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katefiction · 4 years ago

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The Exhibition

by katefiction (Maria) / 2012

(Maria wanted me to say that this is the story she was most proud of writing.)

‘Your Royal Highness, it is an honour to have you here today’, he says fawningly.

I eye him across the table, his old skin is weathered and speckled, his completely grey hair forming a ring around the bald spot on his head, but his crystal blue eyes sparkle at me excitedly beneath the glasses that are falling down the bridge of his nose.

‘It’s a pleasure to be here, Mr. Delmonte’, I lie.

I find myself surveying his appearance more. A navy blue suit jacket made from the finest wool with a matching waistcoat, and a shirt, topped of with a silk tie with a gold tie pin. He looks as though he’s made an effort and I feel a momentary twinge of guilt at my lack of enthusiasm.

I don’t want to be here. In this stuffy office filled with piles of paperwork, tumbling over itself as if it will collapse any second and bury me alive. But then, there’s not much of an alternative.

‘It was wonderful when we heard back from your office, Ma’am’, he says, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘I can’t tell you how thrilled we are to have you involved.’

I want to tell him how un-thrilled I am to be involved in this. How it was only becuase ‘my office’ pushed me into it that I’m here all all. ‘It will be a wonderful opportunity for you to use your skills’, my private secretary had told me, ‘you need to be seen by the public to be doing something’.

I try my hardest not to look bored as Delmonte continues, ‘here at the Victoria & Albert Museum, we welcome anyone with a passion for history. Your degree certainly suggests you have that.’

‘Indeed’, I say smiling falsely, flicking my glossy brown mane behind my shoulder.

He looks transfixed for a moment, staring at the deep dimples in my cheeks as I give him my best ‘interested’ grin. He blinks and snaps himself out of it.

‘Well let’s get to business shall we? As you know, next year will be the 150th anniversary of the Royal Wedding of King William V and Queen Catherine. It is our intention here at the V&A to hold an exhibition to celebrate that momentous occasion, charting their early relationship to the wedding itself … ‘

He tries to go on, but I interrupt him, growing impatient. I had read all he was telling me in the letter he’d sent me three months ago.

‘I understand that Mr. Delmonte, but how exactly am I to be of assistance with your exhibition?’ I emphasise the last word. I don’t intend to be rude, but this whole thing seems faintly ridiculous.

‘Oh, yes, well …’, he is unnerved, and riffles through his papers as if he’ll find the answer in there. An interruption to his monologue was obviously not expected.

‘Your position, Ma’am, would be as the Exhibition’s Special Consultant. You would provide the curators with an insight into the late King and Queen’s relationship … ‘ He trails off, noticing my unconvinced expression.

I lean forward in my chair and look him dead in the eyes, ‘Sir, you understand that I have never met the late King and Queen, don’t you? They passed away over eighty years ago … do I look over 80 years old to you?’

Delmonte blushes fiercely, a crimson wave moving from his neck up to his face. He tries to laugh, but decides it’s too risky. ‘Of course not Ma’am’, he says with a deadpan expression of such strength, I have to admire it.

I giggle to break the tension, and he follows with a small squeak from his throat.

‘Let me begin again’, he says. ‘As a member of the royal family, you have unparalleled access to the royal archives. We believe that there may be items of interest in there; pictures, letters, and the like, that belonged to William and Catherine.’

‘Forgive my ignorance, but could your researchers not apply for access to these archives themselves?’ I say, bored now I’m not winding him up anymore.

‘Well, yes, but Ma’am, your involvement would give this exhibition a certain …’, he looks around the room, searching for the word, ‘ … gravitas!

I try my hardest not to roll my eyes.

He leans into the table, as if he doesn’t want to be heard by the non-exsistant people in the room. ‘I’m sure it would be beneficial for your … public persona’. He winks at me and I want to slap him. He’s obviously been reading the tabloids. I duly remind myself, Princesses don’t slap.

‘I will do my best to find the kind of material you require’, I say through gritted teeth.

He beams at me and taps is fingers lightly on the desk. ‘There was one more thing … ‘

‘Yes?’

‘A great exhibition is one that reveals something about the subject that was previously unknown. We would hope for something … intimate.’

I arch my eyebrow and curl my lip in disgust, ‘intimate?’

‘Your Royal Highness, William and Catherine were a popular King and Queen, the public’s desire for information about them is still very strong’, he rings his hands together.

‘Are you asking me to give you private information about my family?’ I ask him.

‘Of course not’, he insists, although I’m not convinced that he’d be adverse to digging through my ancestor’s underwear draws. ‘Just a little something to bring this exhibition to life! If you were able to find something for us to draw the public in, a unique selling point, it would be a success for everyone involved.’ He winks and me again and I instinctively sit on my hands.

I act as if I am considering it, furrowing my brow. ’I'll do my best’, I say finally, after I feel he’s sufficiently on edge.

‘Wonderful!’, he exclaims as I start to stand up. ‘Please get in touch if you have any queries’. He extends his hand to me and I take it reluctantly. Just as I expected. Sweaty.

‘Thank you, my office will be in touch’, I say, resisting the urge to wipe my hand on my dress.

I slip into my waiting car and immediately kick off my heels, flexing my toes to get the blood back into them. As I watch the colour slowly return, I can’t help churning over what Delmonte had said ; ‘I’m sure it would be beneficial for your … public persona’. He’s right of course.

Since graduating from university thirteen months ago with a degree in History, I had taken on a couple of charities, made a few visits, but not decided on any career plan. My father and my office had tried to help, suggesting everything from the military to finance, all of which I’d rejected. Naturally, the press had pounced on me.

The thing is, finding your passion and committing to it is a little difficult when you’re waiting for the inevitability of life as the future Queen.

I’m pulled out of my reverie by my driver opening the car door, signalling that we’re home at my apartment in Clarence House.

I head barefooted to kitchen, my stomach growling wildly. There standing at the fridge, rustling like a bear, is a tall figure, with greying hair and and portly belly.

‘Fridge pickers wear bigger knickers!’, I say.

He jumps and turns to me, holding a box of chocolate eclairs, ‘hello Cora’, he says, his hazel eyes that are so like mine are twinkling under the kitchen spotlights.

‘Evening daddy’, I walk over and give him a hug and a peck on the cheek.

‘Eclair?’

‘Yes please’. I prop myself up on the tall kitchen stool as he slides the box over to me.

‘How was your meeting?’ he asks, patiently waiting for the cakes to be returned.

I look up, the eclair half way to my mouth, ‘how did you know about that?’

‘I have to keep tabs on my favourite girl’, he says teasing me.

I purse my lips, ‘I’m your only girl, daddy, and if you must know it was boring as fu -, um … hell’. I push the cakes back to him, smiling innocently after my near slip.

He chooses to ignore it. ‘I thought it would be a perfect fit, you like history.

I fill my mouth with more of the cream and pastry to avoid having to reply.

‘Cora you have to start taking responsibility, you’ve been out of university for over a year now.’ He gives me his concerned father look. ‘You are going to be this country’s first queen in over 135 years, you have an example to set. Do you know Queen Elizabeth the second was … ‘

‘Yes daddy, she was twenty five years old when she acceded the throne, three years older than I am now, and one hundred percent more amazing!’

He softens. He hates seeing me upset, or annoyed, or anything other than happy. ‘Princess, just try to make more of an effort, the press will ease if you do, and they might not be inclined to pictures of you coming out of nightclubs every weekend.’

I nod in agreement, that last thing I want to do is let dad down. ‘I’ll try, I really will, but does it have to be with this exhibition?’

‘I thought this one would be right up your street’, he says, clearly disappointed that yet another opportunity would go to waste.

‘William and Catherine? Really, dad?’

‘You’ve lost me Cora, what exactly is the problem?’

‘They’re just so … so boring. Out of everyone they could have chosen, Elizabeth and Philip, the Duke of York and Sarah Ferguson, they choose those two?!’

Dad laughs as he always does when I’m being stubborn, ‘they were loved by this country.’

‘That’s what Delmonte said’, I say screwing my face up at the memory, ‘he wants me to find something intimate about them. I mean, what is there to find? Boy meets girl at uni, they fall in love, get married, live happily ever after. It’s hardly Romeo and Juliet!’

I rest my elbows on the table and lean into my hands. Dad leans down to my level, ‘you never know what you might find if you put your mind to it, they were young once too, you know.’

I’m not convinced. But the prospect of more ‘Party Princess’ headlines makes my blood run cold.

I sigh dramatically and put my hands up. ‘Fine, I’ll get Maggie to get me access to the archives at Windsor, you never know, I might find their dusty old scrabble set’, I gasp and place the back of my hand to my forehead, ‘oh the scandal!’

Dad shakes his head and passes me another eclair.

* * *

July 2009

‘Qi?’

‘Qi’, he says, ‘eleven points.’

‘William, that is not a word’, I lift my eyebrow at him.

‘I think you’ll find qi is a circulating life energy in Chinese philosophy’, he says, lining up his tiles neatly on the Scrabble board. ‘Are you gonna put your letters down or shall we declare me the winner now?’

I look down at my tiles. A ‘J’ and a ‘P’ sit on the tile holder. ‘I need another letter’, I say, reaching into the bag to get one. An ‘E’. There’s still hope yet.

Sitting on the rug opposite me, William is smirking. He picks up his final piece, an ‘S’, and smugly places it on the end of the word ‘climb’, which I created half an hour earlier when this game was looking much more promising.

‘Plurals aren’t allowed!’, I tell him confidently.

‘They are according to the Scrabble dictionary…’, he pats the book on the floor next to him. I bought it for him last year for Christmas and have regretted it ever since. ‘…which makes me the winner … again!’

I huff childishly and pour my ‘J’, ‘P’ and ‘E’ back into the bag, making William laugh tauntingly.

‘You’re such a sore loser Middleton’

‘Oh shut up!’ I say, picking up his winning ‘S’ and launching it at his head.

He yelps suddenly and clutches at his eye.

‘Oops! Are you ok?’. I scramble over the board to him, knocking all the words out of place and trying not to laugh.

’I need two eyes to fly helicopters you know’, he says feigning anger.

I giggle and pull his hand from his eye, pretending to inspect it for damage, ‘you’ll live to fly another day Flight Lieutenant Wales.’ Leaning in, I trace my lips over his eyelid, planting a small butterfly kiss on his skin.

He pulls me closer to his body, and I end up curled up in his lap. I start fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, ‘I wish you didn’t have to go back tomorrow’.

William had been training with the RAF in Shropshire for the last few months. I’d missed him terribly.

‘So do I’, he brushes a piece of hair from my face. ‘It won’t be long until I’m stationed somewhere full time’. He looks down at the floor nervously. ‘We were talking about North Wales … do you like it in Wales?’

I stop playing with his shirt and place my hand flat on his chest. It is an odd question. ‘I guess so, does it matter?’

‘Yes’.

I can’t disguise my confusion. All of William’s career decisions have been made without me in mind, and now, tonight, surrounded by the mess of Scrabble tiles, I’m part of the equation. ‘Why?’

