Black Sheep

Weeks went by, months even, until Harry got in touch. And even then it was cut short, as I had an interview to get to. We’d talked about a charity night that we were both attending, so we said we’ll talk there. I got into the shower, and got ready at my apartment, pulling on my ball gown last, as to not get make up or hair spray on it. I locked my apartment door and out the keys into my clutch bag. I took the lift – I didn’t want to ruin the dress on the stairs that hundreds of people’s feet had trampled on. After all my agency had hired the dress as a start of a new image (that I thought I didn’t need), and had cost them over £500 just for one night. It was beautiful – I felt like a princess. A proper princess, not the kind that slept for 100 years, or was locked in a tower until her prince rescued her. It was a silvery-grey colour with sequins and crystals around the bust. They let me borrow some other things as well, but only on one condition – that I didn’t drink. Now normally I would’ve told them where to stuff it, but for a change I decided to be on my best behaviour. I was going to be talking to Harry again. That was my main goal of the night – to have a proper conversation with Harry. Now for a girl like me who grew up in a small working-class industrial town, with no private education, and no lord or ladyship to my name, the chance to be in the same room as prince Harry would be a fine thing, but that night I was to be meeting him, at a charity night, and were planning to talk, as we didn’t get the chance to before. In the long lift ride down to the car (sent by Maria of course) I had to pinch myself at least ten times, just to make sure this was still happening. The lift took an abrupt stop on the ground floor, and I exited into the carpeted foyer I knew so well. I headed out of the door, but stopped as the doorman (his name was Donald, I later learned) smiled at me.
“You look beautiful tonight miss,” this was the first time I’d ever hear him speak – usually I didn’t get the chance to.
“Thank you,” I smiled back. The car was already outside the flats. I climbed into it and waved slightly at Donald, who chuckled noticeably to himself.

I arrived onto a sky blue carpet – the colours that represented the children’s charity. Of course there were paparazzi trying to get a picture, and I stopped with some people I worked with, at the sun, for an interview. I tried to keep a straight face, but it seemed strange being on the other side of the barrier.
“So you’ve been working closely with Prince Harry, we understand.”
“Yes, I’ve been making a small documentary about his charity, Sentebale, and I’m hoping to fly out to Lesoto in the coming weeks to film some more.” I answered the questions quickly, and headed into the building. Two waiters stood on either side of the door with trays, one of champagne and one of orange juice. I took a glass of orange juice and smiled my thanks. I looked into the ball room, with a large chandelier that hung above the dance floor and round elegant tables laden with expensive china tableware and silver cutlery. I looked at the board which had the seating plan and schedule of the night. I was sat on a table next to Harry, so we could speak, but also on the table were some of the award winners from the charity.

“So are you a princess?” One of the little girls asked me while everyone else took their places.
“No, I just write for newspapers and magazines.”
“I see. I would like to write in newspapers one day, I think.”
“Well it’s a very exciting job. You get to meet lots of people.”
“It’s lovely speaking to you, I’m Anna,” she said holding her hand out, I shook it and smiled.
“And I’m Becca. It’s a pleasure meeting you.” We both giggled. All the other children took their seats round the tables, and were talking between each other. I felt a small tap on my arm.
“Do you know whose seat that is?” One of the other girls on the table said.
“It’s for the other special guest we have on our table,”
“And who’s that?” I bent down to whisper.
“Prince Harry,” Anna’s face lit up. The girls on the table smiled and started gibbering.
“Will we have to curtsey?” one of the girls asked.
“I don’t think so,” I smiled at them. But nonetheless they proceeded to ‘practice’ their curtseying.