my little fairytale dream if I can ever expect them to forgive me. I knew that this day was coming, that I’d have to tell them eventually, but that still doesn’t stop my stomach from knotting up with nerves.

Because how absolutely ludicrous is it going to sound to them? I’ve been avoiding making plans with everyone because I’ve been seeing Prince Harry for the past two months. I’ve been receiving invitations to all of these glamorous, high-profile events and I’ve been attending just on the slim chance that I’d catch a glimpse or have a short conversation with Harry.

I’m not obsessed. I’m just exploring my feelings for him. And it’s not like I’m sneaking into all of these places. I’ve been receiving legitimate invitations, I suppose from Harry in his own roundabout way. And I’m not crazy and just imagining all of these things. He’s genuinely interested in me and I-I’m well on my way to reciprocating those feelings.

God, it’s times like these that I wish I had someone to hash these types of things out with and then I curse my brain inwardly. Because I’ve just managed to impress upon myself the mounting need to let my friends in on my secret. I can’t keep all of this bottled up any longer. I have to let them know.

I glance over at the alarm clock on my nightstand table before I roll up into a sitting position and yawn tiredly. My late night had taken quite the toll on my body. I peer into my vanity mirror and I’m appalled to see the state of my eyes and skin—puffy, swollen and red from crying myself to sleep. I’ll need pounds of cover up to make all of that go away.

I move into the bathroom where I take a blisteringly hot shower and scrub away all of the sleep and aches that seem to have settled deep in my bones. And then I move on to brush both my hair and my teeth before I wrap myself up in a towel and move towards my closet.

What am I supposed to wear to Wimbledon? I’ve been to tennis matches before, Griffith played on a league back home for two or three years, and I always showed up in jeans or shorts and no one ever said anything. Granted, a small town team match is much, much different from an event like Wimbledon, but how much different can it really be? I’ve seen it on the telly and the dress code is much more relaxed than the one for polo matches.

Deciding that the casual route was the way to go, I pull out a pair of dark skinny jeans and a striped purple and white tube-top. I could dress it up with a soft silky vest and a pair of beaded sandals. I wriggle my way into the shirt and trousers before I move for my vanity and start to apply my makeup.

I cover up the bags under my eyes with foundation, blending the makeup carefully with my fingertips before I start on my eyes. I do my makeup heavily, opting for the smoky look to enhance my eyes, knowing that they are one of my most striking features. Leaning away from the mirror, I study my profile from every angle before I finally deem myself presentable. I apply soft, raspberry lip-gloss before I move for the bathroom again.

My unruly hair refuses to cooperate for me this morning, despite my best efforts with hairspray and mousse. After a quick glance at the clock and noting the time, I decide to just fall back on the age-old trick of the fashion world: a hat. So I gather all of my hair to the side and quickly pull the misbehaving locks into a rather messy fishtail braid. And then I top it all off with a black knit beanie before I straighten out the stray hair falling out of the hat so that my fringe frames my face attractively.

I have one last stop at my dresser for my jewelry before I slip into my vest and strap on my sandals. And then I pause in front of the mirror on the back of my door and examine myself carefully. I look pretty well put together and I’m proud of myself for not over-analyzing and freaking out over my clothing choice, like I normally do. I actually look and feel like I can pull this off fairly confidently without any major problems. A brief smile darts across my face as I realize that that’s exactly what I say to all of my clients. Clothes really do either make or break your character.

Finally I realize that I have to leave and that I can’t preen myself any longer. So I pick up my bag from the floor and check to make sure that I have Harry’s notes, my mobile, my wallet and my sunnies before I move for the front door and step outside into the brilliant morning sun.



I step out into the bright sunlight and look all around me interestedly. I’ve never been on this side of town before, but I can see why straight away. Immediately across from the underground is a rather expensive wine shop, a beer garden and a pristine looking Indian restaurant. It’d probably cost me a few weeks’ salary just to get a bottle of wine from here.

I take a few hesitating steps forward and then look back down at my phone. I was using the mobile map feature for directions since I was unfamiliar with the area. It was telling me that it would take me nearly 45 minutes to walk the 2.5 kilometers, while a cab would take me only 10 minutes.

I pause, thinking over my options carefully. I’d deliberately taken the tube because it was far less expensive than a cab. And granted, a 10 minute taxi ride wouldn’t be too expensive, but it seemed like such a hassle to get a cab for such a short distance.

