In Another Life

We walk past the security guards without any problems and Harry immediately reaches back and clasps my hand up in his own. Without even hesitating, he turns to the right and starts to lead us towards a cluster of kiosks and stands that are pretty much empty so far. I can’t decide if it’s because it’s a bit early to be having lunch or because the match has just started and people are still content to sit and watch the match.

At any rate, I’m thankful for the lack of a crowd and as Harry starts to slow down, I find myself thinking that perhaps he’s grateful, as well. The smaller the crowds are, the easier it is for us to get around without being spotted and without getting bombarded by overly-enthusiastic fans and press.

“Okay,” Harry smiles at me and squeezes my hand lightly. “So we have our choice of restaurants. We can have a nice sit-down, or we can grab something and go at the aptly named “grab-and-go” stations, or we can do something light at a café… it is entirely up to you. What’re you in the mood for?”

I pause, thinking over our options carefully. Truth be told, I am rather hungry, especially since I’d skipped breakfast this morning in my haste to get up and get out the door without any major catastrophes. But I’m not so sure how safe it is going to be for Harry if we sit out in broad daylight. We’ll be sitting ducks, for lack of a better term.

“Honestly, I don’t care,” I reply truthfully, shrugging my shoulders. “I’m not sure what you’d be more comfortable with—I don’t want anything to happen if we, uh, sit out in plain sight, you know?”

Harry nods, his smile dimming a bit. “It would probably just be easier if we go in somewhere. You don’t mind, do you?” He suddenly looks a bit unsure of himself, like I could really be annoyed by his fame. When I shake my head, he looks relieved and the confidant, sunny smile is back on his face. “Excellent. I think there’s a restaurant right around here,” He peers all around us for a sign. “They have amazing burgers from what I can remember. Of course, the last time I was here was nearly four years ago with Will and they’re always changing the layout, so I can’t remember a damn thing.”

I laugh and tug him forward gently. “There’s a map right here,” I motion towards the large plastic sign mounted on stilts so it would tower above all of the Wimbledon guests. “Do you remember the name of the place?”

“Base-front, base-runner, baseline,” He mumbles, wrinkling his nose adorably. “I think it was baseline. Base something or other, at least.”

I duck my head to hide my amusement as I start to study the map. “Your memory skills astound me.”

“I know,” Harry hums quietly in my ear. “I must have lost a couple thousand important brain cells when I was floating in my basket over the Atlantic Ocean. You know that water’s freezing.”

I hear the amusement in his voice and my own smile deepens happily. “Well I wouldn’t know as I’ve never gone across it in a wicker basket,” I tease back jokingly, thrilled that he didn’t mind my silly stories. “Baseline Restaurant,” I point triumphantly with my free hand and look up at him. “Right?”

“Yes,” Harry agrees enthusiastically, tracing our desired route with his index finger before he pulls us away. “Oh, Will is going to be so sore that he’s missed this. He’s gone on and on about how this is the most delicious burger he’s ever had for years. I’m going to send him a picture message,” He announces suddenly, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

When I start to laugh and he shoots me a rather curious look, I shake my head, trying to stifle my amusement. “You look as though you’re about to plot something horrendously devious or something, not go and eat a burger.”

He looks a bit embarrassed by this and he shrugs his shoulders as he starts to explain himself. “Will and I have this ongoing joke, I guess you would call it, about food and drinks. Whenever we have something that the other really likes, we’ll take a photograph and send it to one another. Like, “are you jealous?” type of thing. It’s silly,” He admits freely, running his hand through his already unruly hair. “But it’s something we’ve done for years.”

“It’s not silly,” I insist, as the sign for Baseline Restaurant comes into view. “It’s cute actually.”

Harry looks down at me and I can’t quite read the expression on his face. “You know, Chels used to think it really immature. Chelsea Davy, my ex,” He ends his sentence rather abruptly, like he wasn’t sure how I’d react to hearing his ex-girlfriend’s name.

