The Thrill Is Gone

Saying that she wouldn’t think about what others expected from her, was a simple enough statement to make. It was easy to tell herself that she’d only consider what she wanted for herself, what she wanted from life, but when it came time to actually sitting down and thinking things through, it was hard not to bring into the equation what her parents would want for her, what Harry would want for them. She couldn’t contemplate things without ending up thinking of someone else. It couldn’t be helped though. They were her loved ones, they were important parts of her life, and they deserved to be factored into her decision, but try as she did, she couldn’t imagine a scenario in which everyone would be happy, she couldn’t come to a decision as to whether or not Harvard or Oxford would become her home for the next three years.

All she wanted was to make the right decision. She wanted to be able to know that she did what was best, not only for her, but for all her loved ones. Because what good would it do if she was living in a state of perpetual bliss, while her loved ones were miserable? Others perhaps, could be alright with such a thing, but not her. She wanted them to be happy. She, herself, wanted more than anything to just be happy. But what could she do? How could she ensure such a thing? She obsessed over finding answers to such questions, whenever she was alone, she’d fixate on it. She didn’t even really watch the teli or read anymore, she just made lists, because lists helped, they’d always helped. They were how she decided all the toughest choices in her life, but as of late, the lists that had once been so useful, so essential to her decision making, had been failing in their duties to her.

It didn’t matter how many times she wrote out all the pros and cons, it didn’t matter if one program had loads more pros than the other, she just couldn’t come to a decision. And as the deadline to submit her statement of intent to register, loomed ever closer, she began to panic. What if she didn’t come to a decision? What if she ended up missing the deadline? And as a result of that, was left unable to enroll in either program?

She was a mess, an absolute fucking mess, but she was only a mess in private. Her friends didn’t suspect that she spent most nights lying awake, fearing the future, her parents didn’t suspect that their daughter was seriously considering attending Oxford for another three years, Harry didn’t suspect that she was as conflicted and exhausted as she actually was, and Luis, despite calling her almost daily, didn’t hear another freak out from her. She wanted to sulk in private. She wanted to figure it out on her own. Luis had given her his advice, so now she had to figure it out for herself, even though that wasn’t a particularly easy thing to do.

And she wished it was. She wished more than anything that she could just close her eyes and randomly point to either Oxford or Harvard, and that would be that, but things weren’t that simple. She had to make a conscious decision as to whether or not she wanted to put everything she had behind becoming the politician she’d always dreamt of being or becoming Harry’s wife, and living her life out at his side.

If she was to be perfectly honest, she did want to be his wife, nothing would’ve made her happier than to settle down with him in a decade or so and start a family, but she wasn’t sure, she wanted to become a duchess, nor did she think it very likely she could. His grandmother hated her, she’d tried to bribe Paulina into doing her bidding, and when Paulina said no, they’d ended on bad terms. So it seemed unlikely that she could ever be welcomed into the monarchy, but more than that, she couldn’t picture herself a duchess. There was nothing about the title that truly called to her. Yes, being a duchess would mean she’d be the wife of Harry. But it wouldn’t mean much else, not to her at least. It would mean that she’d be consigned to a life of leisure, and while that might appeal to others, she wasn’t really so fond of that. She didn’t want to be one of those wives whose sole purpose is to look nice, do right by her husband, tend to the children, and be involved in charity work, because that was what being a duchess would entail. She’d have to do right by the monarchy, always behave herself, and not be allowed to be involved in political debate.

That was something she just couldn’t do. She loved politics. It was her passion. She loved how nasty and heated and problematic it could be. When she’d graduated from high school, she’d spent the summer in Washington DC, working as a page for her Representative in the House of Representatives. It had been long days, with little sleep, her feet hurt most of the time, and she was always hungry since there never really seemed to be enough time to sit down for a proper meal, but she’d loved it. She’d loved running around from her Representative’s office to another, she’d loved being involved in the process, and it was that hustle and bustle that she wanted for her future, she wanted to feel like she was actually doing her bit for the future, as opposed to just holding a charity dinner or event to raise some money. Charities could help; there was no debating that, but policy, trade agreements, protective legislation that was what was truly needed, because charities could only do so much.

She was torn between two dreams, forced to figure out what to do with the information she had at hand. She poured over it, constantly debating as to what course she would take, and then . . . then things got even more complicated.

Things in her life had been going quietly enough. There hadn’t really been anything new or all that exciting since the acceptance letters had arrived. She’d just been going about her days as best she could, trying to keep busy by spending time with her friends since they were still on break. She went on bike rides with them, out to the pub, on walks and to the movies, and they played rugby whenever everyone was up for it. It was a nice, little breather for everyone. Their exams had exhausted them, both physically and mentally, and they were determined to just enjoy themselves until they had to go through that hell again, and for the most part, they enjoyed playing rugby most of all, because it got the blood going, and afterwards, they’d always grab drinks and food.

And it was after a rugby match that things were further complicated. She’d spent the morning at the park with her fellow Rhodes Scholars, getting bruised and bloodied up while the photographers watched from a somewhat decent distance. Afterwards, her and her friends had gone off to a buffet where they stuffed their faces more than they should’ve, and then complained about how they shouldn’t have eaten so fast.

All in all, it was a good morning, but then she went home, then she got the mail.

