Prince Harry of Wales is engaged to marry a beautiful American actress. He loves her...or so he keeps telling himself. He's ready to marry. She's the one. She has to be.
So why is he having so many doubts?
And then, a chance meeting with aspiring cl...
Our secret honeymoon sped by way too fast. We were just beginning to get used to being around each other 24/7, and now Harry had to go back to London. I knew he had to go, but the constant separation was frustrating, especially now that we were married.
Saturday evening we sat on the little balcony of our hotel room after dinner watching the sunset and sharing a bottle of wine. The weather was surprisingly warm and we were barefoot, Harry with his khakis rolled up and me in a spring dress. The past few days felt like a dream and I was clinging desperately to the little time we had left.
As the conversation lulled Harry said, "There's something I need to ask of you."
"Yes?"
"Because we're married now—even if it isn't official yet—I need you to take down all your social media accounts."
I sat up, surprised at him making the request now, when we were relaxed and I was beginning to have romantic thoughts about the evening ahead. "Why?"
"It's a directive from the Queen. None of us have individual accounts, just the official ones that are maintained and monitored by the communications staff. That way the messaging is consistent and, well..."
"Milquetoast?" I snarked.
Harry smiled. "Yeah, kind of. But it's important to the Queen that our image is positive and family friendly."
"I haven't been on Facebook in ages, and I don't do Twitter or Snapchat any of those," I said, trying to remember if I'd created any wayward accounts back in college, when being instantly connected to everyone else was expected. "I can close those all up, no problem. No one will even notice. The only other one I have is the Instagram account to showcase my designs."
I only had a few hundred followers on my account, mostly other textile artists and some weird people who liked my designs. It was full of wild shots of my friends wearing my designs in odd places, including several of Randa posed around London, laughing as she tried to emulate a professional model's grim stare. I was secretly hoping that Eugenie or Beatrice would be snapped wearing their coats so I could share the photos.
Harry chewed at his lower lip, a gesture I was beginning to recognize as a sign of indecision or weighing his words when he didn't want to speak, and my heart sank.
"I know you want to sell your designs," he said. "I've seen your work, and believe me, it's amazing. Eugenie and Bea are raving about their coats. But now...now that we are married...that's not really something that the Queen will want you to do."
"Are you saying I can't make my coats any more? Or my clothes?"
"Sam, I'm not going to tell you to stop doing what you love. But it's just...you won't need to do that to make money any more. And it won't be considered...proper...for my wife to be selling things. Or advertising. Or using social media."
Now I was the one weighing my words. I guess I knew that this moment was coming, that at some point I would be asked to give up my creative work and turn into a working royal, doing whatever it was that royals really did, besides having their photos taken. I looked ahead to a lifetime of galas and ribbon-cuttings and royal walkabouts and it looked mind-numbingly boring. But this was the trade-off that life with Harry would bring, the price I was going to pay to be by his side.
"Is this non-negotiable?" I asked.
He reached over and took my hand, and only then did I notice that my fingernails were digging into my palms. "You mean selling your designs?"
I nodded.
"I'm afraid so."
I tipped my head back on the chair, studying the stripes of pink and purple clouds in the sky. Well, there went my career. I mean, true, it hadn't been much of a career—yet—but it was something I had worked long and hard for.
"But you can make amazing creations for yourself to wear if you want. I'm sure that will be something the press will be eager to take photos of," Harry said, trying to salvage the situation.
"And hopefully they'll make good comments about them, not nasty ones," I said, thinking about the recent nastiness in the press.
"There'll always be people who are going to hate you," Harry said, with the resignation of someone who had faced the pressure all of his life. I wondered how long it would take me to get to that point.
"So the Queen won't mind if I'm not dressed in designer duds?" I asked.
"I don't think so. As long as it's nothing outrageous or overly revealing. Fashions in the royal family are definitely on the more...discreet side, if you know what I mean. Have a look at what Catherine wears. Although there have been a few people, like Princess Margaret—my great-aunt, the Queen's sister—who were able to be a little more wild and crazy and get away with it."
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The thought of designing some dresses that incorporated a retro, Princess Margaret-type look sparked my interest, and I tucked the thought away until I was alone with my sketchbook and fabric samples. "I'm sorry I'm not really standard princess material. I don't know how to do my makeup or my hair or dress like a princess, and everyone will be judging me."
Harry leaned over and kissed me, nearly falling out of his chair. "Don't be sorry. You'll learn. Catherine did. You can too. And I'll be right beside you all the way."
I left my chair and went to cuddle with Harry in his, my long legs draped across his lap and over the chair's arm. "You're going back tomorrow without me."
"Only for a little while. A week or two. I have to settle these legal matters, and speak with the Queen, and then we can be together. For good."
"I'll have to find a new place to stay," I said. "Greta's moved back into her flat. They wouldn't let me move back in there anyway."
Harry gave me an odd look. "You have a place to stay. To live. Nottingham Cottage."
"You want me to live with you?" I asked, surprised.
Harry laughed. "Of course I want you to live with me! That's the whole point of being married, isn't it? That we live together? Nott Cott is our home—for now."
"What will the Queen say?"
"Contrary to what you might think, she isn't monitoring my behavior every minute of the day. It's not like she just drops by unannounced. We can keep it on the quiet side for a while, until the news about my breakup with Meg dies down. Then we'll make it official."
"How long will that take?"
"A couple of months, maybe?" Harry kissed me. "It doesn't matter. We'll be together."