‘Because …’ He gulps and I watch as his Adam’s apple shudders in his throat. ‘I was hoping you’d come with me.’

* * *

Windsor Castle is rather an imposing place. As I walk into the large open entrance, the enormous paintings of my long dead ancestors look down at me from the cold stone walls as if I’m doing something wrong. I shudder and move along quickly to the round tower that holds the Royal Archives.

Waiting there to greet me is a tiny middle-aged lady, dressed immaculately in a sea green tweed dress suit, with her brown hair pulled back into a tight bun. She curtsies as I walk in.

I extend my hand, ‘Pleasure to meet you’.

‘Your Royal Highness’, she says taking it. ‘Welcome. My name is Joan Hilson, and I’m the Keeper of the Archives, may I give you a short tour before we begin?’

I agree and as she walks me around the rooms, I am impressed that far from this place being stacks of dusty documents and objects piled on rotting wooden shelves, it is a sleek and disaster proof space, more akin to a high-tech laboratory. Joan has laid out some items that she thinks I might like to see. She leads me to a weathered looking book that she has displayed for me on one of the research tables.

‘This is Queen Victoria’s diary, it’s really quite revealing’ she says proudly.

For the first time I feel a flicker of excitement as I read Victoria describe her wedding night, “He clasped me in his arms, and we kissed each other again and again! When day dawned (for we did not sleep much) and I beheld that beautiful face by my side, it was more than I can express!“

I turn to Joan with a new found sense of determination, if Victoria could write this openly in 1840, surely William or Catherine could in 2011? ’Is there anything like this from William and Catherine? Letters or a diary, something the public has never seen?’

Joan shakes her head, ‘I’m afraid Ma’am, that nothing of the kind was ever given to the Royal Archives’.

My heart sinks. Just when I was getting into this project.

Joan senses my disappointment. ‘You must remember, communicating personal feelings on paper largely became became extinct in the family after King Charles III. King William and Queen Catherine most likely communicated through text message or email.’

‘And I suppose there are no print outs of those?’, I say partly in jest, partly in vain hope.

Joan merely laughs, which I take as a no. ‘But we do have plenty of other items.’ She takes me into a small reading room with no windows, where there are boxes upon boxes of documents stacked on the table. ‘I took the liberty of selecting some some things to get you started.’

You don’t say, I think, as I ponder whether lack of sunlight could send me insane. Joan leaves me to get going and I hunker down and begin wading through the documents.

Two hours later, and I want to smash my head against the wall. In 120 minutes I have found official documents between King William and the Monarchs and High Commissioners of Thailand, India, Sweden and every other country known to man. I have found parliament papers, pictures of William and Catherine at state dinners and most excitingly, a dead spider squashed between the pages of their official coronation programme.

Joan comes in, and finds me resting my head on the table. I jump up with a start. Gracefully, she acts like she saw nothing.

‘I forgot to give you this’, she says, handing me another box.

I groan inwardly wandering what sleep inducing item it will contain. When I open it, however, I find a leather bound book, embossed with the words ‘The Language of Flowers’. I look up at Joan questioningly.

‘It was Catherine’s, the copy she used to choose her wedding flowers. She was very keen on the meanings behind flowers, take a look, the pages she used still have their corners turned down.’

I remove the book carefully from the box and start flicking through the turned down pages ; lily of the valley means “trustworthy”, myrtle “hope and love”, hornbeams “resilience”. I am almost done looking at each page when I notice a slight bulk between two of the pages.

I open them and am surprised to find what looks like it used to be a flower pressed between the pages. It is crumbling into dust, but a picture along side it shows it was once eight lavender coloured petals, forming the shape of a star and long stamen with bright yellow anthers. Joan comes over to my seat, not bothering to hide her curiosity.

She watches as I take out a handwritten note that has been slipped in with the flower.

“Grewia similis/Crossberry flower. Meaning: Calmness/Peace. 900-102″

’900-102? What does that mean?’ I say.

Joan furrows her brow. ‘It’s anyone’s guess Ma’am, but it must have meant something to Catherine’.

‘So this is her handwriting?’

‘Oh yes, I would recognise her and King William’s writing anywhere’, she says, blushing slightly.

I concede that the book might be of some use to the exhibition and tell Joan that someone from the V&A will be in touch about it. As I start to leave, Joan stops me, looking sheepish.

‘Please forgive my impertinence, but if it is something more personal you’re looking for, may I suggest looking somewhere closer to home.’

I give her a puzzled look, willing her to continue.

‘Kensington Palace’, she says looking at me as if this was obvious. ‘They resided there for over fifty years. If there are personal artifacts anywhere, I imagine that’s where they would be.’

I curse her inwardly for not telling me this two hours ago, but outwardly, I thank her, hoping that Kensington Palace holds something more significant than a crumbling old flower.

* * *

August 2009

I run my toes through the fresh strands of grass, enjoying the sensation of the ground on my bare feet. Next to me, where I’m propped up on the hill, I pluck out a single daisy.

‘Do you know daisies are a symbol of childhood innocence?’, I say, twirling it between by index finger and thumb.

‘Do you know I don’t care?’, my sister Pippa replies, lying next to me, sunglasses shading her closed eyes. ‘Is that how you seduce Will? By talking about flowers?’

I give her a playful slap on the arm and return my gaze to the polo field, where William is dismounting from his horse.

‘What’s going on with him anyway? Have you agreed to move in with him yet?’ Pippa says.

‘No, we’re just sorting out logistics’, I bite the inside of my lip as I always do when I’m uncomfortable.

Pippa turns to me. ‘What’s the issue? You have lived with him before’.

‘I know, but that was different, it’s so far away’, I start plucking absently at the daisy petals.

Will begins to walk towards us, red and sweaty from the match. ‘Alright?’, he says when he reaches us, his body casting a shadow from the sun.

‘William, if my sister moves in with you, are you going to let her out of her cage to visit her family occasionally?’ Pippa says bluntly.

‘Pippa!’ I screech unattractively.

William stutters, unsure if she is joking or not, ‘I don’t control your sister, she can do what she likes.’ He looks between me and Pippa, it’s obvious he doesn’t know who he should direct his comments at.

‘Are you going to steal her away to live with you when you’re back in London too?’, she jokes.

Will laughs, ‘not likely.’

I flinch at his response. Not likely.

‘Well there you are then, I’m going to get another drink’. Pippa stands up and strides off, leaving William still standing over me awkwardly.

‘Is that why you haven’t said yes yet? You’re worried about not seeing your family?’, he asks.

I roll my eyes. ‘Of course not, I’m not a child’, I say dismissively.

‘Then what is it?’

I ignore his question and go straight in for the kill. ‘Why is the idea of me living in London with you so funny? I’m good enough to be in Wales with you, but in London, I’m dismissed?’

William looks around to make sure no-one is listening and crouches down to me. ‘Are you being serious? I live in Clarence House, you can’t live with me there Kate!’

‘I know- I didn’t say I wanted to. I just want you to want me to’.

‘Of course I do’, he says sweetly.

‘I don’t want to be in limbo’, I refuse to look at him, embarrassed with what I’m saying, ‘part of your life in Wales, but less important when we get back to London and you have your friends and family around.’

He taps his knees, and I can tell he wants to take my hand, but can’t in public, ‘I asked you to live with me because I want you more included in my life, my whole life.’

A silent understanding passes between us. We’ve talked at length for hours about the future, he wants me to be ready to join his ‘public life’. The reality is, that right now, I’m not.

* * *

‘Mr Delmonte emailed me, he wanted to know how you were getting on.’

‘You can tell him I haven’t found any of their knickers’, I reply.

Maggie looks at me with a mixture of disapproval and amusement. We are browsing through the private store room in Kensington Palace. It is place that holds items belonging to royals long gone, that have been passed down through the generations and ended up in this room because no-one knows what to do with them. I wonder to myself if my grandfather has thrown any unwanted items in here over the years.

‘When I’m in charge, I’m going to send all this crap to Windsor. Joan will love it’, I say, fondly imagining Joan’s face as I hand her centuries worth of personal royal items.

Maggie is digging through boxes of William and Catherine’s clothes, ‘what about this?’, she says, peeling back the protective paper to reveal a beautiful rose pick ball gown, adorned with glittering silver beads. She removes a picture of Catherine wearing the dress that lies with it, and hands it to me.

I turn it over and recognise the same handwriting that I’d seen at Winsdor last week.

‘Ark Gala, June 10th, 2011′

‘Gorgeous’, I say. Maggie closes the box and puts it to one side in our ‘keep’ pile.

As my private secretary, Maggie has been an invaluable part of my life for the last five years – though I’d never tell her that. A tall, lean woman with short, curly black hair, she possesses all the patience, resilience and drive that I so lack, but has enough of a sense of humour to put up with me.

I look over at the pile we’ve created. The dress, a ruby necklace, and a monogrammed baby blanket that belonged to their first son, and my great-great-great grandfather, King George, is all I have to present to Delmonte.

I sigh heavily and sit myself on the floor, all but ready to give up. I look up at the rows of shelves that we still have to work through. Maggie had devised a plan ; she would take the clothes section and I would take the boxes of items that had had been labelled chronologically, working from left to right.

I decide to deter from the plan and grab the box closest to me on the bottom shelf, labelled ‘Queen Catherine, Date Unknown’. Maggie glances at me, but I ignore her frown and open the box.

Inside is a smaller black box, around the size of a shoe box but made from metal and clearly locked. Lifting it up, I inspect it, finding it has not one, but two combination locks on its front, each requiring three digits.

Maggie reels off some numbers that might work, birthdays and anniversaries relating to William Catherine. None of them work and I’m ready to find a crow bar to jimmy it open.

‘I wonder why no-one has tried to force this open’, I say, pulling at the handle in a vain attempt to open it.

‘Probably because they respect her privacy’, Maggie says, carefully placing a floral Jenny Packham day dress back in it’s wrapping.

‘Oh please, she’s long gone!’

‘That doesn’t make her any less of a human being does it? She was your great-great-great-great grandmother after all’

Maggie always has a way of chiding me without crossing the line. I put the box down guiltily and watch her as she continues to pack away the floral dress.

A thought pushes itself to the front of my mind … the floral dress … flowers … Grewia similis/Crossberry flower …

‘900-102!’ I yelp, startling Maggie.

My fingers fumble with the locks as a I dial in the digits. A satisfying click tells me it’s open.

‘How on earth …?’

‘She is my great-great-great-great grandmother, we have a connection’, I tease, and Maggie rolls her eyes, unconvinced.

The contents are full to bursting, and as soon as I lift the lid, photos, cards and letters spring out as if coiled up, and waiting to be freed for 150 years.

I rifle through them excitedly, finding a birthday card with a countryside scene on the front of it. Inside it reads, ‘Dear Kate, have a good one, Will’ and is dated at the top ’9th Jan 2003‘.

I soon discover that everything in this box is dated, ‘God she was anal’, I mutter to myself.

Maggie and I begin to sort the contents into piles, ‘do you think this will count as ”unique selling point” for the exhibition?’, I ask, mimicking Delmonte’s voice.