I’m just about to head off on foot towards the park when a cab pulls out onto the main road. I smile to myself and then raise my hand to hail it. It’s like a sign for me to just take the car. I can’t ignore that. It’ll be faster for me and I don’t want to be late.

So I slip into the backseat and give him the address before we take off towards my destination. I spend my last few minutes alone checking both my braided hair and my makeup before I root through my bag for Harry’s note and the little laminated piece of paper he’d sent me.

He’d said to wait for a man named George. A part of me wonders idly just how I’m supposed to know who George is exactly, but the rational side of me replies that it can’t be too hard. If two people are looking for each other and are in the same place, we’ll find each other eventually. I hope.

I hand the driver £7 to cover my fare before I step out of the cab and straighten out my top. As I swing my bag up onto my shoulder, I can’t help but be overwhelmed by the sight of the arena in front of me. There are people heading towards the entrance, people lining up and a group of photographers snapping pictures. My stomach dips anxiously as I survey the hordes of people milling about, their voices and laughter loud and carefree. I take a few hesitant steps forward, weaving in and out of the way of pointy elbows and heavy feet before I come to a rather dismal conclusion.

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to find George in all of this. Hopefully Harry arranged for George to be more perceptive than I am, because I’m currently feeling quite lost and a little apprehensive at the idea of being stranded here without any way to get inside.

“Miss Matthews,” A voice sounds from behind me and I turn to see an older man with a badly receding hairline. When I nod, his face lights up in a smile. “My name is George Foster, I’ve been sent here to be your escort this morning.”

“Fantastic,” I reply, warm waves of relief washing over me as I take a step towards him. “I was a bit overwhelmed with the idea of finding you in this massive crowd. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to do it.”

He laughs, taking my elbow up in his arm as he motors us up to the entrance gates. “There was no need to worry. All of the proper arrangements have been made to insure both your safety and comfort.” He flashes a laminated pass at a worker and we’re let inside immediately. George speaks into his fist quietly and it’s only then that I spot his earpiece. “I’m on my way with Miss Matthews.”

There’s a static crackle and I barely make out the ‘roger that’ before a golf cart pulls to a smooth stop in front of us. I’m ushered into the passenger seat and George climbs onto the back before we take off again. We zip through the considerably smaller crowd and I have to wonder just where on earth we’re going exactly. I thought we were going to watch the tennis match.

We stop only a little ways down the open path and George helps me out of the cart before he gestures at the building in front of us. “This is center court,” He explains as he guides us through the entrance way and we immediately take a right. “Your seat is just this way, not too far now to go. I trust that you got here without any problems, Miss Matthews?”

I nod, trying to look everywhere at once and stay focused on the conversation. “Yes. I-I—it was fine, thanks.”

“Excellent, here we are,” George says finally and I peer around him to look at our stopping point.

But as soon as I do, I regret it immediately. He’d led us to an isolated box in center court. There are security guards stationed in all four corners of the box, as well as positioned at both the entrance and the exit. There are even guards standing in the box behind ours, blocking off a whole section so that no one can come near I’m standing.

“Is this the right place?” I ask quietly as George leads me down the narrow concrete steps to the front row.

He nods calmly. “This is the Royal Gallery; it is where members of the Royal Family sit if they should decide to attend Wimbledon. You are to be seated right here, ma’am.” He motions at a green seat right in the middle of the row. “And his Royal Highness will be with you shortly.”

My stomach goes up in knots and I can only manage a shaky nod at him before I slip into the aisle and start to make my way to the designated spot. The seats look comfortable and well-padded and I’m reminded of one of Tad’s friends who’d gone to Wimbledon a few years back complaining about how horrendously uncomfortable it was sitting in the cold, narrow chairs all day. Obviously no expense had been spared on the Royal Family’s seats.

Aside from the security, there are only a few other people in the Royal Family’s box. A couple of men in suits are lounging comfortably with their wives next to them. I can’t help but realize that I’m sorely underdressed, especially when compared with these women. And here, I’d thought I’d done really well dressing myself this morning. I ignore the uncomfortable nerves in my stomach as I slowly sink down into my seat.

I’ve been to tennis matches before and none of them were strictly formalwear. Of course, one couldn’t show up in lounge pants or something, but casual dress had done it. And here I am, dressed in a rather casual outfit and I stick out like a sore thumb. I have half a mind to pull my beanie off and cram it into my bag. But I know that my hair’s an absolute fright underneath the knitwear and I won’t risk ruining the braid I’d spent so long managing.

