Chapter Ten

LESS THAN A week after the delightfully drunken phone call from Presti, his letter arrived. The envelope—addressed in what I could only assume to be Presti’s chicken-scratch writing—remained clenched, unopened, in my hand. My personal secretary, Scott, had handed it to me on my way to a family meeting to discuss George and Hannah’s wedding.

Both of my parents somehow managed to make time in their hectic schedules. Mother, especially, had taken the matrimonial bull by the horns, steering every detail of the event toward her wishes. George didn’t seem to care at all about the ceremony, or so he announced. Hannah’s only stipulation thus far was for complete autonomy over her dress. Since Hannah was an incredibly stylish woman, I couldn’t see this being a problem.

Even as I listened to discussions about guest lists, bridal parties, colours, and flowers, Presti’s letter burned my fingers. I itched to flee the room, rip open the envelope and devour the contents. Had he written it that same night he’d called? Would it be full of the drunken ramblings of Prestidigitation Jones? I couldn’t wait to find out.

“Do sit still, James,” my mother admonished, though she smiled. “What is in that envelope that has you ready to burst out of your skin?”

Shrugging as nonchalantly as possible, I said, “I don’t know. I haven’t opened it yet.”

“Is it from your young man?” my father asked. I’d already told him of the letter I’d sent to Presti. Where I’d been expecting admonishment, I’d received only gentle support.

“I think so.”

My parents shared a glance, having one of those wordless conversations couples who’ve been together years seemed to manage.

“Perhaps we might take a short break. Twenty minutes, I think?” Mum suggested.

“Thirty,” I answered as I leapt from my seat.

My father’s office, where we’d been meeting, was at the far end of the same floor where my rooms were. Years had passed since I last ran these corridors, but I flew down them now, drawing the frowns of a handful of staff. This entire level contained only private residences and offices of my immediate family. Though beautifully furnished, there was nothing of great value or historical importance here, unlike in the public areas.

For all my complaining about my life, I knew how lucky I was. I was happy to serve and do my duty, even enjoying most of my charity work. I just wished I could do it privately, without all the media attention and huge crowds.

Slamming my door shut, I threw myself on my bed and tore the envelope open. Presti’s nearly illegible writing glared back at me, all seven pages. I couldn’t read it fast enough.

His words, some serious, others filled with light-heartedness, were like a balm to my soul. He told me of his studies, hours spent in the garden alone or with his mother, days spent with Astrid, a rather odd conversation he’d had with a Silkie Bellbird. Presti’s life seemed like a rainbow, colourful and rich.

As I read Presti’s letter for the second time, I realised these pages were an escape. I found somewhere special among the spaces between the messily scratched letters—where I could just be me.

Between our shared words, we’d created a world, a place for the two of us where no one else was welcome. Where none could find us. On these pages, I wouldn’t be told to stand straighter, speak more clearly, or show more interest. Between Presti and me, there existed only…us.

As much as I wanted to write back immediately, I knew my parents would come looking for me—or rather, send someone to find me—if I didn’t return after my half-hour reprieve.

Tucking the letter in my pocket, I returned to my father’s office feeling lighter than when I’d left it.

“Well,” my mother said as soon as I walked in, “I guess it’s safe to say the letter was from your young man.”

“He’s not mine. Presti and I are friends, but yes, it was from him.”

“I don’t kiss my friends in the manner Dad caught you two,” George added. For his trouble, Hannah slapped his forearm.

“Ignore him,” Hannah said. “I’m so pleased you have another friend, James. I know it’s hard for you. You’re so like Harlan, and you are both such wonderful men. I have hope you’ll both find the happiness you deserve.”

“Thank you, Hannah,” I replied, squeezing her wrist.

“Oh, gag,” George said. “The fam already loves you, Han. No need to kiss their arses.”

“You are a total pill, George.”

“Yeah, but you love me.” George made obnoxious kissy noises as he batted his lashes at Hannah. The entire scene made me equal parts nauseous and jealous.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Poor Harlan is quite beside himself now that I’ve asked him to walk me down the aisle.”

“You know Arthur will do it if that makes things easier for Harlan?” my mother offered. Who would walk Hannah down the aisle had been one of the first points agreed upon about this wedding. With her father so tragically killed, her brother seemed the obvious choice. I wondered how Harlan would manage the feat, though I knew he’d do it for his sister.

“Thank you, Miriam, but I want it to be Harlan, and he’s quite determined.”

“Very well, but just know that Arthur can step in if needed.” Mum smiled warmly at Hannah. George hadn’t been lying when he said we all loved Hannah. “Now, on to the wedding party. Besides James, is there anyone else you’d like to stand with you, George?”

“James will do just fine.” George winked at me. Since his engagement, he’d become both more relaxed and mature. Perhaps all this time he’d just been searching for happiness, and now he’d found it, he was like a new man.

Would that be me one day? Could I come out to the world if it meant chasing that happiness? For the first time, I believed I could. Especially now that my family knew, and they still loved me.

“You okay, James?” my mother asked.

“Thank you,” I exclaimed. “I’m ashamed to admit that I thought you all might have turned your backs on me when you found out, but you’ve been nothing but supportive. About me being queer, I mean.”

“And we’ll continue to be supportive, whether you eventually come out or not,” my father said. “Whatever you decide, James, we’ll have your back.”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I steered the conversation back to the far safer topic of the wedding. “So, um… Morning suit or tuxes?”