‘It’s certainly something, just look at this’, she says picking up a letter and reading from it.

’29th April 2011,

Dear Kate, good morning for the last time as a “single woman”. I bet right now you’re sitting in bed, your hair all ruffled, and probably quite tired from little or no sleep. And I bet as you read that, you’re unconsciously tidying your hair – caught you! I want to remind you of the promise I made you. That no matter what, I will do everything in my power to make you happy, I will protect you, and I will love you for the rest of my life. I meant it then and I mean it now. I will see you there – don’t be late! W’

Maggie appears from her reading doughy-eyed, ‘how romantic’.

‘See, Joan was wrong, they did write letters!’, I say feeling justified.

I grab a pile of photos, looking for something worth using. One shows them, presumably in bed, a view of just their heads, Catherine kissing William on the cheek as he beams into the camera. Another has them standing under a tree. The glare on the lens in strong, causing a bright light to obscure the left hand side of the photo.

I turn the photo over looking for the inevitable date, but instead am faced with something totally different. Attached to the back, with something yellow that I assume was once sellotape, is a piece of string about three inches long. On closer inspection, I see it’s actually three pieces, two red, one brown, braided together.

‘This one doesn’t have a date on it’, I say, passing it to Maggie.

‘Perhaps she forgot’, she replies, inspecting the braid.

‘She dated everything!’. I show her the back of the rest of the photos as evidence. ‘Don’t you think it’s suspicious?’

‘I think you’re looking for a scandal where there isn’t one’, she laughs, passing me back the photo, ‘you were the one telling me that William and Catherine were as dull as dishwater.’

‘Urgh fine!’, I put the photo in my handbag, my instinct still telling me there is something special about it. ‘Maybe I am reaching. I still can’t imagine them spontaneously making out in the palace corridors in a fit of passion’.

Maggie rolls her eyes. ‘If you are quite done with that mental image, we have a tour to Kenya to prepare for!’

* *

September 2009

‘Kate’, I hear through a fog of sleep.

‘Kate … Catherine’, it continues.

‘Catherine’, this time it’s right next to my ear, accompanied by a rough, bristly rub against my cheek.

I release my hand from under the covers and swat it away. This only encourages it further and before I can protest, William’s head is buried in the crook of my neck, murmuring, ‘wake up’.

I push him off me, giving in and opening my heavy eyes, ‘I was enjoying my sleep!’

‘You need to build up some resilience, one night out and you’re dead to the world’. He rolls over onto his back.

‘That wasn’t any night out Will, I haven’t drunk that much since uni’. I place my hand over my head and close my eyes again, feeling the sweet relief of darkness. I’m sure I can feel it pounding into my hand.

Along with a small group of friends, William and I had gone to Raffles in Chelsea last night. In the two years since we had gotten back together, I had kept a low profile, working for my family’s business and seeing William on the weekends. Apart from last night. Where we drunk like sailors.

My mind flashes back to us dancing carelessly in the club, giggling like teenagers on the way home, and stumbling through the doors at Clarence House at 3am.

I let out a low groan, ‘do you remember last night?’

‘Not really’, he yawns.

‘You serenaded me with ‘Moon River’ when we got here and insisted on kissing me all the way way up the stairs’, I say, recalling the image in my mind.

William laughs.

‘It’s alright for you!’, I say poking him in the stomach. ‘You can get pissed and it’s fine, your staff must’ve thought I was such a waster!’

William’s face is suddenly serious. ‘Of course they didn’t’

I turn my head and stare at the ceiling, knowing I’m right, that William’s staff don’t respect me, as they shouldn’t have to as his girlfriend, but I don’t want to argue.

William mimics me, looking at the ceiling, ‘you know things’ll be different … when we’re … when you’re my wife.’

My heart leaps. I love hearing him say that word.

‘Things’ll be easier for you.’

‘In some ways, but not all’, that niggling fear of my life and marriage becoming public properly scratching at me.

William takes note my resistance, ‘do you still want to marry me?’

‘More than anything’, I turn to smile at him, and try to lighten the mood, ‘stop trying to dig for compliments.’

He doesn’t take the bait, but instead places a warm hand over my head, ‘you know if I had it my way, it would just be us, a small house, and a dog.’

‘I know’, I reassure him, knowing he wants ‘just us’ as much as I do.

‘Speaking of alone time, I was thinking we could go to Scotland for a couple of days after we come back from Kenya?’

Now it’s my turn to nuzzle into his neck, ‘fine by me’. I lie warm in him embrace, relishing the thought of ten days of peace, ten days where our secrets will be ours to keep.

* * *

The African sun begins to set as we make our descent onto Kenyan soil, turning the sky golden.

‘Ah ha, signal!’, Maggie says behind me, already un-strapped from her seat and walking up the aisle. ‘Your Royal Highness, I have a few emails’, she says, ignoring the flashing seat belt sign and holding onto my seat, wobbling precariously.

‘Kwasi has confirmed the details of your stay with him and his family and has kindly agreed to show you around Wakamba village … ‘

The Craigs, who had incidentally been friends with my family since the days of King William, had kindly asked me to to stay with them for a couple of days as a respite, after my four day tour of Kenya. After telling them about the exhibition, they regretfully told me there was nothing to be found at Lewa Wildlife Conservancy or Rutuntu Lodge, where William and Catherine had become engaged. However, they suggested I spend some time in a the neighbouring village of Wakamba, where another old friend of the family, Kwasi, lived.

‘ … And the Telegraph has gotten wind of your involvement with the exhibition.’

I groan, ‘Delmonte is such a snake’

‘It is quite complimentary Ma’am, I suggest you read it when you have a moment’. Maggie looks at me optimistically.

I know she is thinking the same as me, that between this visit and the exhibition, I might just get back on track.

Four days in Kenya fly by. I am touched by the warm welcome of children with ‘Welcome Princess Cora!’ signs at an educational project, and the positive attitude of sports and women’s charities that I visit.

But as fast as it began, it’s over and I find myself jumping out of the land rover onto a dirt track to meet Kwasi.

I see him approaching from a distance, tall, well built, with smooth dark skin, he looks almost elegant. I haven’t seen him in ten years, but already sense the familiarity.

‘Your Royal Highness’, he says with a low bow, ‘welcome to Wakamba.’

‘Oh please, none of that!’, I say, slightly dazzled his strong handsome features.

He smiles gratefully and continues to speak with his thick Kenyan accent. ‘Ok, “Miss Cora” then.’

As we walk into the village, conversation turns to William and Catherine, ‘My ancestor was close to King William and Queen Catherine’

‘Really? How?’, I say, curious as to how my family first forged links with this tiny village.

We begin to walk down the dirt path as we talk, ‘they took an interest in Wakamba, helped to build a school, that kind of thing’.

There is a tone in his voice that irks me, like he is holding something back, but I ignore my instinct, wanting to extract as much information as I can.

‘So you are looking for something special for an exhibition?’, Kwasi says as we enter the village, the afternoon sun burning on my back.

‘Yes, something unseen by the public. Do you think you could help?’. I am hopeful, yet cynical that this village will hold anything special.

‘I believe they visited our village in 2009, 2010, 2023, then intermittently until their deaths’

’2009?’ My curiosity is awakened. ‘I read they came here in 2005, then 2010′

‘I suppose our ancestors can surprise us’. There is that tone again. I try and shrug away the feeling that he is hiding something from me.

I am suddenly distracted from my suspicions by a purple hue in the corner of my eye. Turning to my left, I see a shrub, adorned with star shaped purple flowers. ‘Is that ….?’

Kwasi walks towards the shrub, ‘this? It is called a …’

‘A Crossberry flower’, I say, cutting him off, and joining him at the plant.

He plucks a flower off the shrub and hands it to me. ‘They are native to Kenya.’

My heart skips a beat.

‘Catherine had pressed one of these in a book’, I tell him. ‘She must have got it on one of her visits. It seems strange though … ‘

‘Why is that?’

‘There was just this one flower in there. There are so many beautiful flowers in Kenya, and she bought back just this one’. I furrow my brow, trying to make sense of it. I can hear Maggie in the back of my head telling me I’m clutching at straws.

Shaking my head, I shrug off that niggling feeling that I’m missing something.

* * *

October 2009

Taking long confident strides, kicking the loose stones as I go, I hold William’s hand gently, bathing in the freedom we have to do such a simple thing.

‘It’s so incredibly isolated’ he enthuses as we wonder around the small village of Wakamba in Kenya. ‘Ian was so right about this place.’

Ian Craig had told us about Wakamba after William told him we would like to explore a real Kenyan village.

‘It’s so unaffected’, I say, marveling at how the trees and paths blend effortlessly with the simple wooden houses.

‘I can imagine us living somewhere like this’, he says, grinning at me.

I give him a coy smile in return. Since he had asked me to live with him, he had been more and more open about our future together.

Ian had arranged for us to dine with a friend of his, Matu, and as we approach his small home, I am struck by the delicious smell of stew.

‘Welcome!’ Matu shouts from the doorway holding a wooden spoon, an old man of a around eighty, he is short and stout.

He takes our belongings and puts them down in the corner of his small kitchen come living area before urging us to start eating. As we tuck in to the meal, Matu explains that he is a missionary and a preacher, ‘and what do you do?’, he asks, oblivious to who William is.

‘I’m training to fly helicopters and Catherine works for her family’, Will says, pleased to be anonymous.

‘Any children?’, he responds.

We both laugh, ‘not yet’, William says, making me blush.

‘You must go to the lake and bathe there, it will bring you good luck in your marriage and fertility’, Matu says sincerely.

‘Why not!’, I say brightly, looking to William, who looks just as keen.

We spend the next two hours chatting to Matu as if we’re old friends. I have never felt so comfortable with a stranger, and I can tell that William feels the same, in the way that he hangs onto Matu’s every wise word.

William listens intently as he explains his branch of Christianity that uses the trees, water and the ground as a symbol of His presence in everyday life and symbols of people’s relationships with each other. But when the candles begin to dim, we reluctantly decide it is time to leave.

After thanking Matu, we step out into the night. William takes my hand, his eyes glistening in the darkness, ‘let’s go to that lake.’

* * *

After an afternoon spent talking to Kwasi and exploring his village, he introduces me to his stunning wife Constance, and together we sit in the veranda of his home talking all night, the two of them inspiring me with their clear way of thinking. The conversation leads to the exhibition a few times, and although I still feel Kwasi is hiding something, my instinct tells me I can trust him.

The following afternoon, dusk is approaching and I’m seated outside at the wooden table and chairs swatting away the flies that are circling my paw paw fruit.

‘Let me get those pictures I was telling you about!’ Kwasi says, gliding into the house and quickly returning with a photo album.

He lets me open it, and I immediately see this is an album dedicated to William and Catherine’s visits to the village. Pictures jump out at me of them surrounded by African children, and later, with their own children, sat up on a tall African Blackwood tree.

Kwasi looks at me as I inspect the pictures, as if he’s waiting for a reaction. Finally I get to the end of the book, where slotted neatly into the last page is a picture I’ve seen before. It shows William and Catherine in front of a tree, only this time the left hand side of the picture isn’t obscured by light.

