Of course, The Sun’s headline two days after the announcement had been BITTER BEX BANS DARLING DAPH FROM PALACE. Clive’s accompanying article—while smugly reminding readers who’d nailed the scoop in the first place—speculated that Nick was enraged because once the wedding took place, Freddie would outrank him, at least until Nick took the throne himself. Quite a few reporters had made note of this technicality, in fact: Freddie was leaping up from “spare” status, and while Nick was not fussed about having to deploy a bow now and then to his younger brother, Freddie was overwhelmed by the pace of his own version of my duchess training.
“I don’t know how you did it, Bex,” he said, flopping onto our sofa one afternoon and clanking his feet up onto the coffee table. He was back in London after a few weeks of whirlwind events and meetings in The Hague. “It’s endless. I wish I’d paid attention in school when we learned about the Netherlands.”
“At least you don’t need to be taught how to get out of a car without flashing anyone,” I said.
“Yes, but you weren’t asked to learn a totally different language,” Freddie retorted, patting at his breast pocket, and eventually taking out his silver-plated cigarette case. “Dutch is impossible. So many Js.”
“Still smoking?” I asked. “How stressed are you?”
Freddie tapped the cigarette case against the pile of art books on top of the coffee table. “It helps me study. Don’t worry, I won’t smoke in here.”
“I should hope not,” I said, pointing at my slightly distended belly. At just shy of twelve weeks, I definitely didn’t look pregnant yet, as much as like I’d eaten several more doughnuts than usual. Although that was also true. “How long are you back?”
Freddie’s eyes went to my stomach and then back down at the art books. “Forty-eight hours,” he said. “Cilla’s been run ragged trying to get me in with as many of my patronages as possible. Apparently, Bea was on at her about being very clear that I’m not—how did she put it? Totally abandoning my country.”
Bea’s reaction to Freddie’s engagement had mirrored ours: abject shock, smothered by appropriate congratulatory words and then a lot of frowning.
“I always assumed he was going to run off with a cocktail waitress,” she had confessed to me. “I don’t have a binder for this one.”
To Freddie, I cracked, “Lady Bollocks is gonna Lady Bollocks.”
He shook his head, looking suddenly tired. “No, I can read between Bea’s lines. She’s cross,” he said. “I’d hoped she’d be happy for me, even if I did fire her. She willed this into existence, after all. I made a correct woman out of her.” He scratched his head. “At least Cilla and Gaz are on my side.”
The sound Gaz had made when Freddie told him was the exact same one you make when your friend who was supposed to bring drinks to the party shows up with nonalcoholic beer, and I was glad it had escaped Freddie’s notice. “Everyone is on your side,” I said. “We’re just going to miss you.”
Freddie nodded. “I’ll miss you, too,” he said, and the nakedness of it washed over his face for a second before he almost literally shrugged it off. “The Netherlands is beautiful, though. Far less air pollution.”
“Says the man holding cigarettes,” I noted.
“Well, I’ve got to ease my poor lungs into it, you know,” he said. “Can’t go cold turkey on deadly particles.” He smirked at me. “Though there are loads of other legal things over there that are probably terrible for me.”
I laughed and tossed a velvet pillow at him. “Don’t be childish, Frederick.”
“Excellent,” Freddie said, plucking the pillow deftly out of the air and tucking it behind his head. “You already sound like a mum. Do another one. Tell me not to sniff glue or something.”
I threw another pillow. “Too late, I think.”
“Cripes!” He ducked. “How many pillows do you have over there?”
“We bought an arsenal because we knew she’d need something to hurl during Cubs games,” Nick said, strolling in from the foyer. “And, of course, at idiots.”
Freddie smiled tentatively. “You’ll have to have Gaz over twice as often once I’m gone to keep your throwing arm from atrophying.”
“Or, you could visit often.”
We all let that sit there. Nick loosened his tie and bent over my lap.
“Hello, babies,” he said. “How’s Tuesday treated you so far? How many pancakes have you eaten today?”
“About seventy-four,” I said. As someone who generally preferred waffles, this was a very surreal pregnancy side effect.
“You can’t call them babies. You need to try out names,” Freddie said. “Like…Fred and George, after the Weasleys.”
“What if they’re girls?” I asked.
“Fredwina, then. Beautiful name,” he teased. “Ooh, or even better, sell the rights to a charity. Meet Her Royal Highness the Princess British Equine Veterinary Association and her sister the Princess Shark Guardian.”
“Helpful as ever,” Nick said. “I thought you were at The Hague learning about the Dutch parliament.”
“I’m bicoastal,” Freddie boasted. “Or, bi-country, at least for a bit longer. But I’m here on official business.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, and I could see him go tense. “I know it’s expected that you’ll stand up with me at the wedding, Knickers, but I don’t want you to be there just for ritual. It would mean a great deal to have you there with me, and so I would still like to ask, officially, if you would do me that honor.”
Freddie looked so nervous, as if he thought Nick might actually say no. Instead, I watched Nick all but melt at the thought that his brother—after all this—thought he’d ever tell him to go it alone.
“Of course I will,” he said, sticking out his hand in the manner of a dude who isn’t sure if it’s hugging time
