Nobody in Particular(95)

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not in love with you, don’t fret. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about what it would be like to be your husband.”

“And?”

“And … I think you’re wonderful. I would be more than happy to spend a life with you.”

“Until you do fall for someone.”

“Well, I admit I assumed you wouldn’t be demanding monogamy from me. Isn’t a side piece one of the treasured traditions of kings worldwide?”

I stare at him, and he seems to realize what he’s said. “Kings of yesteryear, anyway,” he corrects.

“In other words,” I say coolly, “the fate I have to settle for—in which I must forever hide the woman I love—is one you would voluntarily choose?”

“It’s just as voluntary for you as it would be for me,” he says.

I bristle, and open my mouth to tell him off, but he interrupts before I can. “Think about it. You’re choosing to become queen. If you stepped aside, you could do what you wanted with your life. But you know, as I do, that hiding is a small price to pay to stand at the head of our country. To be the one everybody looks up to, and listens to. To have the power to make changes. Think of the sort of good we could do together. I know I couldn’t pull it off as I am. But by your side?”

I suppose, now that he mentions it, I can see Alfie in the role. How many times have I marveled at his ability to make small talk, and charm strangers, and hold himself in the spotlight? He was born for it, in ways that I wasn’t. But I was actually born for it, and because of that, my choice will always hold a different weight to his.

“It’s more complicated than that for me,” I say thinly.

“Perhaps. But I think, at the heart of it, you’re intoxicated by the potential your life could hold in that position.”

“Perhaps,” I say, “Or maybe you simply believe I must feel that way, because you do.”

“Right, because I don’t know your internal world at all,” he says, looking—amazingly—amused. “Ever since you met Danni Blythe, all you can talk about is wanting to be good. There is no greater good than this.”

I look past Alfie at this. My mind is swirling with thoughts I can barely begin to parse. I look past his parents, and mine, and beyond them—beyond the crowd—I find William’s eyes boring into me as he watches us speak.

“We’re friends,” I say to Alfie, still looking at William. “I couldn’t…”

“Would a stranger be any better, though? Really think about it, Rosie.”

And I do. I picture all of it.

Alfie proposing with the Harrington family ring. Marriage. Children. Coronation. Secrets. Lies. Cages.

My future was set in motion long ago, and I have no choice but to be swept along.

What does that future look like? Truly? Stealing kisses in secret rooms, all the while terrified that I will be found out, and I will lose the love of my family, the love of my country, my future, and my identity, in one fell swoop.

Marrying somebody I can never love, and sleeping with him over and over while my entire body recoils with revulsion, just so I can serve as an incubator for the continuation of the crown. Screaming in agony, or bleeding out in a hospital bed like Mum, as I birth children I never wanted inside me to begin with.

And all the while shoving it down, further and further, until I’m not really here at all.

I try to numb the wave of grief this thought brings, but for the first time, I can’t. It won’t switch off. So, I try to comfort myself. Maybe, I think, I won’t have to bear it for all that long. Not everybody lives to old age.

Although I initially take solace in the thought, I soon catch myself with horror. What does it say, if the thought of staying on this path is more horrifying than the thought of my own early death?

What is wrong with me? That I can be comforted by that?

What is wrong with me, that it took me this long to realize how terrifying the thought of my predetermined path actually is?

“Let’s dance with Eleanor and Santi,” Alfie says, taking my hand.

How did we get here? How can it be that, mere months ago, I met a girl named Danni Blythe, and now I’m discussing an engagement to Alfie? I feel like a flake on a snowball.

I follow him without a word.





FORTY

DANNI




There’s something I’d forgotten about what it’s like to be hated by more people than you’ve ever actually hurt. It’s this super-insidious thing where you start to expect the worst from everyone.

So, for example, if someone says they like your shoes, you start assuming they secretly mean they don’t like your shoes, and then everything goes into overdrive. If they’re saying it to make fun of you, and you say thank you, you’re playing into their trap, and boom, the whole room’s snickering. To avoid that, you get cautious and suspicious, and you give them a tight smile and maybe a nod. If they were being cruel, you keep your dignity. But the trap is, if they were giving you a genuine compliment, you come off like an asshole, and soon even the nice people start to avoid you. And the worst part is, you can’t even blame them, because you’re the one who gave them a reason not to like you in the first place.

Then you’re left with no one.