‘Who’s that?’ I say, pointing at a man standing on the left of the picture.

Kwasi leans in, ‘that is my great great great great great great grandfather that I told you about, his name was Matu’, he says fondly taking a breath from all the ‘greats’.

‘I have that same picture’. I pull it out of my handbag, where I’d kept it since discovering it at Kensington Palace. ‘Only mine has this on the back’.

I hand him the photo and he turns it over. As soon as his eyes fix on the braid, I see them widen.

‘Do you know what that is?’ I try.

‘I’m sorry, no’. He hands it back. I’ve had enough people lie to me to know that he is doing the same.

‘That’s a shame’, I say nonchalantly, ‘that means the best I have is a letter from William to Catherine on their wedding day’. It will take all my wily feminine charms to get him to open up.

Frustratingly, he doesn’t fall for it. ‘Excuse my impertinence, but is that not a very personal item to hand over to the public?’

‘It’s not as if they’re still here!’ I respond, tucking my hair behind my ear, a little stung.

‘Of course, of course’

‘Besides, the letter is literally the best I have to offer the exhibition. The curator wants to see me in a few weeks’

‘There is nothing else you can give them?’

I shake my head. ‘William and Catherine weren’t exactly groundbreaking, they always played by the rules’

Kwasi is suddenly defensive, ‘I’m sure that isn’t true.’

Deciding I’ve had enough, I let down my polite guard, ‘what is it you’re not telling me Kwasi?’

‘Nothing at all Miss’. Now he’s smiling, as if he’s happy I’m questioning him. ‘Like I said, our ancestors can surprise us.’

‘What does that mean? You said that yesterday at the Crossberry bush’, I narrow my eyes at him.

‘It is a lesson we must all learn in life not to judge before we can see the whole picture. See that tree over there?’ He points to a tall, yet weathered African Blackwood. ‘That has been there for over 150 years, it probably saw your ancestors as it sees you now’

I wonder for a second if he expects me to speak to the tree. ‘I don’t understand’.

‘We all have a habit of living in the now’, he says kindly. ‘We look to the past, of people in the past, as dead vessels, without feeling. You want to find something about William and Catherine, yes?’

‘Yes’

‘Then begin to think of them as people, as hearts and minds, not as bodies. See them as the people they were, with dreams and desires like the rest of us’

‘How? I didn’t even know them, I have nothing to go on, I haven’t got a diary or correspondence or anything to prove what was going on in their heads’, the words fall clumsily out of my mouth.

Kwasi laughs as if he’s watching a new born lamb trying to walk for the first time. ‘Miss Cora, you do not need proof, you have the best tool possible … your own mind. Who would know better than the young future Queen what the desires of a young Prince and his future Queen would want?’

I nod, seeing his point.

’150 years changes a lot, but some things stay the same’, he looks at me pointedly, and then back at the African Blackwood, standing proudly as it would have done when William and Catherine were here.

Kwasi gets up and goes into the house, and returns with something clenched in his fist.

‘You are not too different from your great great great great grandmother, you certainly look just like her’, he laughs, all you need is to make a connection’

He places a small memory card on the table, gets up, and leaves.

* * *

October 2009

‘Are you actually going to go naked!?’ I whisper, as William removes his boxers, placing them in a pile next to the lake.

The lake is surrounded by trees, it’s almost pitch black, and not a sound can be heard, but I still feel the need to whisper.

‘William, we could get in so much trouble!’ I continue, watching him dip a toe into the lake, clutching my clothes to my body. Reluctantly I’d stripped to my underwear.

‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’, he teases, pulling my clothes away from me and adding them to his pile. ‘Besides, Matu says it’s the done thing here’

He starts to wade into the shallow water, and I follow him, my feet finding the wet soil.

‘Will …’ I say, barely able to see him.

‘I’m here’, I feel his hand around my back and he leads me deeper into the lake, ‘don’t worry, you’re safe’.

We reach a spot shallow enough to be safe, but deep enough that we need to paddle to stay afloat.

‘This is amazing’, he says, looking up at the moon.

I move closer to him so our bodies our touching. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘It would be even better if you did it properly’. In the moonlight, I see a smirk pass across his mouth as his unclasps my bra.

I give in and take it off, along with my pants, slipping them off underwater and clutching them tightly in my hand.

William’s arms grip tightly around my waist and he kisses me, finding my lips instinctively in the dark.

I caress his back as his trails his kisses down my face. ‘Do you think we’ve been sufficiently blessed now?’, I say.

He pulls away and suddenly ducks under the water, submerging his head. I giggle quietly and do the same.

‘Now we have!’, he grins, as I push my wet hair from my face.

‘To a happy and fertile life together’, I say, resting my chin on his shoulder.

‘To the rest of our lives being ours to live’, he says thoughtfully, gazing at his surroundings, like a light has just sparked in his mind.

‘What are you thinking?’, I ask, running a hand through is hair.

‘Nothing, just about how we should take advantage of every moment’. He runs his hands down my body, exploring every curve.

Lifting my head up, I find his lips again, my senses tingling, heightened even more by the near pitch darkness. Only William could convince me to do this, to get me in such a state of intimacy that I can’t bear to turn back.

He begins to kiss me more deeply, to the point that I can’t tell the difference between his hands and the water moving around my body.

‘We shouldn’t’ I mumble as his mouth moves along my collar bone.

‘We should do whatever we want to’, he whispers.

And now his hands are unmistakable. Taking me far away from my concerns and leaving me in a state of pure euphoria.

* * *

Sitting on the bed in Kwasi and Constance’s guest room, I slip the memory card into my laptop, and click on the only file that appears.

It immediately bursts to life, the reds, blues and golds of that day in April 2011.

William and Catherine’s wedding.

I frown consciously, wondering why Kwasi would have given me something that I could find anywhere else. Fast forwarding through the ceremony, I realise that there is nothing more to this than a copy of the wedding. Frustrated, I hit the stop button and fall backwards on to the bed.

Make a connection.

Propping myself up, I begin doing an internet search on Catherine. Surprisingly to me, I quickly learn that she wasn’t as beloved to the public as I’d thought.

Scrolling through archives of articles about her, I read that she was called ‘waity-Katie’, and ‘lazy’ for not forging a career. I look at pictures of her leaving clubs, a forced smile nearly always on her face, and I’m startled by how much I really do look like her.

The similarities are obvious, she struggled to find her identity then, and so am I now.

Drawn in completely, I spend the next hour reading as much as I can about Catherine, with or without William, before their marriage. I cringe with sympathy reading about her wayward uncle and find myself mumbling ‘buggers’ as I find paparazzi pictures of her at her most normal moments.

For the first time, I forget about the exhibition as I gladly watch William talk about their engagement, “we were planning it for at least a year if not longer“, knowing that once day I will be doing the same thing.

Lying back once again and fixing my gaze on the mosquito net above my head, I begin to contemplate what they would have wanted that day, if things were different.

To travel the world alone? To live quietly together without the world watching?

If they were so similar to me, as Kwasi suggested, then maybe. If I am wrong about them, I certainly know what my dreams are.

I want a direction in life; a career I love, that I’m not pushed into. I want to live my life without being judged every time I step out of the door. I want to fall in love with whoever I want. I want the biggest moments of my life to be mine to enjoy. My birth, my first day at school, my graduation, are now stored in some film archive for generations to watch. The future offers the same fate, my engagement, my wedding, my funeral.

I sigh unconsciously and twist my head to look at the frozen image of a smiling William and Catherine on the screen. Everything I’d read, all the research I’d done meant nothing, I knew that now. I didn’t need all that to tell me something about them, because although 150 years apart, our hopes, our dreams, our lives, run parallel.

Feeling a closeness to them for the first time, I flip back to the copy of the wedding and rewind to the start. Catherine reaches the altar, locking eyes with William. Grinning to myself, I watch as he says ‘you look beautiful’.

And then he says something else to her. ‘Stunning?’ ‘You really do?’ No.

I rewind and play it again, and again, each time, my face getting closer to the screen, watching William’s lips move.

Then I see it, his lips forming the words so clearly, it’s laughable.

I slam the laptop shut and bolt out of the room as fast as my legs will carry me.

* * *

October 2009

Late morning in Wakamba, and the lake water has had a wild effect on my hair, causing it to curl uncontrollably around my head.

William returns from a morning visit to Matu carrying a steel bowl of fruit. ‘Brunch from Matu’, he says, placing it on the small wooden table in the tiny secluded wooden hut we’re staying in by the lake. I tuck into some paw paw fruit.

‘Don’t you wish every day was like last night?’ William asks, joining me at the table.

I laugh, ‘wouldn’t that defeat the point of a romantic moment, if it was every day?’

‘I don’t mean that, I mean that feeling of freedom, of nobody knowing where we are or what we’re doing’

‘That I agree with’, I nod, chomping down on my fruit.

William had had this conversation with me many times, about how powerless he was a someone who would one day be a symbol of ��power’. While I could empathise, the paparazzi following me as much as him, there was only so far my understanding could go.

He places his hand on mind and gently rubs my forefinger.

‘I need to talk to you Kate’

Something has changed in him during this trip, like a weight has been lifted from his burdened shoulders. Usually, I would put it down to a natural relaxation on holiday, but this time it was different.

‘I don’t want you to feel like you’re wasting you’re best years on me.’

There is something familiar in his tone that make me nervous.

‘I don’t', I say defensively.

He curls his fingers around mine protectively. ‘You put up with so much shit that you shouldn’t have to.’

That tone sparks a memory. This is how he spoke to me when he broke things off two years ago. My heart thumps in panic.

‘It’s no wonder you think my staff don’t like you or that I don’t want you to live with me in London. You don’t deserve to feel like that’. He looks out of the small dirty window on to the lake.

‘I can put up with it … if I have you’, I clutch his finger in a vain attempt to stop him doing what I think he’s about to do.

He returns his gaze to me, ‘but you shouldn’t have to, that’s what I’m trying to say Kate, you’re not ready to join my family, and I won’t put you in that position’

I pull my hand away and stand up hastily, almost tripping over the table leg. I can’t listen to his excuses.

‘Where are you going?’ he watches me as I rush out onto the deck that overlooks the murky lake. Suddenly it doesn’t look so romantic anymore.

‘I need air’, I say.

He follows and is standing close behind me before I know it. I cling onto the deck rail with both hands, feeling the splintered wood pressing into my skin.

‘I just don’t understand…’ I say quietly.

And then he laughs, almost a joyful laugh. It is an odd time for humour, I think to myself.

‘Don’t you see?!’ his voice is so confident, I feel momentarily ashamed that I don’t ‘see’ at all.

He turns me around and looks me dead in the eye, willing me to understand. ‘It’s about time something changed, Kate, and I’m about to change it’.

* * *

I bound through the front doors of Kwasi’s home, not caring who hears me, ‘Kwasi! KWASI?!’, I yell.

I see him sitting there on the porch swing, serenely looking into the distance, apparently oblivious to the screaming woman next to him.

