Chapter Twelve

PENELOPE JONES AND her son made me feel more welcome in their small two-bedroom cottage than I had ever felt in the great rooms and halls of palaces and castles. While Penelope set about cleaning an already spotless home, Presti set about “regalising” their abode. Astrid and Larry were charged with purchasing necessary supplies. Whatever they were.

Try as I might to help, Penelope placed me on her couch and ordered me not to move an inch. I was to rest and recover from my jetlag. Though they whispered amongst themselves in another room, I heard the panic as they discussed how to host a royal guest. Adorable seemed to be the most appropriate word to describe every one of them.

Twenty minutes ago, I’d sent a text to my father. I had not divulged my location, but I’d promised him I was okay and asked him to give me a few days to figure things out. His reply had been typically brief, simply asking me to call him when I felt up to it. Deep down, I suspected him to be panicking over my disappearance. I hoped Billy and Gordon wouldn’t be in trouble over this.

They weren’t supposed to let me out of their sight once I left the palace or wherever I was staying at the time, but I hadn’t let them know I was leaving. I’d snuck out like a thief in the night and made my way to the airport with Harlan’s help, then onto a commercial flight to Sydney using my ordinary passport. Most people had no idea the surname of the royal family—my family. If I’d held a gun to their heads, ordinary people wouldn’t know who James Wales was.

Presti’s question from earlier rattled about in my mind, unwilling to give me a moment’s peace. How did I feel? My life, my great secret, had been blown apart, scattered about in a handful of images for the entire world to see—those photos. My god, if you looked closely enough—and people had—it was clear enough to see I’d been hard while dancing, sandwiched between those two men. My obvious erection had been the topic of conversation on several news panels, the butt of constant jokes and the evidence for some of my debauched and shameful life.

Spasms of horror and nausea rocked me as I sat on Ms Jones’s faux suede couch. I bent forward, put my head between my knees and prayed for the last three days to have been a nightmare.

“James?”

Jumping at the call of my name, I saw Presti standing over me with several rolls of toilet paper in his hand. His lovely eyes watched me closely as if expecting me to fall apart at any second. Perhaps I would.

“The entire world saw my hard-on,” I blurted.

Presti nodded sagely. “Mm. They did rather, though if we were to look for the silver lining, it was fairly impressive.”

“Thanks,” I snorted. “I feel so…lost, Presti. I don’t know what to do or how to fix this.”

Presti put the toilet paper on the coffee table and sat beside me. “Do you want to fix it? What I mean is, do you want to tell the world you’re not gay, and that photo was nothing more than a drunken night out?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. It’d be easier.”

“For whom? A bunch of people you don’t know? People who can’t stand the thought of you being anything other than a straight white man? It would certainly be easier for them. Maybe it’d be easier for you in the short term.”

“People will hate me. A large—too large—part of the population will hate me.”

“Sure. For the few seconds a day, week, or month when they’ll even think of you. But if you deny who you are because of them, that’s a pain you’ll live with every second of every day of every week for the rest of your life.”

Beautiful and wise. Prestidigitation Jones was a deadly combination of extraordinary, and he was doing nothing to extinguish my crush on him.

“My mother has always told me,” Presti continued, “that we must each march to the beat of our own drum. We can’t match the beat of any other, and if we try, we’re doomed to an awkward, uncomfortable, and miserable existence.”

“That may be true of most, but I’m a prince. I have duty and responsibility.”

“People always blamed Winnie Frankston for the king abdicating. They said he loved her so much he gave up the throne for her. But I think he loved himself enough to give himself a shot at a life he wanted, a future he could live with. Now—” Presti smirked. “—I’m not suggesting you run off with an American divorcee with fabulous style, but perhaps you could love yourself enough to let yourself have the life you want. Not the life a bunch of courtiers and strangers who take entirely too much interest in a life that is not theirs want for you.”

“Would it be terribly needy of me to ask for another of your amazing hugs?”

Presti smiled. “Not at all,” he murmured, pulling me close and holding me again.

“Um, sorry to interrupt, but just a quick question,” Penelope Jones said softly.

Rather than pull away from me completely, Presti made a rather wonderful manoeuvre that managed to leave me tucked into his side, one arm still around my shoulders. Though I was bigger than him, I felt enveloped by him. Ms Jones looked at us with a kind of wonder in her expression.

“What’s up, Mum?”