Paulina didn’t pay it much attention. Not at first. She’d already gotten the bills for the month, and was planning on doing them later on in the evening. The odds were that whatever had arrived was going to end up being trashed, so with that thought, she stuffed the papers in her purse, and proceeded to climb up the flight of stairs to her floor, bumping into the guy that lived across the hall from her as she did so. She didn’t really talked to him, they did a nod of the head to each other whenever they crossed paths, but they weren’t friendly, they didn’t pop by each other’s places to watch a game or drink tea, they were polite and civil, but that was the extend of it. That was how she was with all her neighbors.

Sometimes she wondered if they thought she was stuck up, that she thought herself better than them and that was why she didn’t make an effort to become better acquainted, but then she reminded herself that they hadn’t made an effort either. They just nodded, and come to think of it, that was how it was with everyone. She’d never seen neighbors talking in the hall or going into each other’s flats. Everyone just did their own thing, and considering that at the present she very much valued her privacy, she was glad of it.

When she reached her apartment, the first thing she did was hung her bag on the little coat wrack she had. After that, she rushed to take a shower, eager to scrub the dried blood and mud off her body, and be able to take a nap. There wasn’t any place she had to be in the evening. She was at liberty to do whatever she liked without having to worry about getting somewhere, so she would nap, open up a bottle of wine, do the bills, and then think.

That was the plan for the rest of her day, and she accomplished the first two. She took a little over an hour and a half nap, and then opened up the bottle of wine. No glass would be necessary. She’d drink straight from the bottle. It was when she started doing the bills that she realized she needed her phone. She was lazy and didn’t want to have to do mach while she balanced her check book, so grabbed her bag in order to fumble for her phone, and it was while in the process of doing that that she came across the invitation.

She’d carelessly thrown it onto the table as she looked for the damn phone. It would’ve been easier if she just put it in the front pocket of her bag, but no, she never bloody remembered to do that, and was left searching for it at the bottom of her purse. She found it, sure enough, tucked beneath an extra clean shirt she’d taken for the match, and it was when she reached over to place that shirt on the back of a nearby chair that she noticed the envelope.

Her name was neatly written it across the front of it, in such writing that she almost thought it had to have been done by a printer to get it so neat, but her name and address only held her attention for a moment, because then her eyes darted to the left, and there was the royal insignia, there was the stamp of the Lord Chamberlain.

“What the –” she whispered in confusion.

Before she could finish speaking, her hands – whom seemed to have been acting without her knowledge – had set to work on opening the envelope. They weren’t gentle about it, not using the same care they did whenever she got a bill or an important letter or her stipend from Rhodes Trust. They hastily tore it open, not caring if what was inside was damaged a bit, so long as it was able to be read. And when it was torn open, the upper corner of the paper within was ripped off, but she didn’t care, she didn’t even stopped when she realized half of it had been ripped, she just kept going until that corner had been torn off, and she was able to pull out the white paper that lay within the envelope.

That part, she did carefully. It was as if she suddenly remembered the Lord Chamberlain’s stamp and what that could be mean. She was nervous about what was to be said in the paper, a bit scared, actually, and when she finished pulling it out, she shut her eyes tightly for a moment, taking the opportunity to take in a deep breath, and then her eyes were opened, then she was left to hungrily devour what was written.




Her eyes were playing tricks on her. The damn things weren’t working well, which was to be expected, considering she’d just woken up from a long nap and had taken a swig from the wine. It was normal for them to be messing around, sleep still lingered in her eyes and alcohol had been introduced into her system, so it was natural for her eyes to see things that weren’t actually there, it was alright for the damn things to be messing up. She just needed to sort them out. All she needed was to put on her reading glasses. They’d sort things out for her, let her see what was actually written as opposed to that nonsense she’d just read, because there was no way, absolutely no way in fucking hell, that the Queen had invited her to a party. She would sooner believe that former President George W. Bush had taken an interest in her and invited her to stay at his ranch in Texas.

Fast as she could, she ran over to the bookcase where her glasses rested atop a tattered copy of The Brothers Karamazov, and in a hurry, she put them, careful to slip them behind her ears. She lifted the invitation to her face, completely expecting the words to change, she even blinked a few times in preparation of the task, but neither the glasses nor the excessive blinking, changed the writing. Annoyed, she took the glasses off, thinking that they were somehow hindering her. She set them back atop the novel, and proceeded to rub her eyes, she rubbed them until she saw stars, and then had herself another go at reading the invite, but that didn’t change anything. The invitation still stated that the Queen had commanded the Lord Chamberlain to invite Paulina to a Garden Party at Bucking Palace.

And try as she did, Paulina couldn’t wrap her mind around that. What the fuck was that woman playing at? One moment, she’d put Paulina through hell, and the next she was inviting her to a party at the palace. What the hell? Why? Just – why? Why was she putting out the olive branch? Or was that even an olive branch? Perhaps it was just an excuse to get Paulina in private to attempt to bribe her again? Paulina didn’t know. Fuck. She didn’t know what it meant. What could come from it, but she did know that if she were to go, that would be the moment in which she would become publically acquainted with the Queen, that would be the moment that the press would view as the Queen accepting her relationship with Harry. And if that acceptance were to be true, then Paulina . . . oh hell, she didn’t know exactly what that would mean for her, but she knew it’d surely involve a few more headaches and restless nights. She knew it would only serve to complicate things further.