The Thrill Is Gone

Their days in Torquay passed quietly. They kept to themselves for the most part, staying tucked away in the cottage where they lost themselves in their passions, and sometimes wandering out to the garden to bask in the warm summer light as they messed about in the bounce house or as Paulina fixed them a meal out on the grill.

There were, of course, a few times when they ventured into town, though in the four days they were there, they only went down thrice. The first was to pick up fresh fish, because Harry had mentioned that he’d very much like to taste the local catch. And despite Paulina’s hatred for all things seafood, she accompanied him to the local fish market, stood beside him as he picked out which ones he wanted to take home, and then when they got back to the cottage, she’d prepared him a delicious meal whose recipe she had looked up online. She’d hated cooking the damn fish. The smell disgusted her, the texture made her skin crawl, and she honestly felt so nauseous that she swore she was going to throw up, but thankfully for her, she didn’t. And when she set down the plate in front of Harry’s seat, and saw his face light up, she couldn’t help but think that it’d all been worth it just to see him smile like that.

The second time was to go explore the beach near sundown. It was the perfect time to go, since most of the visitors had gone off to dinner or to wash up before a night out on the town. It was, for the first half hour at least, just them and the paparazzi that was a comfortable distance away, but then word spread that Prince Harry and his girlfriend were there, and people started pouring in, looking to take pictures from afar and others to just plainly observe them. Not wanting to put a damper on their outing, Paulina didn’t tell Harry how much she hated being made a spectacle of, but Harry picked up on it, the twinkle in her eyes had all but vanished and he knew that it was the spectators to blame. So they packed it up, and went back to the cottage where they’d have a bit of privacy.

The third time, and the most embarrassing, was when they went to stock up on condoms. The boxes that Harry had brought along with him only lasted two and a half days. And after trying (and failing) to convince Paulina that her birth control shot made condoms obsolete, the pair of them drove down to the local pharmacy, and picked up several boxes. Paulina was grateful that the storeowner refused to let the paparazzi in, but there was something incredibly mortifying about having a woman in her late fifties, charge them for the three boxes of condoms. She felt as if it were her mother or one of her aunts putting the condoms inside the brown paper bag. Harry, on the other hand, didn’t think anything of it. According to him, there was nothing to be embarrassed about, they were practicing overly safe sex, and even old people had to be alright with that.

On the fourth day of their being in Torquay, the pair went into cleaning overload. Well, it was more along the lines of Paulina going into cleaning overload, and taking a break to scold Harry into taking out the trash and tidying up the backyard with Alistair and Kamal. Harry had tried to help out by cleaning the inside of the cottage with her, but Paulina grew so frustrated by his snail pace, that she sent him outside so to keep him out of her way.

It took a little longer than Paulina had anticipated, but when they finished tidying up; they piled into the backseat of the awaiting vehicle, and were then driven off to London Heathrow Airport where they boarded an overnight flight to Botswana.

Paulina was awake for most of the twelve hour flight. She was excited to travel to the African continent, but was also nervous. She’d never been there before so she didn’t quite what to expect. How would the weather be? Would the food agree with her or would her stomach go through an adjustment phase like it did when she first arrived in England? She desperately hoped the food would sit well with her. The last thing she wanted was to get ill during their trip abroad, especially since they’d be sharing a bathroom.

It wasn’t until they finally landed at Sir Seretse Khama International Airport in Gaborone, Botswana, that she snapped out of those thoughts. And with sleep filled eyes, she followed Harry off the plane, through immigration and customs, and then into their awaiting car. There wasn’t much press there, only a handful of photographers, but Paulina had a feeling that as the week wore on, more would arrive. There had been ten photographers stationed outside the property in Torquay at any given time, so it was only natural to assume that there would be that many in Botswana. They were probably just on their way, maybe they’d had to make two stops to get to Botswana, instead of the one that Harry and she had to make.

From the airport, they were driven to a river delta where a houseboat awaited them. She’d been under the impression that they’d be spending their week at a hotel, maybe camp out in the wilderness somewhere, and go on a safari, but apparently none of that was going to happen. They were going to spend an entire week on the houseboat, floating down a river delta.

Despite her hesitations, she followed him aboard. Boats weren’t something she was fond of. In fact, the last time she was on one, she ended up puking. It wasn’t one of her best moments, and the memory was very much present in her mind as they were given a tour of the premises, but she did her best to remind herself that they were in calm waters. There wouldn’t be any harsh waves, just peaceful floating, and after mentally repeating that to herself, she eventually comfortable aboard, and even traveled up to the second floor of the houseboat with Harry.

They were silent for the first few minutes, just sitting next to each other, pressed against the railing with their bare feet dangling off the edge, but then Harry, without even turning to face her, broke the silence.

“Don’t ya think it’d be nice if it could always be like this?” he asked, his voice faraway and dreamlike. “Just quiet, and peaceful, no cameras lurking about . . .”

“I’d be happy just without the cameras.” She closed her eyes, relishing in the warm breeze that caressed her face. “It feels like forever since we’ve been able to just go out without having cameras following us around. Like, I know it’s only been a few months, but it feels like way longer since I’ve seen you in that wig and sideburns.”