Time begins to slip by and I watch the opening ceremony with little interest. I feel conspicuous being the only person in the front row and the two rows behind me suspiciously empty. There are even security stationed at each end of the row and two just behind me. I feel like I have to be uncommonly still and proper or something, like I’m on display for everyone to see.

But just as the announcer starts introducing the first match, a bright flash of color catches my eye and I turn in time to see Harry enter the Royal Gallery. Right away, my heart begins to hammer wildly in my chest and I watch him shake hands with a few people before a guard leads him down to the front row.

Our eyes connect and the smile on Harry’s face widens considerably when he sees me sitting on my own. I return his grin with a shy one of my own as he walks towards me and then slips into the spot next to me.

He unbuttons his suit jacket and sighs. “Sorry I’m late. I got waylaid on my way in.”

“That’s fine,” I shake my head, blushing furiously. “I knew you’d show up sooner or later.”

It’s here that he smiles coyly down at me and the blush on my face intensifies. Could I be any more stupid? I probably sound insane and deluded—what kind of girl would wait for nearly an hour on her own for a guy to show up? A desperately pathetic one, that’s who. Not one suitable for being with a member of the Royal Family.

Immediately I stop my train of thought and mentally inhale deeply. Harry and I are not together. He has no interest in a girl like me. I have no reason to ever think of myself as being together with him, which means that I don’t have to worry about anyone judging me for my clothing or my–rather obvious, in my opinion—crush.

I look away and play with the ends of my vest for something to do with my fingers. “I—uh, sorry I’m not more appropriately dressed,” I motion at my outfit, the one I hadn't spent ages deliberating over this morning. “I didn’t know it was a more formal event,” I flush even more brilliantly. “I rather wish I’d gone a more traditional—”

But Harry waves aside my words with a smile on his face. “You look perfect, Bryn. Don’t worry about how you’re dressed. I invited you as my guest and that gives you free reign to dress however you see fit.”

I’m just about to answer him when the two players come out onto the field. They stop just in front of the Royal Gallery and bow in front of Harry, showing him respect as a prince. He smiles and nods at them before they shake hands and walk to their respective side of the net.

“Do you ever get used to that?” I ask suddenly and Harry turns to me, his eyebrows arched questioningly. “The whole…” I make a vague motion with my hands, well aware of just how stupid I sound right now. “The whole prince thing—everyone bowing to you and everything.”

He laughs at this and for a moment, I’m a bit offended. I hadn’t meant my question to be humorous and I was generally curious. He sobers up rather quickly, though his eyes still sparkle mischievously. “You can just say it flat-out, you know? I won’t be offended.”

“Alright then,” I have to bite back my own smile now. “Do you ever get used to having people fall all over each other to help you just because you’re a prince?”

“Honestly, no,” He ducks his head and then looks up at me from beneath his rather shaggy hair. “Who could ever get tired of having people be nice and polite to you? Though I will say that it does make it difficult to tell the genuine people from the… not so genuine.”

“Ah,” I nod, having no troubles imagining just how hard it must be to have fake people fawn all over you. “Well that can’t be too fun,” I say for lack of anything better to say. Inwardly I’m cursing my sudden flare up of nerves and my brain is scrambling to come up with a decent conversation topic.

But Harry decides for me. He smiles easily at me. “So.”

“So,” I mimic him, putting my sandals up on the low ledge in front of us and running my open palms against my skinny jeans.

“Do you know how tennis is played?” He asks, his eyes flickering out to the court where the game is currently happening.

An announcer calls out the current score before the man further away from us throws the ball up in the air and slams it towards his opponent. The ball makes a hollow noise as it impacts with the racket. “Griffith played,” I reply before realizing that he has no idea who that is, so I hasten to explain. “My little brother, that is. It wasn’t anything serious, but I have a faint grasp of what’s going on,” I laugh, looking down at the ground as I listen to his own soft laughter.

“So tell me about your family,” He requests, easing back into his seat and settling himself down comfortably. “I know your mum does charity work sometimes and that you’re from Colchester, but that’s about it.”

I’m touched that he remembered that much of our conversations. I can’t say that I’ve ever dated a guy who’s been so conscientious of my words before—not dated, met. I’ve never met a guy who’s been so aware of my words. I mentally shake myself out of my hormone-induced fog and start to speak.