Anxious to diffuse the situation, I squeeze his hand carefully. “You know, Griffith and I will randomly text each other lines from The Mighty Boosh.”

“You’re not serious?” Harry laughs as we step through the door of the restaurant.

I start to nod, but the hostess appears out of the dark and starts to gather together a set of menus. “Hello, how’re you—” But then she stops herself once she recognizes Harry and immediately, she dips into a short curtsy. “Your Royal Highness.”

“Two please,” Harry requests, smiling kindly at the girl.

She nods, blinking repeatedly. “Absolutely, right this way, please.” And she scurries off to lead us to the table.

I trail behind Harry quietly, trying not to draw too much attention to myself as the hostess nearly falls over herself in her haste to seat us as soon as possible. I release Harry’s hand and slip onto the bench, while he settles himself down opposite me.

“I’ll have a—uhh, a Guinness Stout, please,” Harry answers her question after consulting the lager menu on the table.

When she turns to me, I reach for the draught card and scan the entries hurriedly. “And I will have a Smithwick’s, please.” I smile at her as she nods and races off to get our drink orders.

“Smithwick’s girl, eh?” Harry questions, his eyes twinkling merrily.

I nod, looking appropriately sheepish. “It’s not too fancy, I know, but it’s one of my favorites—a dirty little secret, if you will.”

“Fair enough,” He concedes, handing me a menu and opening up his own easily. “So you were telling me about your Mighty Boosh conversations with Griffith?”

I nod, glancing up from my menu to see him studying his own, though I can tell that he’s still listening to me. “Before I moved to London, during the summer holidays, we used to stay up so late watching episodes of that show and it was, like, a bonding time, I guess, for us. He’s in that surly teenager stage, so it’s nice to have something to connect with him on.”

“How old is he?” Harry asks as the hostess appears with our beers. She sets them on the coasters and disappears with a curtsy after Harry thanks her.

“16,” I answer, stopping on the burger section of my menu. I quickly scan the sections until I start to deliberate between a regular hamburger and a cheeseburger. “So he’s rather unbearable at times, but he’s growing into his own rather nicely, I think.”

“I don’t ever remember Will being that awful, or myself for that matter.” Harry muses thoughtfully, closing his menu and resting his head against the wooden back of the bench comfortably. “Of course I was the perfect child,” He jokes, nudging me lightly under the table with the tip of his shoe.

I shake my head and close my own menu before I reply. “Oh, of course. And the devil horns are only there to hold the halo up properly, are they?”

His eyes glitter as he laughs and I start to feel my heart hammer wildly against my ribs. God, has he any idea just how adorable he is when he does that? “Yeah, of course. You know it’s made out of solid gold and I can’t ruin my hair,” He glances up at his unruly fringe and then shrugs his shoulders. “My perfectly tufted ginger locks,” He scoffs jokingly.

“Oh, so you’re not deaf to all of the girls’ ovaries exploding over your bright hair?” I arch an eyebrow up at him as I reach for my beer. “Because you’ve not had people freaking out over your hair since birth, right?”

“Right,” He nods, biting down on his lower lip before he speaks. “You know I’ve always thought it rather silly. It’s just hair. It’d be like someone seeing you for the first time and freaking out because you’ve brown eyes or something equally daft.”

“I imagine it gets old,” I murmur, licking the froth off of my lips quickly before I set my mug back on the table and center it on my coaster out of nerves. “Rather quickly, I’d think.”

He shrugs his shoulders before he looks back up at me. “It does, but we’re not here to talk about that. Tell me some more about you—what’re you in uni for?”

“I’m an art theory major,” I reply, looking away from his gaze. I always get a bit embarrassed when I tell people my future career plans. Art theory majors always seem to have the reputation of being flighty and irresponsible and I like to think that I’m quite the opposite of that stereotype.

Before Harry gets a chance to reply, a man appears at the end of our table and performs an overly elaborate bow in the prince’s direction before he begins to speak in a heavily accented voice. “Welcome to Baseline Restaurant, we’re very honored to have His Royal Highness and his guest,” He nods at me. “With us today. My name is Anthony and I am the manager of the restaurant. Have you decided on your meals yet?”