“I hated that bloody thing,” he said, chuckling slightly as he spoke. “It was so bloody uncomfortable, and the sideburns felt . . . they felt off, but now I’m actually missing them. Well not them exactly, but the fact that no one knew who I was, and left us alone.” He paused. “Maybe I’ll pick up a blonde wig, start sporting it around to confuse the fucking sods.”

“Please don’t,” she fought back her laughter.

He turned to look at her, a little smile playing across his lips. “Why? What do ya have against blondes?”

“Nothing against them, I just think you’d look really funky. Like, you as a brunette was hot, you as a ginger, very sexy, but a blonde . . . hmmm, it just wouldn’t do it for me.”

“How much ya wanna bet I can turn you on as a blonde? I’ll do the chores around your flat if I can’t get you bothered.”

“No offense, but if you did my chores, I’d be double bothered. I’d be sexless and have a dirty flat.”

“Oi!” he exclaimed. “I'm not that awful when it comes to tidying up.”

“Uh, yeah, you actually are.” She giggled. “You take forever whenever you’re trying to do something, and then you get frustrated and start cursing. And don’t say you don’t, because I’ve been there when your ass does that.”

“Hmm, well then what should we bet?” he asked.

“How about . . .” she pursed her lips, thinking of what they could wager. “I got it! How about, if you can’t turn me on, then you’ll have to wear a Man U jersey in public, and if you end up being sexy as a blonde, then I’ll wear an Arsenal jersey in public.”

“I'm game for the Man U jersey in public, but I don’t reckon you ought to wear yours in public.”

“And why’s that?” She raised her brow at him, suspicious as to what else he was going to say.

“Because I don’t think you ought to be wearing trousers with it.”

“Henry!” she exclaimed, cheeks flooding with color. She knew there was no point in blushing; there was nothing on either of them that they hadn’t already seen, but she still blushed.

“What’d I say that was off? All I'm saying is that if I win, I’d like ya to only wear my Arsenal jersey while you cook.”

“So now I have to cook?”

“Well, it’s only right, I mean if it’ll be such a challenge for me to turn you on a blonde, then the reward should be fitting.”

She shook her head, smiling slightly as she did so. “You’re ridiculous.”

“That a yes, then?” he asked, placing his head on her shoulder and peering up at her face. “Oh come on, love, ya know you want to say yes.”

“Fine,” she replied. “But on one condition.”

“Name it.” He looked up at her, expectantly.

“You can’t get your blonde wig on until after our vacation. I happen to want to look at that gingery head of yours.”

“Do you?” he smiled smugly.

“Don’t act so pleased with yourself,” she told him, flicking the top of his head to get him to move. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I'm gonna go make us some dinner.”

“There’s a chef for that,” he informed her.

She arched her brow. “You got a chef onboard?”

“Well, yeah, I don’t want you cooking.”

She shot him a look.

“It’s not that I don’t like your cooking. You know I do. It’s my favorite. Well, one of my favorites. Fucking hell, I'm just digging myself into this deeper. Aren’t I?” he rubbed the back of his neck. “What I'm trying to say is that I figured that since it’s a vacation and all, ya shouldn’t be bothered with the cooking. You already cooked for us in Torquay, so you know, sit back and let someone else have a go at it for us.” He paused. “But if you’d rather be in the kitchen then out here with me, well I can’t very well stop you. Can I?”

“I wouldn’t rather be in the kitchen, you overdramatic ginger,” she said with a smile, and then leant towards him to peck his lips lovingly. “But I would rather be lying out on that blanket sitting over there. What do you say? Maybe we can do some tanning now that there’s practically no sunning.”

Harry feigned offense. “I’ll have you know I can tan at any hour.”

“It’s not called tanning if you turn right red,” she teased as she stood up. “Come on,” she said, holding her hand out to his. “Get your ass up, güerito.”

“One of these days, the press is gonna catch wind that you call me güerito and make a story out of it.” With his free hand, he brushed off his shorts and then started walking over to the blanket. “They’re gonna make it seem like my Latin lover’s trying to Mexican-ize me.” He knew how much she hated being referred to as his Latin lover, and sure enough, her nose crinkled in annoyance.

“Ugh don’t call me that. I fucking hate it when they say I'm your Latin lover. It’s like, really? Is that as creative as they can fucking get?”

“Tabloids are run by a bunch of stupid wankers.” He let go of her hand and lay down on the blanket, then patted on the empty spot beside him. “S’alright though, they’re talking shit, and we’re out here.”

She snuggled into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Want to know what they call you in Mexico?”

“Hmm, what do they call me?”

“El Principe Canelo, which translates to the cinnamon prince, but over there people call people with ginger hair canelo’s, so you’re the ginger prince.” She chuckled. “They’re as uncreative as the press over here.”

“I reckon it’s not so bad.”

“It’s not?” Paulina arched her brow at him.

“You know how I am with hearing you speak Spanish. I don’t even pay attention to what you’re saying. I just like how it sounds. You could call me the Prince of the wankers if ya like just so long as ya say it in Spanish.”