“Well my parents are still together,” I shrug my shoulders, the ends of my earrings touching my bare skin softly. “I have three younger siblings: Griffith, Cadi and Owi. Mum’s pregnant again,” I widen my eyes and adopt a rather goofy expression. “Which is creepy when I think about it, but I’m excited for them. It’s always fun having a baby around. Uhh, I was born in Wales actually. Mum went home and then I decided to make an appearance early. But I’ve lived in Colchester my whole life until three years ago when I moved to London for uni. I guess that’s it,” I look up at him and my smile is crooked.

He looks interested, studying me closely. When I finish speaking, he grins down at me. “So the picture perfect family, eh?”

I laugh loudly at this and immediately cover my mouth with my hand. “Not hardly. My parents are batty, but I love them dearly. I love all of my family, but we’re really quite painfully normal. There’s nothing, like, amazingly outstanding about them, but they’re—they’re pretty special to me.”

“So you’re close with them,” He says, rather than asks and he sounds pleased. “I like that. It never sits right with me when people aren’t appreciative of family.”

I nod, understanding what he’s trying to say. “I agree. Family is… everything.” There’s a slight pause in our conversation and I hasten to end it. “Tell me about yours? Your family, I mean.” I amend once I see the confusion on his face.

“What do you want to know? You probably know just about everything,” He shifts in his seat and I can detect faint traces of bitterness in his tone.

All I can think about suddenly is the entire fiasco that was the demise of his parents’ marriage. I’ve seen the reruns and the specials; I know how nasty things got between Charles and Diana. And I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like for Harry and William to be in the middle of all of that, to have to continue about on their every day lives knowing what everyone was saying about their family and how their parents had cheated and lied about each other. Suddenly I feel horrible. I’d never even thought about how it affected their children and I can plainly see that even 15 years later, he’s still upset by it.

“Tell me in your own words,” I ask softly, hesitantly reaching across the armrest between us and touching his arm lightly. “Or don’t. You don’t have to; I don’t want you to be uncomfortable or anything. I can fill in the blanks.”

His head comes up and I’m relieved to see the amusement clearly dancing in his eyes. “You can fill in the blanks? What’s that supposed to mean?”

I can’t even begin to hide my own smile and I’m pleased with how I’ve managed to turn his sour mood around. “Let’s see… well, for starters, you were born in the states.”

“Oh, really?” He chuckles, revealing the whites of his teeth.

I nod in earnest. “Of course! In Minnesota, to be exact, in the town of St. Cloud.” I elaborate, thrilling to see how at ease I’ve made him.

“Should I be concerned by the fact that you seem to know so much about the state of Minnesota?” He queries in a playful tone, nudging my arm with his elbow.

I shrug, working hard to hide my smile. He doesn’t need to know that I’ve borrowed all of my information about that particular state from a popular American sitcom. “I just know what I’ve learned about you growing up. It was very cold there, you remember?”

“Of course,” He settles back in his chair, looking thoroughly interested in my outrageous commentary.

I nod and then continue on my mock-biography. “You have at least half a dozen siblings, but nobody knows the real number for sure. Your parents were Catholic, you know, so no birth control.” I joke, my eyes dancing wickedly. “Your father was a potato farmer—”

“A potato farmer?” He interjects, laughing openly now. “You’re not serious.”

I gasp jokingly. “You’re very self conscious about it actually. There’s no need to be embarrassed of your own upbringing,” I end up laughing despite my best efforts.

He shakes his head, though he’s clearly very amused by my joke. “Well then, pray tell how did I get from St. Cloud, Minnesota, to London?”

“You floated across the Atlantic Ocean in a basket and you eventually ended up at Buckingham Palace. The exact details are rather hazy and very hush-hush, but there have been rumors of the Russian mafia’s involvement.”

“Who am I, Moses?!” He has to muffle his laughter with his hand so as not to attract any more attention to our box. We’ve already been horrendously loud and obvious so far. “That is, by far, my favorite version of my life’s story. I think I’ll have to have my official biography updated to tell the truth.”

“Please do. The one you have now is terribly misleading,” I reply, looking completely disgusted with his apparent lack of validity in his life thus far. “Good thing I’m such an amazing detective and I managed to figure out your secret life.” I look up at him, my eyes meeting his own directly.

He nods, before he clears his throat and looks back at me. “Are you hungry? Do you want to get out of here?”

“What about…” I motion at the tennis match currently going on in front of us.

Harry looks back out at the game like he’d completely forgotten that that was the reason we were here today. But then he shrugs and looks back at me, a half-smile stretching his lips out attractively. “They won’t miss us if we pop out for a meal.”

I glance back out at the players before I lean forward and grab my purse and bring it up over my shoulder. “Alright then. Sounds good to me.”