“Well.” Penelope wrung her hands, her eyes flicking between Presti and me. “Let’s just barrel right through this potential awkwardness… I was wondering about the sleeping arrangements. If separate beds are required, I can stay at Howard’s.”

“No. No, I do not want to put anyone out,” I said, horrified I might be kicking this wonderful woman out of her home.

“Nonsense. Howard will be thrilled.”

“Mum and Howard haven’t agreed to cohabit yet, but they do spend an awful lot of nights together,” Presti added.

Did he want his mother to go so I had my own bed? Of course, he did. We’d shared one kiss, spoken a few words, and exchanged a small handful of letters, and he hadn’t replied to the last I’d sent. Whether or not we shared a bed at this stage of our relationship shouldn’t even be a question. I’d have jumped at the chance to sleep with Presti, but it shouldn’t even be on our radar.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to force anyone from their own bed,” I muttered. “ I could sleep on the couch.”

Presti and Penelope gaped at me as if I’d grown a second head. “No guest of mine sleeps on the couch. And that,” Penelope said, “has nothing at all to do with your royalness.”

“Thank you,” I managed to squeak out. I’d heard the term salt of the earth bandied about many times, but here they were, two of the finest examples I could hope for. One held me tight against him as if he knew how close I was to shattering apart, the other standing protectively over us as if quite prepared to throw herself on a grenade for us if needed.

“Well, that’s settled,” Penelope said, starting to turn away. She stopped and looked back at us. “Just so you know, if you wanted to share a bed, that’s quite okay with me. Presti is an adult, after all, and he no longer needs me to protect his virtue.”

A line of heat shot up Presti’s throat, his skin colouring a livid pink. “Thank you, Mother,” he squeaked.

“Not that he has no virtue left,” Penelope ran on. “I mean, unless I missed it, he’s still a virgin.”

“Oh god,” Presti moaned, pushing his forehead into my chest.

“Not that I expect to be alerted to his deflowering, but a mother always feels as if she’d just know when momentous moments occur in her children’s lives.”

Presti groaned and readjusted himself, so now his face pressed into my neck. I kissed the top of his head without a second thought. “Um. If it makes you feel any better, Ms Jones, I’m no kind of Lothario myself.”

“Well, I must say that is good to hear. The press does tend to make you out as a rabid fornicator.”

“Mother!” Presti yelled.

“Sorry. I did want to be quite cool and nonchalant about my son’s sex life, but I think I might have butchered it.”

“I’m certain I just heard Martin calling for you, Mother. It might be his rhododendrons again,” Presti said.

“Oh, bollocks. I spoke to him just yesterday. They’re never going to thrive if he leaves them to the full fury of the midday sun,” Penelope muttered as she walked away.

“What’s a Martin and his rhododendrons?” I asked.

“Our neighbour. He’s been trying to grow rhododendrons for well over two years in an effort to woo his ex back. He refuses a sunshade for them though. Keeps harping to Mum about extending our back awning. Mum tells him that’s exactly the reason Pristine ran off. He’s too cheap.”

“Oh.”

“Mm. Of course, I do try to remind Mother that the poor man is on a fixed pension.”

“You are quite wonderful, Presti.” As soon as I uttered the words, I knew my compliment embarrassed Presti. That wonderful shade of crimson flushed his cheeks. Of course, he’d think he didn’t deserve to be called remarkable.

“I’m sorry. I hope you’re not too traumatised by my mother. She means well.”

“She’s almost as wonderful as her son,” I replied. “I wasn’t certain if I should come here. You didn’t answer my last letter—”

“I most certainly did,” Presti interjected. He had? I never received it. Lost in the post? Or purposely withheld? My vote would be on the latter, but that was something to worry about later.

“Perhaps it’s waiting for me at home. Anyway, I am sorry if my arrival is causing trouble for you. That was never my intention, though I should have known better. Simple isn’t really something I can do in my life.”

Presti sighed. “When we returned from England, Jules Vern—real name—wanted to do a big article on me as a local celebrity. I agreed to an interview, but Jules… Well, he wanted dirt, a scandal. Days after the interview, I found him lurking behind the display of ball gags at F*ckingham Phallus. He was waiting to take an incriminating picture when I stopped for a chat with Silkie Bellbird.” Presti stopped. He took a deep breath and my hand before continuing. “That was one day of unwanted media attention I had to endure. A harshly voiced ‘Fuck off’ from both Silkie and me was sufficient to get Jules to back off. I suspect it wouldn’t be quite so easy for you.”