‘Kwasi’, I say again, breathless.

‘Good evening Miss Cora’, he says, as if he’s just noticed I’m there.

‘I’ve worked it out!’ is all I say.

He gives me a puzzled look, ‘worked what out?’

‘Urgh don’t be all wise on me! You know exactly what don’t you?!’

Kwasi gives me a frustrating hint of a smile.

‘I did what you said’, I continue. ‘I made a connection. I put myself in their shoes, oh gosh it was so obvious.’ The words are flying out at lightning speed. ‘They wanted the same thing I do, why wouldn’t they? I’m living their life 150 years later.’

He listens, politely nodding to my nonsensical words.

‘I watched the memory card.’

‘Beautiful wedding, hey?’, he smiles.

‘It just hit me, I was watching her arrive, them I saw it. I saw what William said at the altar’

I want Kwasi to reassure me that what I’ve just seen was correct, but he merely sits, waiting for me to finish.

‘He says it, as clear as day, he was trying to make Catherine laugh … “déjà vu”‘

‘Miss?’

I repeat it it, with conviction this time, for in my heart I know I’m right, ‘he said “you look beautiful … déjà vu” ‘

* * *

October 2009

William’s eyes are brimming with excitement. He holds his hands just above my elbows from where he turned me around, not wanting to let me go, not wanting me to let go.

‘Marry me’

The words hang in the air, in the stunned silence between us. My mouth moves to try and speak, but no words can escape.

‘Marry me Kate’, William repeats.

I shut my eyes, wondering if I open them again, I’ll wake up. When I do, William is still there looking down at me, his face full of anticipation. I try to order my thought,s trying to connect the time before and after those words he just spoke.

‘You just said I’m not ready to join your family’ I say finally.

‘That’s just it, I said I don’t want you to have to live that life yet, I’ve never said I didn’t want to marry you’

‘Will, you’re not making any sense, those two things go together’, I take his hands, wondering if the sun has got to his head.

‘Not necessarily’, he grins and raises an eyebrow. ‘I want you to be my wife, I want to marry you … today.’

Comprehension hits me like a lightning bolt, my mind opening up to what he’s suggesting.

‘You can’t do that to your family, they’ll be devastated’

‘Not if they don’t know about it’. He’s had this all planned, I realise. He has all the answers to my doubts prepared.

‘How do you intend to keep that from them?’ I manage a small disbelieving laugh.

He squeezes my hand gently, getting closer to my face, ‘people here don’t marry with legal bindings. We don’t need a piece of paper to say we’re married.’

He waits for a response, but gets nothing.

‘Look, you have to know how much I love you, how committed I am to you’

‘I do’, I say.

‘You don’t Kate, I know you, you’ve been so patient, but I know it bothers you that we can’t be like other couples. Last night at the lake it just hit me. We want to marry each other, so why don’t we?

‘I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this, just to prove something to me’, I say with concern.

Will smiles, ‘I want to wake up with you every day and be able to call you my wife. I want us to live alone together up in Anglesey with no intrusions, no expectations, just you and me, as man and wife. It’s the perfect solution, none of the pressure, but all of the marriage’

I give him the first hint of a smile, making him beam at me.

‘When you’re ready, and only when you’re ready, we’ll do it in public, but until then, it’s our marriage, and ours alone’, he places him warm forehead against mine.

’I suppose I better find a dress’, I say quietly.

‘Is that a yes?’

‘That’s a yes’.

* * *

I sit on the porch swing next to Kwasi, suddenly exhausted from my revelation. ‘They eloped’, I laugh. ‘I can’t believe they actually eloped.’

‘Not so boring after all, hey?’ Kwasi teases.

‘How long have you known?’ I ask him. It’s clear to me now that this is what he was leading me to understand.

‘I’ve suspected it for a few years. You see, Matu died of a fever a couple of years after their first visit to Wakamba, In his delirium, he talked of marrying a Prince and Princess. Of course no-one believed him because of his condition, but over the years it has become a folk tale in our family that the Prince and Princess were William and Catherine. It was only this afternoon that I knew for sure, and that was because of you’.

‘What did I do?! I knew nothing!’

Kwasi laughs, ‘the picture you showed me, with the string attached to the back …’

‘Yes?’

‘I am willing to bet that was Catherine’s wedding ring, and that picture was of their wedding day’.

‘No wonder she didn’t date it’, I say more to myself.

The romance of it all starts to seep into my skin. Two people in love who just wanted to live by their own rules, to have the most important day of their life between themselves. Something that I wish I had.

‘How did nobody find out? Surely there were papers?’

‘I have looked, Miss, but there is nothing, it’s my belief that there was no legal part to the wedding.’

‘So they weren’t really married?’, I ask cynically.

Kwasi shakes his head, ‘they were married in the eyes of God’, he says wisely. ‘Let me ask you, in their second wedding, at what point were they pronounced husband and wife?’

‘Ummm …’

‘Before or after they signed the documents in the back room?’, he prompts.

‘Before’, I say, understanding.

‘Exactly, and the crowds cheers outside bled into the Abbey, because to them, that was what made them married, not the paperwork’. He smiles at me kindly.

We sit in silence for the next half an hour, listening to the insects scuttle around us. I stare into the dark night, trying to imagine the two of them making the decision to tear up the rule book. It must have been liberating, and terrifying in equal measure.

‘What will you do Miss, about your exhibition?’, Kwasi says, breaking the silence.

Kenya seemed like a world away from Delmonte’s stuffy office and indirect remarks. Back then, I would’ve given anything to find something to give him for the exhibition, just to get him off my back. And now, now that I had the biggest story I could imagine, could I really give it up? William and Catherine had come from being my dead ancestors, to here, bathed in the same hot African air that they married in, they are my family.

But this would change things for me, I would get taken seriously by the press … by my father. It was the age old battle ; my head versus my heart.

‘I don’t know’ I reply, ‘I just don’t know’.

* * *

October 2009

‘Flowers, as requested’, Will walks into the hut with a handful of flowers for me to choose from, as I’d asked him to find while I tamed my hair.

Wearing a white shirt with the first three buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbow, with tan khaki trousers, he looks smart casual, but so incredibly handsome.

‘Matu says he’s ready when we are, he’s waiting under the blackwood tree’, he says.

‘And you’re sure he won’t tell anyone?’As trustworthy as Matu seems, I’m still nervous about trusting a virtual stranger. But William had told him who he really was, and had faith that he would keep our secret.

‘Postive’, he places the flowers down on the table where I’m seated and kisses the top of my head. ‘I’m gonna head down there, don’t be late’

‘I won’t’. I reach up for another kiss and he obliges, sending the butterflies in my stomach wild.

Alone again in the hut, I pick a dress from my bag. Cream, with small embroidered yellow flowers, it sits just above my knee with a sweetheart neckline and thin straps. From all the flowers Will has chosen, I pick out a distinctive purple, star shaped one with yellow stamen to match my dress and attach it to my hair just above my right ear. I make a mental note to find out the meaning of this flower when I get home.

Taking a breath, I leave, taking the short walk to the tree, feeling more confident, more happy, and more content than I ever have. The afternoon sun is warm against my back as I approach, as if it’s pushing me along gently. When I arrive, my heart warms at the sight of two lines of the same flower I have in my hair, creating a makeshift aisle. At the end, framed by the giant branches of the tree, is William.

He reaches out his hand as soon as I’m close enough to take it, and I do willingly, ‘you look beautiful’, he says, making me blush lightly.

‘Welcome’, Matu says emerging from behind William. ‘Shall we begin?’

We both nod.

‘William, Catherine, we are here today in the presence of God to join you as man and wife …’ Matu goes on to read a few passages from the Bible. I stroke William’s fingers occasionally during the readings, to which he replies with a quick glance and smile.

Finished with the passages, Matu opens the front cover of the Bible to reveal a small braided string. ‘William, please present Catherine with the ring’.

William takes it and places it over my wedding finger.

‘The three strands of this ring represent those values most important in marriage ; honestly, respect, and growth. William please repeat after me …’

Will repeats after Matu as he ties the ring tightly around my finger. ‘I William Arthur Philip Louis take you Catherine Elizabeth as my wife, in the values grounded in our love, I promise to respect you as my equal, be honest with you always, and encourage your growth as an individual and within our union.’

‘I Catherine Elizabeth take you William Arthur Philip Louis as my husband …’ I repeat the vows, smiling teasingly for a moment at the length of his name. Without a ring for William, I hold both of his hands tightly until I finish.

‘We shall take a moment for your personal promises to each other’, Matu says and steps back a few paces respectfully.

William locks his eyes into mine, ‘Catherine … Kate. From the moment I met you, I knew there was something special about you. Your easy manner, your loyalty, and your beauty made me see that our friendship could be something so much more.’ He bows his head for a moment, ‘I know we’ve had our ups and downs, but never in those downs did I ever imagine my life without you. You’ve made me happier than I thought was possible. I promise you with my life that as your husband, I will always protect you, and that I will always love you. No matter what the future has in store, I will never let anything get between us. Our marriage will be ours and only ours, and I will thank God every day that I have you’

I fight to keep my emotions under control, taking a deep breath before I begin. ‘Will, when I met you, I was so nervous, to think I’d be standing here years later marrying you is beyond anything my 19 year old self could understand. You have been a friend, a confidant, a support, and a lover …’ I say the last part quietly ‘ … and I thank you for putting my needs above anything else. I know one day things will be so different, I will be public property, but I promise you that I will be yours and only yours for as long as I live. I will support you and love you and I will make you proud. From this day on, I will be your wife, and I will be by your side until my last breath.’

The emotion on Will’s face is evident, but not one to cry, he leans in to kiss me instead.

‘Ah not yet Sir!’ Matu says suddenly. I had forgotten he was there. ‘One more thing’.

William, do you take Catherine to be your wife? To love her and honour her from this day, and to honour God through your union?’

‘I will’, he beams.

‘And Catherine, do you take William as your husband, to love him and honour him from this day, and to honour God through your union?’

‘Of course … I will’

‘As God as our witness, I pronounce that you are man and wife together, you may seal your union’, he grins and backs away once more.

William clasps his arms around my waist and I reach up, pulling his shoulders in. Our lips meet, his warm skin on mine. We are oblivious to the rest of the world, held in our own moment, the biggest moment of our lives.

And it’s ours, only ours.

* * *

29th April 2161

The words are large and imposing on the poster beside the door ‘William & Catherine : A Celebration’. Below the words is a picture of the two of them on their wedding day – their second wedding day, that is.

‘Shall we go in Ma’am?’, Delmonte says excitedly, wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers.

‘Lets’ I say, feeling a lots less hostile towards him.

Behind me is Maggie, making sure everything is running like clockwork, and behind her, another staff member escorting my father, my guest of honour, around the exhibition.

Delmonte shows me around the exhibition, the reporters and cameramen scuttling around trying to get a good shot. We get to a large glass cabinet, almost the length of the wall.

‘And now Ma’am, the pièce de résistance! Your wonderful discovery!’

I smile wryly surveying my work.

