The Heir Affair

it felt like my entire life was in flux—the shifting sands of my relationship with Eleanor, whatever was going on with Freddie and Nick, the ever-changing expectations of the public, even the wallpaper in my bathrooms—it was reassuring to have one thing I could count on: Lady Bollocks assuming I was a dumbass. Seemingly every day Nick and I took deliveries of neatly collated tour binders titled and annotated in her persnickety penmanship. The first ones focused on each city we were visiting, then expanded into the organizations we’d be touring, dossiers on local dignitaries, dress-code suggestions for specific situations—the one for the Calgary Stampede was called Western Wear (Respectful)—and even one that listed the political opinions I was to avoid while on American soil during an election year (in short: all of them). Cilla had texted me one day that she’d walked in on Bea and Marj chortling over an office supply catalog, and I was happy that Marj was handing the reins over to someone who shared her organizational élan and who was, in many senses, the devil I at least knew. But that didn’t mean I enjoyed Bea’s ensuing weekly quizzes, which required cram sessions.

“What is the name of Winnipeg’s Canadian Football League team?” Nick asked.

“We’re not even going to Winnipeg!” I protested. “I’m sorry, but there is no way Bea knew Canada had a football league until two months ago.”

“If I’ve learned anything, it’s that we’ve no idea what Bea knows and when she knew it,” Nick said. “I need your answer.”

I leaned back in my chair, an old, overstuffed chintz number. “The Winnipeg…Wombats?”

“That is not even a sincere guess,” Nick said. “It’s the Blue Bombers. Famous Canadian Kiefer Sutherland is going to be so disappointed in you.”

“Is he from Winnipeg?”

“No idea,” Nick said. “His binder hasn’t arrived.”

As intense as Bea was, it was fun for me and Nick to be united against a common enemy who wasn’t also a close member of his family. We knew her whipcracking was ultimately for our benefit, and so as the months wore on and the spring rains ceded to early summer sun that we were too trapped indoors to revel in, we kept ourselves sane by keeping a running tally of who was scoring higher on her tests and who managed to get more words in edgewise during her lectures. It made us feel closer to have an in-joke to grin about while Bea monologued about what would happen if we forgot that Toronto is not Canada’s capital city. And it helped deflect the weight of what was, essentially, an international audition for the Commonwealth. Instead of faking jollity with Freddie, acting as Eleanor’s personal fun ambassador, or being forced to clean Marta’s iPhone screen, we finally had an assignment that was all about us being us.

“Are you excited, at least?” Lacey asked. “Because the Daily Mail said you’re so work-shy that you made Richard give you the rest of the year off. Hand me that level, please.”

I dug through the tool kit on the floor of her front entryway until I found the neon-green level. Lacey had invited me to the cozy shoebox of a flat she now shared with Olly, ostensibly to catch up in person, but mostly to help with a variety of small tasks. “I’m trying to keep you grounded,” she’d teased. “Also, Olly takes two hours to decide which screwdriver to try. He’s fired.”

“I don’t know if excited is the right word,” I said to her now. “Motivated might be better. I want people to see what I’m worth. And Bea seems skeptical that I can pull this off without violating the Diplomatic Code, which I know she made up, but I still want to prove her wrong. How many nails do you need?”

“Two,” she said, marking spots on the wall with a pencil. “Bea doesn’t think you’re that incompetent. She’s just being Bea. Don’t let her rub off on you.”

I handed over the nails. “I am looking forward to having something concrete to do, since I am so disappointing otherwise.”

Lacey clenched a nail in her teeth and shot me a frown over her shoulder. The Mail had recently written a story suggesting that I was abdicating my royal responsibilities by not producing an heir.

“The Mail is full of it,” she said, pounding the other nail into the wall. “Having babies is not your only purpose in life.”

“It kind of is, though,” I said. “Producing the next monarch is the only part of my job description anyone can agree on. Even three old ladies at Crocheting for Cancer asked Nick when we’re going to get on with it already.”

“That’s so rude,” Lacey said, punctuating this with one final strike of the hammer. “It’s none of anyone’s business.”

“Again, though, it kind of is,” I said. “If I don’t go into labor soon, they’ll probably call for my head.”

“You never even wanted kids that much, did you?” she asked. “I used to assume you’d be my kids’ hippie aunt, like the one in the Ramona Quimby books, who is all cool and carefree and gives the best presents.”

“I never really thought about it,” I said. “I assumed I had my whole life to figure it out. And now here I am, married barely a year, still not sure what I’m doing, and being told I’m late getting pregnant.”

“Don’t let their retrograde shit get you down. You’ll get around to it when it’s right for you,” Lacey said. “Until then, everyone else can mind their knitting. Or their crocheting. Whatever. Does this look straight to you?” She stood back to admire her handiwork. The framed black-and-white photo was of her and Olly laughing with two elephants in the distant background.

“It looks beautiful,” I said. “What’s next?”

“The kitchen,” she said. “Olly is still using a bunch of old stuff he got from his parents. We need to clear out.”

“Aha, there, I can help you,” I said, following her into the petite, bright blue space. “It’s the one