Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
“Good plan. I like that. And if one of us needs to ditch the other— ”
“Grapefruit.”
“Got it.”
He spends the rest of the drive reminding me of the customs and protocols regarding the royal receiving line and how to behave if I should stumble my way into encountering royalty in the wild while at this event. Mostly, we’re relying on not leaving me unsupervised. When all else fails, do what everyone else does.
Not far from Notting Hill, we encounter the traffic jam of limos and town cars lining up to enter the gates of Kensington Palace. Spectators and photographers press against the police barricades. TV news crews are set up to capture the arrivals. Lee rolls down the window a couple inches to peer up at the helicopters hovering overhead.
“This isn’t real,” I mutter to myself.
“A little nip for the nerves?” He produces a flask from his breast pocket.
I shake my head. I’d be hurling before we even stepped out of the car.
When I was little, maybe a year or two after my mom left me at Dad’s doorstep, he brought me to the People’s Choice Awards. I think someone on his PR team got it in their heads to create a sort of debut, introducing his daughter to the press and casting him as the good father. There are pictures of me in my tiny pink dress and too much makeup, posing with celebrities I wouldn’t recognize unless they were on Nickelodeon. What I remember most is lots of standing, being horribly bored, and waking up in the back of a limo with Dad’s publicist watching True Blood on her iPad while he was inside at some party until the sun came up.
This probably won’t be like that.
What seems like an hour later, we arrive at the front of the line, where we’re ushered from our car into the palace. We follow the traffic through the immaculate halls, security checks, formalities, and finally into the ballroom where hundreds of elegant guests mingle with glasses of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Up on the raised stage, a ten-piece orchestra plays instrumental covers of contemporary pop songs. I feel small under the tall mural ceiling, towering oil portraits, and priceless tapestries.
“Pinch me,” Lee whispers.
I give him a little squeeze on his forearm.
“I can’t believe we’re here. My mum and dad couldn’t even imagine.” Lee is in total awe as he absorbs the extravagance of it all. “Celeste may never speak to me again.”
“Sorry.”
He winks at me. “Worth it.”
On my first walk to campus after arriving in London, a man on the street handed me a brochure about tours of Kensington. Now I’m here, on the other side of the velvet ropes, spying Elton John in the crowd. I can’t help thinking my dad would already have attracted an audience if he were here. A guitar materializing out of thin air as they begged him for a song. Not because he’s famous—he just has that energy. Every room coalesces, shrinks around Gunner Bly. Magnetism.
Me, I feel myself shrinking. Retreating into this costume, blending into the scenery. Unaware how I got here and certain I don’t belong.
Then Lee jabs his elbow into my arm. “That one there? Parked her Rolls-Royce through the front door of a sweets shop last year.” He gives a surreptitious nod over his shoulder. “That bloke?” He directs my attention across the room. “He’s a descendent of Napoleon and was briefly the governor of a small town in Sweden until they found out he’d been importing horse meat and passing it off as elk in a kickback scheme.”
“Abbey?” Benjamin Tulley manages to sneak up on us, dressed to the nines in a tailored tux. Charming as ever, he takes my hand, brings it to his lips, and leaves a polite kiss atop my knuckles. “That dress is stunning, if I may.”
“Yeah, you know…” I swing the skirt around a little because how often will I get the chance to sashay in my life? “Just something I had lying around.”
“I’ve no doubt.” Ben lingers on me with the same cheeky grin I first saw at our lunch that disarmed me so thoroughly. Then his gaze flicks to Lee. “Ben,” he says, introducing himself.
“Lee. Thanks for the invite, mate.”
“Yes, you’re quite welcome.” Ben’s inflection is somewhat terse. His posture stiffens. “Pleased to meet a friend of Abbey’s.”
He doesn’t sound so pleased. That English stiff upper lip is so rigid it might crack right off his face.
“Tell us, yeah? That lad there.” Lee homes in on a skinny blond guy who resembles a young David Beckham. “Is that really Colin Hartness?”
Ben looks over. “The Olympic boxer? Yes, I believe it is. He’s a good friend of Prince John’s from the army.”
“Right.” Lee straightens his jacket, then leans in to kiss my cheek. “Don’t wait for me, luv.”