Two weeks after I’d returned form Africa, I’d taken a visit back to the Kensington Palace store to double check the contents of the black box. When I found nothing else relating to the wedding, I placed the box back, only to feel it hit something bulky behind it. Pulling out what appeared to be a large alum that had been stuffed unceremoniously at the bottom of the shelf, I found my treasure.

Pages upon pages of photos. All taken by Catherine. Photos of their children just after their births, one of William lounging in a bedroom, undoing the collar of his Irish Guards uniform, dated 29th April 2011, and plenty of their holidays over the years, all capturing the intimate and normal moments of their family life.

Delmonte had been delighted, it wasn’t a scandal, but it was an insight into their lives from the eyes of a Queen.

In the end giving up their secret was never an option. Maybe it would have gained me respect, but respect wasn’t worth selling out my family. It would stay with me forever, and it gave me hope that one day I would experience a moment of pure freedom.

As we move the wedding part of the exhibition, I notice the ‘Language of Flowers’ book sitting in a cabinet with a recreation of the Royal Wedding flowers. Next to it, is the leaf of paper that once held the crossberry flower, and Catherine’s handwriting: “Grewia similis/Crossberry flower. Meaning: Calmness/Peace. 900-102″

Behind me, I overhear my father’s escort describing a photo, ‘this was taken in ’08′, she says.

An idea springs to my mind, not ’2008′, but ’08′. I look at Catherine’s note once again. 900-102. I break it up. 90-01-02. I tilt my head, flipping the numbers in my mind.

20-10-09.

20th October 2009.

A laugh escapes sharply from my mouth, making the press and Delmonte eye my curiously.

The 20th of October 2009, exactly a year before they became engaged. The pieces fit into place like a conductor directing the final notes of his orchestra.

That night in the Rutundu Lodge, they weren’t merely getting engaged, they were celebrating their first wedding anniversary.

I laugh again, unable to stop myself.

‘Are you ok, Ma’am?’ Delmonte says nervously.

‘Please, just laugh with me!’ I say quietly.

He obeys me instantly, chuckling along.

And now I’m laughing at him too, great booms of laughter escaping my body.

Of relief, of joy, of hope.

Somewhere up there, no doubt together, I know two people are looking down on me and doing the same.

The End.

#katefiction #royal fanfiction #cambridge fanfiction #kate middleton

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calumcest · 5 years ago

Text

you and i were fireworks that went off too soon - chapter six

[ao3]

we all know the drill i did an exam and wrote 6k on 2 hours sleep. yes i am slowly going insane

i just wanna do a quick shoutout to three very important people that have seen me through tonight: @ashesonthefloor who listened to me scream and helped me and read part of it to reassure me it actually made sense, taron egerton for singing so beautifully on the rocketman soundtrack, and richard madden for being the most beauitufl human being to grace the planet and also for having a scottish accent

Luke turns up at Calum’s apartment at eleven a.m. on Christmas Day, Clifford and a pile of presents in tow. He can barely get his finger onto the doorbell, shifting the jumper he’d got Calum to his other arm to free up a hand and dropping the cologne he’d bought Michael onto the floor in the process. He swears as it hits the ground with a bang, and leans down, forgetting the other presents he’s carefully balanced in his arms which immediately go tumbling down too.

“Oh, fuck’s sake,” Luke mutters, and drops to his knees, gathering all the parcels in his arms as Clifford watches with mild interest. He’s just picking up the cologne when the door opens, and he looks up to be met with Calum’s amused expression.

“You know,” Calum says conversationally, “most people just use the doorbell.”

“Fuck you,” Luke scowls, getting to his feet and almost dropping the cologne again. Clifford’s tugging on his lead, panting and wagging his tail, putting on a show for Calum, and it’s not helping the whole precariously-balanced-presents situation. “Can I come in?” Calum grins, and steps aside, gesturing grandly for Luke to enter his little apartment. Luke considers flipping him off as he passes, but a warning wobble from the gift card balanced on top of the jumper makes him change his mind, and he just heads straight for the living room and dumps the presents down on the sofa before they can fall to the floor again.

“Merry Christmas to you too,” Michael says from a chair at the table, eyeing first the badly-wrapped gifts and then Luke. Luke sighs, kicking his shoes off and throwing them in the general direction of the hallway, and unclips Clifford from his lead. Clifford immediately goes bounding off in search of Duke, and Luke hears a faint oh, c’mon, Cliff, he’s sleeping, don’t disturb the old man from Calum in the hallway that Calum knows full well Clifford’s going to ignore.

“Would it kill you to take the two steps back to the hallway to put your fucking shoes away?” Calum says, appearing in the door to the living room with one of Luke’s shoes in his hand. Luke shrugs, haphazardly shoving the presents under the little tree Calum’s set up in the corner.

“Maybe,” he says, and Calum shakes his head, but puts Luke’s shoes away for him before heading into the living room and throwing himself down on the sofa next to Luke and flashing them both a bright grin.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, and he sounds far too happy for someone who’s sitting in an apartment without aircon in thirty-five degree heat. Michael rolls his eyes, but there’s a small smile playing at his lips, and Calum spots it, holding his arms open and making grabby hands for Michael to come and sit on his lap.

“Absolutely not,” Michael says, pointing at Calum. “It’s way too fucking hot for that.” Calum pouts a little, but lets his arms drop to his side again.

“Should we do presents now, or after lunch?” Luke asks.

“Now,” Michael says, eyes back on the gifts Luke had brought with him, because he’s an impatient bastard. Calum rolls his eyes as he gets to his feet, shooting Luke a look.

“Why’d you even bother asking?” he says, a touch exasperated, and Luke grins.

“Do mine first,” Michael demands.

“Which ones are yours?” Calum asks.

“Are you kidding me?” Luke says, a little offended that Calum can’t tell the difference between his and Michael’s wrapping. Luke might be bad, but he’s not that bad. “The ones wrapped in duct tape.” Calum reaches for a squishy-looking one, looks at it for a moment and then tosses it at Luke, who catches it deftly.

“You got scissors?” he asks, and Calum throws Michael a beseeching look. Michael sighs heavily, like getting scissors for the duct tape he’d chosen to wrap his presents with is a huge ordeal, but gets to his feet and disappears into the kitchen. He reappears a few moments later with a meat cleaver, and Luke stares at Calum in disbelief.

“Why the fuck do you own a meat cleaver?” he asks, and Calum shrugs.

“To cleave meat,” he says, reaching for the knife from Michael and holding it out for Luke.

“Are you insane?” Luke says, not sure whether he’s directing the question at Michael or Calum. “How the fuck am I going to open a present with a meat cleaver?” Michael shrugs, throwing himself back in his chair.

“Not my problem,” he says. “I don’t have to open any presents wrapped with duct tape.” Luke scowls but reaches hesitantly for the meat cleaver, casting a doubtful glance down at the gift in his lap.

“Try sliding it in sideways,” Calum suggests helpfully.

“Or lift the wrapping paper up and cut into it,” Michael offers.

“You guys are fucking stupid,” Luke tells them, placing the cleaver on its side and carefully applying a little pressure to create a small tear, then setting the knife aside and using his hands to rip the rest of the wrapping paper off.

“Or do it like that,” Michael mutters, like Luke’s just ruined his fun somehow. Luke sends him a brief look of disapproval, shaking out the present Michael’s bought him.

It’s a fluffy blanket with Clifford’s little face about a hundred times the size of life printed on it, gazing happily up at Luke, tongue out. It’s the dumbest thing Michael’s ever bought Luke, and Luke fucking loves it.

“I love it,” he tells Michael, grinning as he flips the blanket the other way around to inspect the back.

“‘Course you do,” Michael says, but he’s smiling too.

“I’ll take it with me on the flight,” Luke says thoughtlessly, carefully folding the blanket back up. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Calum and Michael exchange an alarmed look, and realises with a sickening lurch of his stomach that shit, he hasn’t actually told them he’d agreed to go to London yet. He’d wanted to save it until after Christmas, not wanting to taint their first Christmas together with the inevitable argument that’ll come with both Michael and Luke stubbornly standing their ground and Calum trying to please both of them.

“You’re going, then?” Michael asks bluntly, and Calum sighs, clearly having hoped for something a little more diplomatic. Luke swallows.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Okay,” Calum says, before Michael has a chance to jump in and say whatever thoughts are putting that dark expression on his face.

“Look,” Luke begins, stomach churning uncomfortably, but Calum cuts him off.

“No,” he says firmly, and Luke’s not sure whether it’s directed at him or Michael. “We might not agree with your decision, but we’re going to support you. Aren’t we, Michael?” He punctuates it with a glare in Michael’s direction, and Michael holds his gaze for a moment, eyes furious, before he nods tightly. Calum, apparently satisfied with that response, turns back to Luke.

“So, when do you go?” he asks, and Luke shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he says, because he’d kind of just thought Ashton would email Mr Johnson back and say they were both participating. “I’m assuming Ashton’ll tell me.”

“Have you spoken to Phil about it?”

“Not yet,” Luke says, because it’s the Christmas holidays, and he’s not even thought about how to phrase it. Can I work remotely for four weeks while I participate in a soulmate study in the UK because my soulmate’s my ex and my tattoo keeps growing and I need to find a way to stop it sounds a little desperate.

“Have you told your parents?” Michael asks knowingly, and a lick of embarrassment at how badly Luke’s thought this all up flares up in him, quickly turning to annoyance.

“Jesus, what’s with the fucking Inquisition?” he asks, a little irritably. Calum holds his hands up in defence.

“We’re just wondering,” he says.

“Well, don’t,” Luke says moodily, shoving the blanket down on the sofa next to him with a little more force than strictly necessary. Michael rolls his eyes.

“No need to bite our fucking heads off,” he says, and Luke sighs, closing his eyes briefly. This is exactly what he’d wanted to avoid; he’d wanted his first Christmas with Michael and Calum to be a good one, to not cast a shadow on Calum and Michael’s first Christmas together. That thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that Luke tries hard not to identify as guilt, and he swallows it and his pride down.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Luke says. “I- I was going to tell you. After. I didn’t want-” he cuts himself off, gesturing at nothing, and hoping Michael and Calum get it.

“Didn’t want this to happen?” Michael says wryly, and Calum huffs out a laugh. Luke has to smile at that too, looking down at the floor a little sheepishly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I want this Christmas to be a good one for you.” He hopes they get what he means with that too, that he won’t have to say the words I don’t want to ruin your first Christmas like I’ve ruined so many other parts of the beginning of your relationship, because he doesn’t know whether they’ll actually make it across his lips.

“Oh, Luke,” Calum says softly, eyes wide and kind. “Of course it’ll be a good one. We’re spending it with you.”

“Plus, what’s Christmas without a family argument?” Michael points out, and Calum and Luke both laugh, and Luke feels the guilt swirl in his stomach with the pure fucking love he has for Michael and Calum.

“You think that’s going to be the argument of the day?” Calum says, eyes glinting as he grins at Michael. “Wait ‘til Luke opens the present we got him.” Michael’s grin immediately turns wicked, and he casts a look of delight in Luke’s direction, which Luke does not trust one bit.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says, eyes locked with Luke, who frowns.

