I snapped a photo of Wrigley and pressed send. One last hurrah before we head back home.
His response was immediate. Excuse me, did you refer to London as ‘back home’?
I paused. I checked. I had.
Another message: Your line here is, ‘Yes, Freddie, you told me so, you are brilliant and wise.’
I sent back the middle-finger emoji. Then: Good luck out there. Hope the helmet fits over your massive ego.
I pocketed my phone and leaned back, breathing in the smell of peanut shells and hot dog remnants and beer, so much beer, as I gazed out across the jewel of a field. If New York had felt far removed from my memories of it, Wrigley Field, with its clock over the league scoreboard and its iconic ivy-covered walls, was still as familiar to me as my own hands. The irony was that I knew I was here to say goodbye. Freddie had been right. Something in my perspective had shifted, something necessary. I had a job and a life in England, and while the States would always be dear to me, London was my home.
Another crack. Addison Russell hit a perfect single up the middle. He drove in two runs; by the time the inning ended, the Cubs had a 6–0 lead. I leapt out of my seat and screamed, pumping my fists, then threw myself delightedly at Nick, folding my arms around him.
“What a first game,” I crowed.
As I went to kiss him, our hat brims knocked together, and a gust of wind blew mine clean off my head. My hair tumbled out, and I pushed up my sunglasses to keep it out of my face as I searched around for my lucky cap.
“Here you go,” said a teen girl from one row up, who’d caught it on the stairs. I turned to thank her, and saw her eyes widen.
“Has anyone ever told you…” she said, then she looked past my shoulder and her mouth dropped open even wider. “You ARE her. You’re THEM.”
Oops.
Nick and I met eyes. He shrugged. Then he took off his cap and waved.
I turned back to the girl. “Thanks,” I said. “I guess I need a better disguise next time.”
“Can I get a photo?” she stammered.
“Officially, I’m not allowed,” I said regretfully. “But I also can’t control what you do when I’m not standing next to you, so.…” I shrugged theatrically, and we exchanged smiles. I made a point of staring at the field from a favorable angle for her—with any luck, she’d sell the photo for college money—before trundling back to my seat.
“What now?” I asked helplessly.
Nick put an arm around me. “Now we watch your Cubs win and worry about the rest later,” he said.
The low murmur in our section swept around the stadium. Twitter knew by the third pitch of the seventh inning. A roving TV camera had crept toward us by the time the Cubs got the second out. When the chords of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” sounded during the stretch, I shot Nick a panicked look.
“Dad always said it was against our religion not to sing,” I hissed.
Nick stood and held out his hand. “Then by all means don’t piss off the powers that be.”
Our whole section was staring at me, and I finally stood and gave them all a look like, How can I resist? The Jumbotron stuck with me for the entire final verse, and by the time I counted out one, two, three strikes you’re out, I was laughing too hard to sing the last line audibly. The crowd whooped and I took a sweeping bow. Nick hugged me to his side.
“So much for doing this the regular way,” I said.
“It’s still bloody fun,” Nick said. “Oooh, look, now we’re on some kind of kissing camera.”
I glanced up, and sure enough, they’d slapped the Kiss Cam graphic on our faces as a chant rose up through the stadium. I pretended to think about it, and then planted one right on Nick’s lips. When I pulled away, he shook his head in mock disapproval and then dipped me just as he had on the Buckingham Palace balcony. The cheers were deafening.
“Hell of a way to end this trip,” Nick said. “And I don’t mind saying that I feel extremely smug about it.”
I laced my arm through his and squeezed it. “You should,” I said. “You win. Future king of the Commonwealth, current king of the Grand Romantic Gesture.”
“What a blunder. I’ve gone too big,” he teased. “How can I possibly top this?”
“By getting me one more hot dog,” I said. “And then by taking me home.”
CHAPTER SIX
BEX AND NICK (FINALLY) PLAY BALLBut Was It Enough? asks XANDRA DEANE.
Palace sources say Queen Eleanor herself blessed the Duke and Duchess of Clarence’s surprise stop at Wrigley Field, but those same insiders confirm there are factions inside The Firm who are unhappy about it.
The Duchess strung together two triumphant days in New York City after the release of invasive topless photos. Critics of the royal couple warn that allowing the sum of the tour’s parts to negate the scandal might be shortsighted.
“Yes, the drone was illegal, but they were not on private property,” an insider points out. “Their immaturity is a concern, and shouldn’t be rewarded.”
The Queen reportedly accepted the explanation that the Duke and Duchess—who otherwise made no public errors—believed they were safely alone, and encouraged them to make the Chicago detour that even detractors admit got solid reviews. Comments on royal social media pages praised the pair for demanding no special favors, and one analyst suggested it was a stroke of genius to frame them as regular people who, ergo, make regular mistakes.
“The more relatable and human they look, the more people think, ‘Well, we’ve all done silly, risky things in our lives,’” said the source. “Whoever is pulling the strings over there knows what they’re doing.”
“I think this is the first good review I’ve ever