“I have no idea what most of that means.”

“It means that my brief flirtation with paparazzi was horrific. I cannot imagine what your life must be like. So, I definitely will not judge you for your choices or actions.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“Now, Astrid and Larry will be back soon with dinner. Mum has made up your bed, and I’m just about to restock the bathroom with superior quality toilet paper, so we’ll have nothing left to do but settle in for the Marie-never-said-that bake-a-thon night.”

“Said what?” I asked, not caring that I didn’t even know who Marie was.

Presti waved his hand about. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll bake enough sweet treats to take leftovers to Mrs Nichols’s homeless shelter.”

“Sounds…wonderful,” I said and meant it. Charity work made up an enormous part of my life. Still, it usually involved me turning up and having my photo taken, cutting a ribbon, or giving a speech begging rich people to give away money they’d never even miss. I’d never really gotten my hands dirty doing the hard work.

“Do you cook, James?”

“Oddly enough, my mother taught both George and me. Nothing fancy, but we can feed ourselves.”

“Mm.” Presti nodded. “Ah, I feel I should tell you, or perhaps warn you, that Astrid does not follow recipes.”

“She doesn’t?”

Presti shook his head. “Not at all. She feels baking is an experience in creative expression. If this were the 1950s, when Astrid would be required to remain barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen, poor Larry would be doomed to a life of almost inedible meals. Or he’d need to be wealthy enough to hire a cook.”

“It’s a good thing we’ve evolved as a society. Larry might need to cook to keep them alive.”

“Mm.” Presti tilted his head, watching me thoughtfully. “We could do with some more evolving, but that’s a discussion for another day. There is quite a lot to say about the devolving of humankind. For now, let’s get you an apron.”

“Apron?” I asked as I stood and followed Presti into the small kitchen. A large window overlooking a colourful garden took up an entire wall. The house, though small, sat on a large block. Trees and flowers covered most of the space, leaving only a small, grassed area. The garden looked thoughtfully planned and lovingly tended. A handful of outdoor chairs were scattered about to take advantage of the shade and the views.

The interior of their home was an eclectic mix of styles, colours, and fabrics. Photos covered blank walls, and cushions and throw rugs scattered about gave a warm, homey feel. The kitchen, painted a bright and sunny yellow, might be small, but it looked well-used and functional. Outdated cupboards and countertops gave the kitchen character, which it would have lacked with more modern fittings.

In short, the Jones family home looked and felt nothing like the cold, austere rooms of the palace. It felt as if a family, a close family, lived in it. As Goldilocks might say, it felt just right.

“Um,” I murmured as I saw Penelope wearing an apron with two women’s faces on it and the words, “Noice, different, unusual.” Sequins of every colour bedazzled almost the entirety of the apron, which troubled me. What if they fell off, and we wound up eating a sparkly lasagne? Could you imagine the headlines? ‘Prince James Chokes to Death on Coloured Sequins While Dining on Homemade Lasagne’. Laughable.

“Oh. It’s just mum’s Kath & Kim apron,” Presti said after catching me gaping at the apron. “She collects them…aprons, not Kath and Kim.”

“Are they relatives?” I asked, searching for familiar features in the women adorning the sequined apron.

“Mother and daughter,” Presti answered.

“Your mother’s mother?”

“What? No. Kath Day Night is Kim’s mother. No relation to my mother.”

“Kath Day Night?”

“Mm.” Presti fussed about in a drawer and pulled out some more material. I could only assume they were more aprons.

He handed one to me. I nervously unfurled it, though it was sequin-free. Fortunately, my apron was nothing worse than slightly frilly with a rainbow unicorn hugging an oversized cupcake. Presti’s apron, however…

“I’m sorry,” I snorted, “but that person’s head looks exactly like…um.” I faltered. Could one say testicles in front of a man one was interested in dating? Not to mention that the man’s mother was also present, and this was only their third meeting in person?

“Mm. A giant ball sac?” Presti said, looking entirely adorable as his ears flushed lava red. “It is quite unfortunate, but Mother insists it’s someone famous.” He ran his hands over the giant ball sac head on his apron as if thinking of a fond memory. Perhaps he and his mother had discussed the testicular appearance of the head on his apron many wonderful times.

“Why else would his face be on an apron?” Penelope asked.

“Because he looks like testicles,” I suggested.