“What did you arseholes get me?” he asks, and both of them just laugh, a touch hysterical. “What the fuck did you get?” he demands again, fighting back a grin as he watches Michael and Calum laugh and the love in his stomach shoots into his veins, warming up every fibre of his being.

-------

(“You signed me up to receive daily BDSM tips?” Luke asks in horror, staring at the piece of paper he’s just pulled out of the envelope. “That I can’t cancel?” Michael and Calum are falling about themselves laughing, can’t get more than two fucking words out before dissolving into giggles again.

“You know what the best part of it is?” Calum gasps, wiping at his eyes.

“We signed Ashton up too,” Michael splutters.)

-------

When Luke goes back to work a week and a half later, he’s got a whole speech prepared for Phil. He rehearses it on the train on the way to work, double- and triple-checking the email Ashton had forwarded him on Thursday to make sure he’s got his dates right, whispering it under his breath and getting strange looks from the guy sitting opposite him, but it’s all in vain.

“A soulmate study?” Phil says, a calculating look in his eyes, like he knows something that Luke doesn’t know he knows.

“Yes,” Luke says, mentally skipping to the next part of his speech. “It’d be for four weeks, but I’d be able to work remotely, and-”

“Yes,” Phil says.

“-I could probably come back early if I were neede- huh?” Luke cuts himself off mid-recital, when his mind finally catches up with his ears. “Sorry?”

“Give me the dates and I’ll approve it,” Phil says, eyes already back on the notepad in front of him.

“Oh,” Luke says, a little nonplussed. “Okay. Thank you.” He stands there for a moment, staring at the top of Phil’s head, bewildered, until Phil looks up again.

“Was there something else?” he says pointedly, and Luke shakes his head, makes his excuses, and leaves. Strange, he thinks, but Calum doesn’t seem to think anything of it when Luke relays the story to him ten minutes later.

The researchers want to start as soon as possible (‘ideally the fifteenth’, the email says, because they can somehow fast-track their visas), and Luke, Calum and Michael spend an age researching the cheapest flights from Sydney to London before Luke pulls up the original email stating that all expenses would be reimbursed by the university sponsoring the study and books himself a flight that stops over in Singapore for just under an hour, wanting to get the twenty-two hour long trip over as fast as possible.

His mum gives him a knowing smile when he rings her and explains the situation, explains that he’ll be gone for four weeks, and it makes something like the teenage annoyance Luke had felt whenever she’d catch him staring at a boy burn hot in his stomach. He snaps at her that it’s only because he wants to get rid of the tattoo, and then immediately feels guilty when the smile slides off her face. He sighs, and tells her he’s sorry, and she smiles sadly and says she knows, and Luke knows the sad smile isn’t because he snapped at her and has to swallow back the annoyance rising like bile in his throat again. He fucking hates that everyone thinks they know how he feels about Ashton better than he does.

Calum and Michael tell him repeatedly they think it’s a bad idea as they help him pack, but Calum secretly gets Clifford the required shots and certification from the vet to allow him to travel to the UK, and Michael pays Luke’s next month of bills for him. Luke tries not to think about it too much, because even though it’s only four weeks, it’s the longest they’ve ever been apart, and Luke catches both of them choking on their words and turning away quickly when the conversation centres on the length of time Luke’s going to be away for too long. Instead, they bitch and bicker about what clothes Luke should pack, whether or not Michael can be bothered to check in on Luke’s houseplants every few days, whether Luke should take a guitar with him, and if packing books is really necessary. It’s the only way the three of them can cope with the sense of loss that’s blooming in all of them, blossoming in their lungs and choking them from the inside out.

He tells Ashton he’ll be there on the fourteenth, and just gets an Okay in response. They don’t speak apart from that, and Luke’s too preoccupied with packing and sorting his affairs at home to spare any thoughts for Ashton.

His parents drop by with a few leaving gifts, and for his mum to fuss over how badly he’s packed and re-pack everything at least twice, and for his dad to pat him on the back and try to have a serious talk about feelings and Ashton that Luke really, really isn’t ready to have. He’s saved by Jack and Ben appearing, handing him a bottle of champagne that he’s not sure he can take into the UK anyway, loudly making bets about whether or not Luke’s going to get laid in London in order to take their mum’s attention away from Luke, scolding the two of them for being so lewd, so Luke gets a moment to breathe. They stay for dinner, and it’s the first time the five of them have been together in months, and Luke loves it, loves the way they all fuss over him in their own ways, feels a pang of love and gratefulness in his heart that he’s got a family like this.

On the thirteenth, Michael drives Luke to the airport. Calum spends the entire car journey twisted around in the passenger seat, telling Luke all the work he’s shafted onto Chris and Tom so Luke’ll have less to do when he’s in England, reminding him for the seven millionth time that because of the time difference, the deadlines that Luke gets sent will actually be a day earlier for him, and Luke rolls his eyes to avoid the anxiety growing in his stomach with every mile they get close to the airport and tells Calum yes, he knows, he’s worked remotely before, it’s not going to be any different because he’s in London.

The three of them manage to hold it together until Luke’s checked his bags and Clifford in, Calum kissing Clifford a tearful goodbye, Michael instructing Luke far too seriously to bring his son back in one piece. It’s when Luke’s got to head to security that they all break down in tears.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” Luke sobs, arms around both of them, not even caring that they’re getting strange looks from everyone around him. It’s suddenly hitting him, the enormity of what he’s going - four weeks, thousands and thousands of miles and hours and hours of timezones away from his entire support system, with nobody he knows except the man he’d hoped never to see again in his life.

“I’m going to miss you more,” Calum says, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

“I’m going to miss you most,” Michael says, voice wobbly in a way that Luke hasn’t heard since the time in Year Ten he’d thought Calum was dating Stephanie Newham.

“We’ll call you every day,” Calum promises. “We’ll figure out the timezones.”

“Don’t forget about me,” Luke says, aiming for light-hearted, but his voice wavers and he’s all choked up, and Michael and Calum both tighten their grip on him.

“Never,” Michael says fiercely.

“You’re our best friend, Luke,” Calum says, equally fierce. “You’re part of us.” Luke just chokes back another sob at that, pulls them in tighter, and kisses both of them on the cheek.

“I love you,” he says, head starting to throb from crying already.

“I love you too,” both Calum and Michael echo.

When they finally disentangle themselves, all wet sleeves and blotchy faces, Luke feels anxious and sick, and Calum presses one final kiss to Luke’s forehead, and Michael one to his temple.

“Go,” Calum says, giving him a watery smile.

“I love you,” Luke says again, a little desperately.

“We love you,” Michael says earnestly, scrubbing at his eyes. “Now get on that flight.” Luke nods, and slings his carry-on bag over his shoulder.

“Text us as soon as you land,” Calum calls, as Luke takes his first steps towards security. He thinks he kind of understands what Neil Armstrong must have felt taking his first steps on the moon now.

“I will,” Luke promises.

“And remember to call Ashton a bastard from me,” Michael shouts, and Luke grins, trying to stop the stinging feeling in his nose and the lump in his throat telling him he’s going to cry again.

“I will,” Luke says again, pulling his boarding pass out to scan in the barrier. The barrier slides open, and Luke hesitates, throwing one last glance at his two best friends, his anchors, his everything.

He steps through the barrier, and Calum and Michael both grin at him, fresh tears streaming down both of their faces, and it’s all Luke can do to turn away from them and step into the queue for security.

-------

Luke’s flight starts boarding at half-past five, and he’s one of the first groups called after business class have finished boarding, meaning he’s one of the first on the plane. The plane’s set up in rows of three, and Luke’s got the middle seat on the right hand side, so he shuffles in, takes the things he wants for the flight out of his bag and shoves it inelegantly in the overhead locker. He doesn’t bother putting his seatbelt on, since he assumes someone’s going to have the window seat, just texts Michael and Calum that he’s on the first flight and switches to scrolling through Twitter as the plane slowly fills up.

A friendly looking lady smiles at him as she sits down to his left, busying herself with getting her things out of her bag and arranging her pillow, and Luke returns her smile politely. The flight’s getting fuller and fuller, and Luke thinks for a brief few minutes that maybe, just maybe, he can snag the window seat for himself, before the lady’s getting up to let someone in and Luke automatically does the same, only to be confronted with-

“Ashton?”

“Luke?”

“You-”

“I didn’t know-”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Luke’s confusion burns into anger, but he steps out of the row to let Ashton in, not wanting to cause a scene in front of the woman, who’s looking a little bemused. Ashton shuffles past them, too close in the confines of the plane, and the scent of pine and oak and spice hits Luke as Ashton pushes past, making him feel dizzy and giddy and so fucking angry.

“What the fuck?” Luke hisses, when Ashton’s flopped down in the window seat and Luke’s back in his seat. Ashton just gives him a tired look.

“Why the fuck are you surprised, Luke?” he says, a little wearily. “We’re heading to the same place on the same day. There are only so many flights.” Luke knows he’s right, hates that he’s right, and doesn’t want to be wrong.

“Yeah, but why are you here?” he demands, gesturing at the seat. Ashton’s far too close for comfort, arm on the armrest he’s going to be sharing with Luke for the next eight hours, and the scent of pine and oak and spice is still clouding Luke’s mind.

“Jesus, Luke, I’m not stalking you,” Ashton says, like he knows what Luke’s thinking, rolling his eyes. “This is just my assigned seat.”

“Right,” Luke says sarcastically, folding his arms. “So this is just a massive coincidence.” Ashton gives him a look.

“I don’t think anything since getting the tattoos has been a coincidence,” he says, a little too knowingly. Luke hates it.

“Well, at least we’re going to find a way to stop it,” he bites out, and then turns away from Ashton pointedly. Ashton sighs, but doesn’t answer, instead fumbling with a book he’s got out of his bag as the safety briefing begins.

-------

Luke doesn’t even realise he fell asleep after dinner until the slow drone of the pilot’s voice rouses him gently. He lets the sound wash over him, not opening his eyes in case he wakes up too much and can’t fall back asleep, instead nuzzling further into the warm, firm pillow on his right.

And, fuck, aeroplane pillows are never firm.

Luke jolts upright, eyes flying open so fast he thinks he might have burst a capillary or something, ear and cheek hot from where they’ve been resting on Ashton’s shoulder.

On Ashton’s shoulder.

Ashton, thank the fucking Lord, also seems to be asleep, head resting on his hand, and Luke turns away before he can think about how peaceful Ashton looks, face tranquil and relaxed in sleep. His heart is beating wildly - shit, did he fall asleep on Ashton before Ashton had fallen asleep? Does Ashton know? Why does he feel so fucking well-rested for two hours’ sleep on a plane? - and he focuses to the dull thrum of the engines to try and calm his breathing down. Ashton stirs to his right, making him jump a foot in the air, but he doesn’t open his eyes, and his breathing remains even.

Luke stares steadfastly and unblinkingly ahead of him, balling his fists, and doesn’t sleep for the rest of the flight.