“Uhh,” Harry looks over at me and I nod my head. “Yeah, we’re ready to order. I’ll have a cheeseburger, please, with bacon and a side of chips.”

“And for you, madame?” Anthony turns to me and I nearly start to laugh at the intensely serious look on his face.

But I hide my amusement behind my menu as I answer. “I’ll just have a hamburger, please. Can I get that with no onion, please?” When he nods his answer, I fold my menu closed and hand it to him. “And an order of chips on the side, if you don’t mind.”

The waiter bows away with many thanks and promises of a prompt and speedy delivery before silence settles back down on the table. I don’t make contact with Harry, afraid that I’d begin to laugh at the manager’s overly enthusiastic advances, so I fidget with my beer coaster, sliding it back and forth on the dark, polished surface of our table. I watch the golden liquid slosh around in the glass, focusing on the foam and the bubbles welling up from the bottom.

Suddenly Harry’s fingers creep up along the edge of my coaster, effectively stopping my nervous shuffling, and I’m forced to look up at him. He’s smiling, a wide, loose grin that reaches his eyes and he retracts his hand only when I start to grin back at him.

“So why an art theory major? I mean, what do you want to do with that? Forgive me, I’m terribly clueless about the major in general. I’ve no idea what it would qualify you to do,” He speaks easily, one arm thrown carelessly across the back of his bench and the other hand resting on the table. He’s drawing meaningless shapes on the smooth tabletop with the tips of his fingers, seemingly unaware of his actions.

“Well,” I reach up and tuck some stray hair back behind my ear—a nervous habit that I’ve always seem to do since childhood. “I’ve always enjoyed working with children and I’ve always loved art. I was one of those kids who took all of the art courses in school and spent all of her free time either sketching or painting or whatever,” I admit with a tiny smile on my face.

“I did too,” Harry announces, the dimple in his cheek appearing as he laughs. “But only because I was so thick at my studies. I found the art classroom a thousand times less stressful than the classroom, so I stuck there whenever athletics failed me.”

I shake my head, the feathered sides of my earrings brushing the skin on my cheek softly. “So you were the brainy type then?”

The look that Harry shoots me from across the table is blatantly sarcastic. “Oh yes, my teachers absolutely adored me—more like the comic relief, if anything. But go on then, you’ve always been into art...”

“Well yeah,” I nod, picking up my glass and taking another small sip. “So I told my advisor that I wanted to work with art and children and she told me that an art theory major would be perfect for me. When I graduate, I’ll be qualified to work with kids to help them through their therapy. I’d work with children who are in therapy to heal themselves in some way.”

“Does that work?” Harry asks as the manager appears with our meals in hand. He thanks him quietly and Anthony disappears with another exaggerated bow from the waist. “I mean, using art to help the children?”

I nod, an unabashedly excited smile lighting up my face. “Yes! Studies show that children who have art incorporated into their therapy show signs of progress sooner. Art is very therapeutic, and if I can help one kid feel better about themselves by showing them that they can express themselves through a drawing or a painting, then it’ll all be worth it for me.”

Harry nods, reaching for the ketchup and adding a generous dollop to his burger. “You’re really enthusiastic about it,” He observes thoughtfully before sliding the glass condiment bottle over to me.

I shake a bit out onto my own plate before I return the ketchup to the center of the table. “I know, it’s—it’s something I’ve always been interested in.”

“Any particular reason?” He asks around a bite of his burger.

I take a moment to savor his little lapse in table manners. I’d been feeling so uncommonly out of place here at the table with him, afraid that I’d do something wrong or use the wrong utensil or something. And here he was, talking to me through a mouthful of beef like I was just one of his mates. It showed me a distinctly human side of Harry that I’d not yet seen before, and that comforted me greatly.