Both Penelope and Presti appeared briefly surprised before they burst into laughter. Joining with them felt like slipping under a soft, warm blanket on a cold winter night. Never in my life had I fallen into such camaraderie with a person—people—so easily or so quickly. I felt comfortable, able to be myself around the Joneses. The connection I felt with these Kincumbrians was extraordinary.

My family loved me—I knew that. But our lives were rigid, so planned and full of duty to everyone and everything but us. We had no opportunity for spontaneous moments filled with debates and discussions on why a man who resembled testicles managed to get his image printed on an apron. Our conversations included discussions about plans and events and coordinating who represented the monarchy where and when, usually with our private secretaries involved.

I hadn’t understood what I’d missed with my family until I experienced it with Presti. I’d been missing out on so much. My entire family had. My chest ached with a longing I hadn’t fully understood until now.

“Oh, wonderful,” Astrid cried as she and Larry burst into the kitchen carrying armfuls of shopping bags. “I’ll take the operation, and Larry always looks incredibly sexy in the Barry Wood sitting in a flower field apron.”

This was not the first time I had little idea what was being said, and before my visit here ended, I doubted it would be the last.

“I found this arsehole outside too,” Astrid continued, motioning with her head somewhere over her left shoulder.

A black cat sauntered in, gazing about as if waiting for applause or possibly for us to bow to it. It very dexterously jumped onto the kitchen bench and glared at me with its large yellow eyes.

“Well, there you are, Johnny Sins,” Presti crooned, reaching to scratch behind the cat’s ears.

“Is your cat trying to hypnotise me?” I asked when the furry critter’s eyes did not look away from me or blink after too long a period.

“He may be plotting your untimely demise,” Presti answered, “but he hasn’t mastered hypnotism as far as I know.”

“Perhaps he has hypnotised you to forget that you know he can hypnotise you,” offered Larry.

“This could be why you need to feed Johnny Sins a treat whenever you come home,” Astrid added. “He has hypnotised you.”

“I give him a treat because he is an adorable angel, not because he’s taken control of my mind. And because cats think that’s why their humans leave the home. In search of food. He thinks I’m out hunting for him, and disappointing him would be poor form.”

“Why is your cat called Johnny Sins?” I asked.

“Named after Presti’s favourite porn star,” Larry answered.

“Oh,” was the only response I managed.

“At least I did not call my cat Cat ,” Presti said.

“His name is Grimalkin,” Larry said with the barest hint of frustration in his tone.

Presti sighed as though he’d had this conversation many times. “Which literally means a cat.”

“I have a dog,” I put in. “His name is Pad.” Everyone continued to stare at me. “He has a fear of red socks. Runs as if the devil is on his tail if he catches me wearing them.”

“We had a beagle once, Beagle Scout. He hated toilet paper. Couldn’t leave a roll in the holder, or we’d find it torn up all over the unit,” Astrid said.

“I’d like to get back to Grimalkin—”

“Shall we bake?” Astrid half asked, half shouted. “I do not wish to have this argument again.”

“Why did you call your dog Pad?”

Again, that strange twinge of belonging pinched my insides, leaving me smiling as I began to answer Larry’s question.

Some hours later, we fell exhausted into the outdoor setting in the courtyard behind the Jones home. We were covered in an assortment of baking ingredients, each with a plate of spaghetti Bolognese whipped up by Penelope and all with huge grins plastered to our faces.

We’d baked and talked and laughed. I’d felt like I’d always been part of this group, this family. Not for a moment had I been made to feel like an outsider or practical stranger.

“Your garden smells amazing,” I said as I twirled more spaghetti around my fork. Johnny Sins cavorted about my legs, rubbing himself against my shins. Even he had taken to me, welcomed me as a friend.

“It’s Presti’s garden, really. He selected everything, planted it all and takes care of it,” Penelope answered. “He’s always coming home after one of his classes with new ideas.”

“Flora is my speciality,” Presti said.

“Well, you’ve certainly done a wonderful job. Your home is just… Well, it’s a home if that makes sense.”

“Perfectly,” Penelope replied, smiling warmly at me.

“I’m an orphan,” Larry yelled in something of a non sequitur. “Grew up in a string of foster homes.” He stopped, grabbed Astrid’s hand and kissed the back of it. “I had no idea what a home was, what family was. Then I met Astrid and her family, which includes more than her and her father. Penelope and Presti are her family too. Now, they’re mine. Their home is my home.”

“Isn’t he wonderful?” Astrid asked us all. “Simply divine.”