“Do you really want me to call you that?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “No, just call me the other thing though, the cinnamon prince thing. And say it slow, yeah?” he smiled brightly at her, making her let out a short laugh.

“El Principe Canelo,” she said slowly, and placed a kiss at the base of his neck. “Mi Principe Canelo . . .” she moved her lips away from his neck and peered up at him, her eyes shining in happiness. “I think that’s enough stroking your ego for today.”

At her words, a devilish smirk played across his lips.

“Shit!” she cursed, blushing at her words. “Poor word choice, fucking horrible word choice . . .”

“I reckon that must have been a Freudian slip.” He said, smugly. “You’re subconscious is in the mood to stroke my –”

“One more word and you’ll be stroking yourself for the rest of the trip,” she threatened, playfully.

He gasped, pretending to be hurt. “Don’t ya know you can’t be mean to me? I'm the birthday boy.” He pouted. “Honestly, Paulin, it’s a crime to be cruel to someone during their birthday celebrations.”

“Is it?”

He nodded.

“Well,” she brushed some of his ginger hair from his face, “I guess, since it’s a crime to upset the birthday boy, I’ll have to retract my former statement.”

“Brilliant.” He beamed at her. “So . . .”

“Don’t even think you’ll be getting stroked out here,” she said, knowing very well that that was where he’d planned on taking the conversation.

“Get your mind out of the gutter. I wasn’t gonna say that!” he argued, though the mischievous twinkle in his mind stated otherwise.

“Then what were you gonna say?” she questioned, maneuvering herself to that her head rested on the crook of his neck while her left arm was draped across his chest.

“I was . . . I . . . you know what? I don’t have to dignify that with an answer. You rudely interrupted me, and made me lose my train of thought.”

“Your train of thought was revolving around stroking.”

“Not just stroking,” he blurted out before he realized what he’s said.

She laughed into his chest, the vibrations from her body moving into his. “What am I gonna do with you, Harry?”

“You’ll love me, of course, because I'm so bloody handsome. And you’ll scold me, because I’ve a way of being a bit of a wanker, and maybe, if you like, you can do me the honor of accompanying me to Lesotho.” He glanced down, interested in seeing her reaction. “Would you like that? To go to Lesotho, I mean. I know I said we’d spend our days here in Botswana, but Lesotho’s not far, and it’d be brilliant to show you the offices and . . . never mind, that probably sounds boring.”

“It doesn’t sound boring,” she reassured. “I’d love to go to Lesotho. But I was just wondering if I could get into the country. Do you know their policy on visas? Because I know there are some countries I can get into with just my American passport, but what if they require a visa and I can’t get in?”

“Hmm, well, I know people from the UK don’t need a visa. I'm not quite sure if that’s true for Americans as well, but even if it isn’t. There won’t be any trouble with getting you into the country. I’ll just call Prince Seeiso and have him sort things out for us.”

Early the next morning, Harry phoned Prince Seeiso, and inquired as to whether Paulina would necessitate a visa to get into the country. Seeiso explained that American citizens didn’t need a visa, they just had to show their passport to gain entry into Lesotho. Pleased with the response, Harry thanked Seeiso for his time and told him that as soon as Harry got back to London, they had to grab dinner, since Seeiso was currently in the United Kingdom on business.

With that sorted out, Harry planned on taking Paulina to Lesotho on the fifth day of their African vacation. They would visit one of the schools involved in the Herd Boy Education Program, and then drive over to one of the orphanages that the charity helped fund and support. It would be a busy day that would end with them retiring to a hotel in the capital city of Maseru. And Harry hoped that Paulina would be taken by the children and Lesotho itself. They were very important to him, his dearest endeavor, and having her truly appreciate that about him would further strengthen their relationship.

And so, on their fifth day of traveling on the houseboat, they disembarked and piled back into the car which then drove them back to the airport. There, they caught a flight to Maseru, and when they landed in Lesotho, they climbed into the backseat of the Land Rover Defender, and were then on their way to visit with the boys of the education program.

Paulina was nervous during the drive over, but almost as soon as they walked into the school, her nerves vanished. She lost herself in their smiles, in the curious twinkle in their eyes. They were friendly children that made her feel like she was part of their family, and their energy, their presence made her heart swell with joy. They told her about what they were learning in the classroom, about what they were being taught in relation to growing their own produce to learn how to be self sufficient, and then they went out for lunch, and after eating, they played.

As much as she loved the children and the beautiful landscape, they weren’t her favorite part of their visit to Lesotho. Her favorite part was seeing Harry so engaged in his work. The way he spoke to the teachers to check on how the students were getting on made her chest well with pride, but what really did it for her, what made her feel like she was in a dream, was when she saw Harry start playing and running around with the kids. She’s always known that he was very fond of children, that he loved playing sports and games with them, but she’d never seen that in person, and seeing him running around with a four year old sitting on his shoulders made her ovaries quiver.

She’d seen him in his roles as a brother, a son, a lover, a boyfriend, a prince, but she’d never seen him in such a paternal role. He was magnificent, and as she watched him interact with the children, she fell deeper in love.