Several hours later, I left Dad’s office, my ears bleeding from listening to the minutiae of what wedding flowers meant and why a caramel mud cake was not an appropriate choice. Poor George nodded off at one stage, receiving Hannah’s elbow to the ribs for his trouble.

If George’s engagement had taught me one thing, it was that I didn’t see a wedding in my future. I mean, theirs would be a traditional wedding, and the fuss and media attention was already making me ill. The chaos and pandemonium that would explode following the announcement of my engagement to another man would be nothing short of epic. And it would be far more than I could handle.

Though I might not want the wedding, I did want the marriage—or at least a committed relationship. I wanted a partner. Was I asking too much? I hoped not.

The other thing I’d learned from George’s engagement was how tiring wedding planning could be. My eyes slid shut as I ate the small meal that had been prepared and sent to my room. I sipped my tea, hoping to stay awake enough to start another letter to Presti.

As I thought about what I wanted to say, I realised I had so much I wanted to tell him about. Wedding plans, upcoming charity events, especially any involving animals or the environment, the jubilee party coming up in a few weeks, the David Attenborough biography I was halfway through, the text I’d ordered about ethnobotany that I planned to read next, my surprise at how supportive my family had been, and my shame that I was so surprised. All this and more I itched to scribble down to share with Presti.

All my life, I’d kept myself shut away from others, afraid to let them in, let them see me. With Presti, I didn’t feel that fear. Watching him be so unapologetically himself had been liberating and emboldening. For the first time, I felt brave enough to show the real me to another human being.

So, I wrote to Presti about how I hated the twitch in Simon de Montfort’s left eye when he felt exasperated by my indifference to his plans. I wrote how my favourite spot in the world was a small grove of trees on the banks of a small creek running through Gran’s estates in Balmoral. I explained in minute detail my fascination with great white sharks and my secret love/hate relationship with the movie Jaws . I told him I loved tomato sauce but hated tomatoes and drank tea with no milk but never coffee.

My letter was pages long, probably way more than Presti would be interested in reading. But I felt courageous enough to try, to see if Presti might like James Wales the man, not my title or wealth. And maybe if he didn’t, then that was okay, too.

*

ALMOST TWO WEEKS had passed since I’d sent my response, and no letter from Presti arrived—twelve torturous days where my imagination ran amok in leaps and bounds. In one particularly dire early morning nightmare, I imagined Presti selling my letters to the press. I’d thought that was the worst thing that could happen. Yet, when I imagined Presti bored or disgusted by the glimpses I’d given him of my true self, a thick, deep sadness almost drowned me. Or perhaps he had convinced himself I had a phobia of receiving letters.

Why did I care so much? Why this man? Why now? These were questions I had no answers for, at least none I was willing to admit. I didn’t want to think about what it all meant or why I was so willing to put myself out there for Presti. I could not allow myself to wonder if I’d met somebody whom I wanted to become important to me. Somebody I might be willing to come out for. The repercussions of letting Presti into my life terrified me.

Yet I couldn’t stop.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Presti. His wide-eyed innocence, joy for life, and complete disregard for what others might think of him. His complete willingness to just be him. An ongoing, nagging thought scratched away at me constantly. Could I be as free to be myself as Presti was? Could I do that if the reward was freedom from my regal persona and having Presti in my life? Or that I allowed myself to have someone special in my life.

These were ridiculous thoughts. Everything was stacked against us. We lived in two different worlds, two different countries. Presti showed himself to the world while I cowered behind a crown. He was gorgeous, and I was…not.

Ugh, I was so sick of myself. Tired of my constant thoughts about Presti and my attempts at friendship with a man so different from me that he might as well have come from Mars.

It was past time to distract myself with something else. Something that wouldn’t drag me into a self-indulgent existential crisis. I needed a timeout—space from…well, from my life. I needed to make a call.

“James?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Are you busy?”

“At two in the morning? I’m busy sleeping.” Harlan punctuated his words with a garbled yawn.

Jesus, I’d been so caught up in my head that I hadn’t even realised the time when I’d dialled Harlan’s number. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise the time. I’ll call you back tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m awake now. What’s so urgent you couldn’t wait till sunup to call?”

“I’ve got a charity event in Paris the day after next. I was hoping you might like to come along?”

Silence.

“Harlan?”

“As your…date?”

“Christ, no. Sorry, Harlan, I meant just to Paris. We could go out a bit, see the sights.”

“Um. Sure, I guess.” Harlan yawned loudly again. “Are you all right, James?”

Was I? I didn’t know, and that was half the problem. “I need some time away. Away from duty and all that being a public figure business, but I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to think.”

“Got it.” Harlan’s voice held a smile as if he knew exactly what I was talking about. “A distraction, then.”

“Exactly.”

“Very well. I’m not certain you’ve chosen the right person for the job, but I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you. I’ll make all the arrangements. You just have to show up.”

Harlan chuckled, his laughter broken by another yawn. “That I can do. Now, if I could just get back to sleep…”

“Of course. Sorry again for the late hour.”

“Goodnight, James.”

“Night, Harlan.” I hung up feeling decidedly more upbeat than when I’d called.

Though I did not know what Harlan and I would get up to in Paris, an idea began to take shape—the time for me to embrace my sexuality had arrived. A visit to one of Paris’s many fine gay bars seemed just the place to dip my toe in.