“Quite perfect,” Presti agreed, leaving me a little—I am ashamed to admit—jealous.

“As?” Larry asked, voice gone low and gravelly. “Might we head home now?”

Astrid leapt to her feet. “I think we must.”

And she and Larry left us in a swirl of blushed cheeks and knowing goodbyes. They weren’t walked out as if they were mere guests. They saw themselves out because Larry was right, and this was their home too.

After their departure, we sat in silence, gazing at the stars, mulling through our thoughts, whatever they might be.

Then, Penelope said, “James, I know you’re embroiled in something of a furore right now, but I hope you know that you are welcome here in this home, this family, for as long as you need.”

“Thank you, Penelope. That means a lot to me.”

She stood, patted my knee and said, “Well, you are very welcome. It’s late and tonight has been… I’m not sure what to call it, but I’m going to head over to Howard’s.” Then she kissed Presti on his forehead, whispered goodnight, and left us alone.

“You have a wonderful family, Presti,” I murmured after a time.

“I am fortunate. I know that. Poor Silkie lost her family because they refused to accept her as she was. Jason Southerland used to come to school every day covered in fresh bruises. Macy Fairclough’s mother used to scream at her from the second she picked her up from school and likely kept it up until she dropped her back the next morning. Shelly and Ian Clovis always looked as if they and their clothes were never cleaned, and Byron Tomkins had the most haunted look in his eyes every single day. And they are just the ones where something was obviously terribly wrong in their home life.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Mm. My point is I know how lucky I am, and I never take it for granted.”

“May I ask about your father?”

Presti tensed but shrugged his shoulders incongruously as if his father’s mention meant nothing to him. “I don’t recall him at all. From what Mum told me, he was, or is, your garden variety loser. Nothing exceptional about him at all.”

“There, I must disagree,” I said. “He has a most exceptional son.”

Though night had long since fallen, the blush creeping up Presti’s throat to the tips of his ears was unmistakable. A small, shy smile ticked his lips in such a way he looked adorable. Thoroughly kissable.

“Tell me about your family?” Presti asked. “I mean, I’ve met your brother and father briefly. What are they like?”

“Well, like you, I can’t complain. I know they love me, but they have such a weight on their shoulders, being the heirs. Honestly, I can’t imagine what it’s like.”

“Are they… I mean, do they want to be king?”

“I don’t think they’ve considered it, actually. They were told they’d be king one day from the day they were born. I’m not sure they’ve even thought about any other option.” Neither had I, for that matter. I hadn’t been raised to be king, but I hadn’t had a say in any other option than being the spare and fulfilling a life of public duty.

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” Presti mused. “I suppose the silver lining is they don’t have the pressure of actually ruling.”

“Thank god.” I laughed. “I love my father and brother, but they’d make terrible rulers. Dad is sometimes a bit flighty, as Mum affectionately calls him. Tends to get lost in his books. If he didn’t have a team to ensure he gets to where he’s supposed to be, he’d never make it half the time.”

“And George?”

“George is…sometimes cruel and thoughtless. He usually means well, but he lacks compassion at other times.”

Along with the whole, ‘your life will be one of public service and duty’ I’d grown up with, I’d also been deluged with warnings of keeping my mouth shut about my family. I’d been indoctrinated with a code of utter loyalty. To be speaking so openly with Presti about my family should terrify me and make me feel as if spiders were crawling under my skin. Instead, I felt relaxed and unburdened in a way I wasn’t used to.

“And your mum?” Presti gamely asked.

“She lives for her charities, which is wonderful,” I hastily added. “Sometimes, though, I miss her, I guess. What does that make me? What kind of person is jealous of the time their mother gives to charities?”

“A son who misses his mother,” Presti murmured.

“But—”

“James.” Presti reached for my hand and threaded his fingers between mine. “It doesn’t make you a bad person to wish you could spend more time with your mother. It just means you’re very much human.”

The same urge, or maybe instinct, that had driven me to ask for Presti’s kiss in my grandmother’s clock room, rode me now. I brought our joined hands to my lips and kissed each of Presti’s knuckles I could reach.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“You’re welcome.” Presti smiled softly. “You should get some sleep. You must be exhausted, and I have a big day planned for us tomorrow.”

“Oh? Any hints?”

Presti stood, bent to kiss the tip of my nose and said, “Not a one.”

My life had been suddenly upended, but with every passing second, I became more and more confident that I’d come to the perfect place and the perfect person to help me turn it right side up.