I pause in the middle of cutting my hamburger in half and then nod slowly. “Actually, yes, there is a reason. My mum’s brother died when she was young. He, uh, he just didn’t wake up one day and I saw how that affected her—how it still affects her today. And it used to make me so mad that there was such a lack of help back then for grieving children, so I wanted to do my share to help hurting children out.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your uncle,” Harry says straight away, looking quite serious. “But that’s a lovely reason for you to go into art theory and therapy. It’s very selfless.”

I color at his words and drop his gaze, staring at the chip on the side of my plate. “I’ve been blabbering on and on about my life for ages now. I got way too personal, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Don’t apologize,” He interrupts me, nudging me softly with his shoe under the table and smiling when I tense up at his touch. “It was nice.”

I shake my head to clear my flyaway hair away from my face before I speak again. “So what about you? What do you want to do?”

He smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and shrugs his shoulders. “I’m rather stuck, don’t you think? I’ll end up working either in the military or for the crown. I don’t get much leeway for my future, tradition and all that.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?” I ask before I can stop myself. Immediately I flush and focus on thoroughly dipping my fry in my ketchup. “I mean, like, having to do that because it’s what’s expected of you? Didn’t you ever want to be an astronaut or a-a lawyer or something?”

Harry sets his half-eaten burger down on his plate and wipes his hands as he speaks. “You know, it used to bother me when I was younger, but then I realized just how lucky I am to be who I am. I have so many advantages and opportunities because of Dad, and I really like helping Gran out—the crown, I mean.” He amends his sentence hurriedly. “And I like being a captain in the army. It’s exciting and an adrenaline rush or whatever.”

There’s a bit of a silence following his words that I spend carefully digesting his explanation. I can definitely see where he’s coming from, but at the same time the thought of never having the freedom to do whatever I’d like with my life is a frightening, daunting prospect. I’ve no idea how he came to peace with these terms—I would certainly struggle with the limited conditions.

“So humor me,” I swallow my bite of burger before I speak. When his eyes flicker up to meet my own, I continue on. “What would you do if you weren’t royal?”

Harry laughs, looking thoughtful as he mulls over my question. “Is party-boy an acceptable career?” He laughs again at the unimpressed look on my face. “Okay, okay. Honestly, I’d more than likely end up doing something in the military, or something to do with sports.”

“So boring,” I chide, draining the last of my beer and pushing my nearly empty plate away. “You could be anything in the world and you go with an athlete.”

“Well what else would you have me be?” He queries, finishing off his own drink. “I’d really actually enjoy being a dolphin trainer now that I think about it.”

“Have you been swimming with dolphins?” I ask, a sudden awe slipping over me. I’ve always wanted to do that, ever since I saw it on an American TV show one time. I wanted to be that typical tourist who feeds the fish and they do a trick for me and I ride on their backs.

He bursts out laughing, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he sniggers at my reaction. I feel a bit let down as I crumble up my napkin and throw it at his face. “I have not been swimming with dolphins, but now I actually wish I had been. The look on your face—”

“Hush,” I command, though I’m grinning as well. “I believed you and everything.”

Anthony appears presently with a little black leather folder that I recognize as the bill. Harry glances over and then looks back at me. “Are you ready to go watch some tennis, since, you know, it’s why we’re here and all.”

“You make it sound like it’s terribly boring,” I retort as I fish through my purse for my wallet.

Harry touches my shoulder lightly and I look up in time to see him hand the folder back to Anthony and extend his hand towards me. “Don’t worry about the meal, Bryn.”

“But Harry,” I begin, that uncomfortable feeling welling up deep in my stomach. I hate having other people pay for me. It makes me feel like I’m obligated to pay them back or something. “You didn’t have to—”

“But I wanted to,” He dismisses it lightly before I reluctantly stow my wallet away and accept his outstretched hand. He tugs me gently to my feet and I straighten out my top before he speaks again. “So how well do you know the players here today?”



The racket cracking against the ball makes a loud noise, one that echoes throughout the court as the players move up and down. The player sprints to the right and stretches his body out to incredible lengths before returning the serve to his opponent.

