Diary of a Reluctant Ruler

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“Bridesmaids?” my mum said, the day before my first dress fitting, “You will pick Olly won’t you?”

“Of course!” I replied, “But who else? I know who I’d like to pick…”

“Which is?” Mum asked.

“Iona, Jade and Jenn,” I sighed, pouring her another cup of tea from the pot on the coffee table between us, “But Jade will have probably have to organise security and I don’t know if Iona and Jenn would be a little intimidated.”

Mum nodded, sipping from her cup with a thoughtful expression. Since we’d launched into the public realm of engagement she’d taken to inviting me for tea every Tuesday morning. As I’d now finished school – passing all my subjects with A*s, As and Bs, which gave welcome relief from Paparazzi condemning – I had also been launched into full-time crown princess duties, which meant less cutting of ribbons and more sitting in for long hours in parliament, giving talks at various state occasions and attending a variety of seminars etc. So it was a blessing to be able to put aside another dedicated hour of my week.

Spending time with my mother was a little bit of an alien thing – we’d really only had a rushed acquaintance the past few years due to the time which state affairs allowed – but it was also a very lovely thing, because I was discovering a whole new side to her. I hated to jinx it, but you could just about call us friends. She was, however, still my mother, and often made me feel like a child all over again, which is difficult to handle when attempting to be as ‘woman’ as possible in order to get married in a dignified state.

Ella’s not a woman, she’s a man.

You little twerp.

I may be a twerp, but at least I’m a female one.

Shut up! I’m female too!

If you say so…

“If you wanted Jade to be your bridesmaid, it would be very easy to organise for her to have the day off. And you should just ask Iona and Jenn first, they might surprise you,” Mum smiled, setting her teacup down, “And you know what I’m going to say next?” she asked.

I grimaced, “Other bridesmaids of nobler-birth are required?”

“You might find a few elderly matrons stepping on your toes if you don’t ask their debutante daughters to take a walk with you up the aisle,” she nodded.

“Well, if my four will agree, how many more can I have without making it look too ostentatious? I know it’s impossible, but I don’t want a fussy wedding,” I moaned, feeling like a child on the brink of a tantrum.

“In that case, I’d say four, to match your four. As Olly has a title, no one should be able to complain,” Mum nodded her head softly as she spoke, each small movement measured and just – I wished I could be half so self-assured.

“Is there anyone in particular I need to choose in order to avoid civil war?” I asked, attempting humour but knowing Mum would take the matter with sincerity.

“Yes, I’m afraid you may have to ask Lady Devont’s daughter – Caroline. She’ll throw a complete fit if she’s not invited – all the women in her family have been bridesmaids to our rule,” Mum explained, “She’s not the nicest girl, but having her as a bridesmaid will be better than not.”

“Right,” I nodded, “How about Lady Georgiana? Would she do you think?”

“I’m sure she’d love too but is that such a great idea? She never did approve of you and Frances.”

“Maybe it’ll help show I’m sorry…” I mused, “I’ll ask.”

“That leaves two,” Mum prompted.

“I’ll ask Grandmother. Oh! What about my cousin Theresa?”

“I’m sure she’d love to.”

“So Jade, Iona, Jenn, Olly, Caroline, Georgiana, Theresa… I’m sure I can find one more. And I meant to ask you, do you think Princess Maria will be the flower girl?”

“Oh, now that’s a nice gesture,” Mum smiled, “Lorainya will love that. Bravo my dear, you’re becoming more Queenly each day.”

I smiled sheepishly, wondering whether ‘Queenly’ was a word.

After searching my family tree and assorted lists of lords, ladies, dukes and duchesses, I finally came across an eighth bridesmaid in a passing conversation with James – Cecilia. Which was perfect, because it meant that I only had two bridesmaids who I didn’t know so well, one of which I knew in passing and seemed quite pretty run-of-the-mill. So in effect, just one wild card in the bridesmaid department – Miss Caroline Devont.

James, meanwhile, had devised a rather extraordinary method of finding his best man.

“He’s doing what?” Olly screeched down the telephone – we’d already been through the happy-crying-ecstatic bit of asking and accepting the post of chief bridesmaid.

“He’s having a competition – like that episode of friends where Rachel and Phoebe fight over being Monica’s maid of honour.”

“A competition?” Olly repeated, incredulous, “Well, boys will be boys. What on earth will they have to do?”

“Well, the guys seem to have leapt at the idea – Charlie and Oran want to make it an obstacle course, Jonathon is vying for a pub quiz type, and Greg wants an arm wrestling tournament,” I explained, laughing at how ridiculous it sounded, “It’s Charlie and Oran who are really fighting it out though – the other two have flatly pointed out that those three are inseparable and that they’ll help judge instead.”