I’m at the edge of my seat, my head swiveling back and forth as I watch them send the ball back and forth across the net repeatedly. This is way more interesting than any of the other tennis matches that I’d been to before now. Honestly, Griffith and his team barely got two or three serves in before someone either missed or the ball went out of bounds. But these players are phenomenal, slamming the ball back and forth with incredible strength and speed.

“Oh,” I inhale deeply as the American nearly misses his serve. This was Chris Evans, as Harry had kindly explained to me, and he was the favorite to win this year. Seeing as I had no clue about any of the players or the official rules or whatnot, I’d opted to just root for whomever Harry said was the better player.

Harry chuckles quietly at my nerves, his attention focused entirely on the match, as well. He’d spent the better part of the first half explaining the game to me thoroughly and then he gave me a brief synopsis of the players before we fell into a comfortable silence watching the game.

A worker had appeared at one point and given us complimentary strawberries and cream (which is apparently a big Wimbledon tradition that I had no idea about), which Harry and I shared contentedly. But now the last of the sweet treat is lying forgotten in a bowl in my lap as we’re both completely sucked in and absorbed in the match.

The American grunts as he sends the ball back over the net and his British opponent sends it back before the American slams the ball with incredible force. It sails over the net and the other player is reaching for it, jumping off the ground and straining—and then the ball bounces out of bounds.

The announcer calling the match is drowned out by the noise from the crowd and once we realize just what’s happened, both Harry and I jump up out of our seats, shouting and clapping. Laughter springs to my lips easily as I notice just how silly we both look, celebrating over the American’s victory, but at this point, I don’t think either one of us cares.

Harry shouts one last time, clapping loudly before he turns to me, an exhilarated smile stretching his lips upwards in a brilliant, sunny look. “God, that was a fantastic match. I’ve forgotten just how intense these games get. Did you enjoy it?” He asks, beaming down at me.

I nod, smiling myself. “I did actually. It was really interesting and we both know my propensity to zone out when it comes to sports.”

He makes a face at my words as he sinks back down onto his chair and sighs heavily. “I never would have figured you to be a closet tennis fan, as well.”

“Well you know me,” I joke, sitting back down. “Sports are my life.” And then I look down at the ground and start to laugh. “Oh shit,” I mumble, leaning forward and picking up the overturned bowl on the ground.

In my excitement to celebrate the match properly, I’d stood up without even thinking about the strawberries and now the remains of our dessert are dashed against the ground.

Harry starts to chuckle. “I was going to eat that, too!”

“I’m sorry,” I bite down on my bottom lip to keep my laughter from getting any louder. “I wasn’t paying attention; I was so focused on the game.” I peer into the bowl and hold it up to him. “There’s a tiny bit of cream left inside if you’d like.”

“At least you saved that much for me,” Harry pouts, crossing his arms childishly. And then he untangles himself and turns around, as if looking for something. As if on cue, a Wimbledon worker materializes and curtsies neatly in front of him. “Would you mind fetching us some strawberries and cream, please?”

The girl nods and curtsies again before she disappears. I’m a bit thrown by this. Do they just wait for him to ask for something and then do whatever it takes to fulfill his demands? I don’t have much time to ponder this, because the girl returns with another serving and hands it to Harry, averting her eyes to the ground.

He thanks her heartily before he hands the bowl to me and shoots me a mock-stern look. “See that you don’t dump these on the floor the next time you get excited. I don’t know how many free helpings I can get us with my royal title.”

I flush at his words as I take the bowl from him and set it carefully in my lap. But then I take a strawberry and dip it lavishly in the cream before I offer it to the prince sitting next to me, my hand cupped carefully underneath to avoid drips. I hold it out to him, grasping the berry by the stem, and waiting for him to make a move, any move.

Slowly, slowly he leans forward and I have to work desperately hard to suppress the shiver that races down my spine as his lips brush against the tips of my fingers as he takes the fruit up between his teeth.