“Aw, I wish I could be there!” Olly cried, “When’s it happening?”

“Probably next week some time when they get their minds round to it. Why don’t you fly over?” I asked, “You can see the plan so far!”

“That would be amazing, but I don’t know if I’ve got the money,” Olly sighed.

“My dear, you are talking to a princess,” I replied, “Money is no object for this affair. Shall I book you a flight?”

“Oh, Phil, you spoil me!” Olly said, “Would you mind?”

“Of course not! I would mind if you didn’t come over.”

With that decided, the next thing was to be rushed into a dress fitting – well, really a dress designing, as that came first. It felt a little like being rushed into surgery. I almost felt the need for anaesthetic.

“What iz your colour scheme for zee wedding?” asked ‘zee’ designer, a rather camp Parisian who was currently brandishing a black pen and a sketchpad at me as if it was a weapon.

“Er, we haven’t decided yet,” I gulped.

“My dear!” he cried, “How can I work in colour if you haf no colour scheme to give me?! Do you want a rainbow dress, is that eet?”

“No, no!” I flustered, “I – there was never a question of colour in the dress – it’s a wedding – erm – white will suffice.”

“Ah, mon chéri, you are not going to be so boring are you?” he asked, a rather depreciating look on his face, “You will have zee ‘ole world looking at you! You must look radiant!”

“Well!” I replied, rather annoyed at the apparent insinuation, “I will look radiant in white, thank you very much.”

“Alright, alright, you have me zere. Now, couture? I am seeing frills, mon chere! Frills and a large train, with a bustle!”

“I really don’t think-” I began but he was already rapidly sketching away.

“Perhaps you should leave me alone,” he suggested, “Come back later, an’ I vill have all zee sketches possible for you – you will choose one.”

Oh good lord, this is going to be a disaster.

Sack the man!

But he was the best possible candidate! There’s no one else!

Lordy, this really is going to be a disaster.

A few hours later, he had left, leaving behind him roughly ten sketches, which I leafed through with a terrible sinking feeling in my stomach.

He’s a monster.

These aren’t dresses, they’re… explosions.

Forget surgery, I had just been executed.

Frustration and anger began to bubble up in my throat. The stupid man hadn’t paid the least bit of a attention to my request for something elegant and sleek, and had just dive bombed into his own little fantasy world. I couldn’t wear any of these dresses, they were horrendous. James wandered in just as I reached breaking point and slammed my fist into the table.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, sliding in between me and the back of the couch, wrapping an arm around my waist and stroking my hair out of my face, “What’s all this?”

“You can’t see them!” I cried, mortified of the bad luck, “They’re dress designs.”

I pushed them into a pile under the fruit bowl on the table.

“Oh, I didn’t see anything,” he reassured me, “Why are you so angry with them?”

“Because they’re hideous!” I cried, “Please excuse me whilst I blow my nose.”

“Excused,” James smiled, as I trumpeted baby-elephant-like into a tissue.

He waited a moment until I was suitably presentable, the curve of his neck resting softly against my ear, his breath tickling the top of my head.

“So, why are you crying over dress designs?” he asked, “I thought you were really excited about them?”

“I was, I am, but…” I scowled and whispered darkly, “The designer’s too designerish.”

“Designerish?” James asked, raising an eyebrow and turning me around so that I faced him.

“He’s camp and wants me to wear colour and frills and – just look at these!”

“Wowah! What about the bad luck?” James asked, covering his eyes as I reached for the sketches.

“No bad luck need be involved, as there’s no way on earth I’m wearing any of these.”

I showed him the designs, which prompted him into full-out laughter.

“You’re not wrong!” he laughed, “These are ridiculous.”

“I’m glad someone agrees!” I smiled.

“So what are you going to do?” James asked.

“Oh, I don’t know!” I sighed, “Find someone else I imagine, it’s just I don’t want to go through that whole process again.”

“Mmm…” James nodded.

“I just wish this was a simple wedding!” I cried for the one-hundredth time at least.

“It’s not, so SUMO,” James told me, kissing me sharply on the lips and gathering up the papers. He screwed them into a ball and aimed them at the bin.

“SUMO?” I asked, confused.

“Shut Up, Move On,” James explained.

“Huh, nicely put,” I accepted.

“What if Olly designed your dress?” James asked.

“Olly? But she’s not a designer,” I frowned.

“No, she’s an art student,” James replied.

“But her dream is to set up a fashion warehouse! James you’re a genius!” I cried, throwing my arms around him and pinning him with an exuberant kiss.

“I try,” he laughed, gasping for air.