-------

Everybody stumbles off the flight in Singapore sleepily, and Luke and Ashton follow the signs for connections in silence. The bright lights of Changi airport make his head and eyes hurt, and Luke feels like he’s in a dream, in a deserted airport at what would be three in the morning back home with Ashton fucking Irwin, heading to London on his own for four weeks. It makes him feel delirious somehow, like this whole thing is a fever dream.

Luke and Ashton aren’t sat together on the second leg of the flight, for which Luke thanks whatever deities he can think of in his semi-conscious state. This flight is much quieter, much smaller, people dotted around the rows of three rather than clogging them all up. Ashton’s two rows in front of Luke, which is still too close for comfort, but it’s far enough away that Luke can give into his exhaustion and fall asleep against the window, cold and hard and cricking his neck. He sleeps uneasily, drifting in and out of consciousness with every chime of the seatbelt lights, every slam of the toilet door, every update from the cockpit. By the time that the flight attendant wakes him up for breakfast six hours later, Luke feels like he’s slept about twenty minutes in total.

He eats his breakfast, reads some reports he’d downloaded on his laptop to work on, makes notes on them, eats the next meal they offer, tries to sleep a little more because the darkness just doesn’t seem to be fucking lifting even though he’s been on this flight for nearly ten hours, tries to read some more of the reports but his eyes feel gritty and dry, and eventually settles into listening to some music with his eyes shut. He gets through three whole albums when he realises that light is stealing over his eyes, and cracks them open to see the sun rising over the horizon.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are starting our descent into London Heathrow,” the pilot announces, and Luke thinks thank fuck, cracks his neck, and starts packing his things together. He takes one last trip to the toilet, because he has no idea how long it is from Heathrow to wherever the university is putting them up, and then watches the plane get lower and lower, disappearing into the clouds and reappearing in the dull grey sky over London.

London’s a huge, sprawling mess of buildings, a thick band of blue winding its way through the concrete and brick and glass, and it looks so foreign and so little like home that it makes Luke feel a little sick. He tries to pick out individual buildings he’s seen in photos, but they’re moving too fast and there are too many buildings that look the same. Luke’s so preoccupied with trying to find Buckingham Palace that he barely even realises how close they’re getting until he sees the runway looming underneath them, and braces himself as the wheels hit the ground.

The pilot’s making some kind of announcement as they taxi to the bay but nobody cares, everybody eager to get off the plane they’ve spent the past thirteen fucking hours on, a flurry of movement beginning before the plane has even slowed to a full stop. Luke’s among them, jumping up before the seatbelt sign switches off to grab his bag out of the overhead locker and stuff the things he’d taken out for the flight back in. He stretches, cracking his back with a yawn, and looks to his left to see Ashton staring directly at him. Ashton looks away immediately, something unreadable in his expression, and Luke suddenly feels exposed, vulnerable, for letting Ashton see him with his guard down.

They file off the plane and into the cold winter air, Luke about four people down from Ashton, and queue at passport control. More and more flights start to pile in behind them, and Luke stares at the EU arrivals swanning through the electronic passport gates enviously as his queue shuffles forward a centimetre at a time.

Finally, though, he’s through passport control, heading for baggage reclaim, so focused on trying to remember that his bags are coming through on conveyor belt seven that he doesn’t even notice Ashton lingering on the other side of passport control.

“Hey,” he says, falling into step with Luke and catching him totally off-guard, and Luke stares at him in surprise.

“What?”

“Are you taking the tube?” Luke frowns. He’d intended to, but that was before getting on a twenty-two hour flight across God knows how many timezones.

“I was going to,” he says.

“Want to split a cab?” Luke hesitates. On the one hand, he’s not really sure whether he wants to share a cab with Ashton, stuck in close quarters for who knows how long of a drive. On the other hand, yes, he would very much like to get in a cab and just arrive at his destination without having to drag his suitcases everywhere with him, and he’s going to spend the next four weeks stuck with Ashton anyway, so he might as well get used to it.

“Fine,” he says, sighing, and Ashton actually smiles, like he hadn’t been expecting Luke to agree to it. Luke feels a weird flicker of something he can’t quite identify in his gut, but attributes it to his absolute exhaustion, quickening his pace to take his mind off it.

Their luggage is already on the conveyor belt by the time they get there, and Ashton hauls Luke’s suitcases off the conveyor belt for him, much to his annoyance.

“I have hands, you know,” he tells Ashton, who flashes him a grin.

“You won’t lift anything heavier than a fucking feather, Luke,” he says, and Luke scowls, because it’s true, and he hates that Ashton knows that about him.

“Yeah, well,” he says moodily. “First time for everything.” Ashton huffs out a laugh at that, tired eyes twinkling with something like amusement, and he heads off towards the Nothing To Declare gate. Luke has to take a detour to pick up Clifford, which takes a ridiculously long time because they need to check both his and Clifford’s documentation, and then want to scan his microchip like, four times, but eventually he’s released, yapping at Luke from inside his travel cage, and Luke heads out in the direction Ashton had taken to find him leaning against the wall, waiting for him. It sends a jolt of something unpleasant shooting through his veins, gives him awful déjà-vu of times he’d gone to visit Ashton wherever he’d been recording and Ashton had waited for him in much the same way, but he’s too tired to feel anything more than the ghost of an emotion, so he forces it away and heads for the taxis.

The taxi rank is absolutely full when they get there, and Ashton points to the polite queue that’s formed - how fucking British, Luke thinks, stationing himself behind the guy in a sharp-looking suit that’s barking angry instructions about filing the tax returns right now down his phone. Ashton throws the guy a look, then Luke, rolling his eyes, and Luke has to stifle a smile and then the strange revulsion that rises in his throat at sharing an unspoken moment like that with Ashton.

Luckily, his mind is taken off it by them moving up the queue to the next cab. The driver gets out, opens the boot for them to put their bags in, asks them where they want to go. Ashton reels off an address as he’s hauling his bags in, postcode and all, and the cab driver gives him a funny look but nods, getting back in the driver’s seat.

Luke and Ashton clamber into the back of the taxi, which looks a lot more spacious from the outside than it is on the inside, and sit on either side, Luke placing Clifford in the middle, fastening their seatbelts and both ignoring the tense, awkward silence. There’s a light on the door that indicates that the driver can hear their conversation, anyway, and Luke doesn’t particularly want to air his and Ashton’s dirty laundry in front of a stranger, so the silence suits him just fine.

He watches the barren fields pass by, eyes heavy, and yet knowing he won’t be able to sleep if he tries. He steadfastly doesn’t think about what Ashton’s doing, sat only a metre away from him, and the fact that he’s now stuck in this cold, drab, foreign country with nobody but Ashton.

“Hey,” Ashton says quietly after a while, so quietly that Luke has to look over to see whether or not he imagined it. Ashton’s looking at him, a slightly apprehensive look on his face.

“What?”

“Did you sleep? On the flight?” Luke swallows.

“Not much,” he says.

“I did on the first flight,” Ashton says, and he’s saying it pointedly, like Luke’s supposed to understand some greater meaning behind it.

“Okay?” Luke says, nonplussed.

“I mean,” Ashton says, and now he sounds a little nervous. “I slept better. With you.” Luke blinks at him.

“Oh,” is all his exhausted mind can produce for him, not giving him the capacity to lie.

“Would you…” Ashton trails off, and bites his lip.

“Would I what?”

“Sleep with me?” Luke chokes on his next breath, and Ashton’s eyes widen, and he starts to trip over himself in his haste to correct himself. “I mean, like, purely innocent, like literally sleeping, I don’t mean f-” Luke holds his hand up to stop him, because he does not want to hear another word of that thought.

“How?” he asks instead, because he’s so fucking tired that a twenty minute power nap with Ashton is actually sounding vaguely not like the worst thing in the world. Ashton shrugs, a little tentatively.

“Lean on me?” he suggests.

“What, on your shoulder?”

“That’s what you did last time.” Luke swallows. Great. Fuck. Ashton had been awake, then.

“Oh,” he says, and then, before he can stop himself, his fatigued mind adds: “Okay.”

“Okay?” Ashton says, surprised. Luke shrugs uncomfortably.

“I’m fucking exhausted,” he says. “And, y’know. It’s just resting my head on your shoulder. Not exactly a declaration that I want you back in my life.” He adds on the last sentence a little meanly, and watches something flash across Ashton’s face briefly before he schools his features back into neutrality and nods. Luke hesitates for a moment, and then unclips his seatbelt, picks Clifford up and shuffles into the middle seat, busying himself with setting Clifford down and clipping the seatbelt on so he won’t have to face Ashton and the slightly musky pine-oak-spice smell that’s hitting him like a fucking brick. Eventually, though, he has nowhere else to turn, and he pauses a moment longer before slowly bringing his head down to rest on Ashton’s shoulder.

Almost as soon as he’s done it, he feels his eyelids start to droop, comfortable tiredness padding every half-thought in his mind, easy sleepiness slowing the thudding of his heart. He barely has time to form another coherent thought before he’s being tapped awake, turning annoyed and bleary-eyed to face whoever has woken him.

“‘Scuse me?” It’s the cab driver, and Luke stirs, wondering whether resting your head on someone’s shoulder is, like, against cab rules, or something. Did the guy really pull over just to tell them off?

“Huh?” Luke manages, peeling himself away from Ashton and blinking properly. It’s brighter now, buildings towering over either side of Luke, and he frowns. They were in fields about two seconds ago. London’s a weird fucking place.

“We’re here,” the cab driver says.

“Huh?” Luke says again, because that doesn’t make sense. The cab driver seems to notice Luke’s confusion, because he grins wryly and says: “We’ve arrived, mate. You fell asleep about half an hour ago.”

“What?” Luke says, and he hears a soft groan to his right; Ashton slowly returning to consciousness. “That wasn’t half an hour ago.”

“Certainly was,” the cab driver says. “You want me to get your bags?”

“No, no, we’ll manage,” Luke says, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he’d slept for half an hour without even noticing. He grabs Clifford and clambers out of the cab without waiting for Ashton, because his cash is in the boot, and moments later Ashton joins him in dragging their bags out of the back. Neither of them say anything, which means they’re both saying something with their silence, and Luke suddenly wants to fly back to Sydney, wants Michael and Calum to come and console him because he might have a second soulmate experience with Ashton, wants his fucking mum.

“How much?” Luke asks Ashton, when he gets to his wallet.

“Eighty-five,” Ashton says, and Luke’s eyes widen. That’s, like, a hundred and fifty dollars.

“Fucking hell,” he says, fishing two twenties and a ten out of his wallet and holding them out for Ashton. “Should have taken the fucking tube.” Ashton smiles at that, and then disappears around the side of the cab to pay the driver. Luke drags his bags onto the pavement, staring up at the foreboding looking hotel in front of him and shivering in the cold, waiting for Ashton. God, he never thought he’d miss the cloying Sydney heat, but he’d give anything to be sweating on the beach right now.

“Is this it?” he asks Ashton when Ashton reappears, nodding up at the building behind them, and Ashton nods. Luke kicks his suitcases, getting them onto their back wheels, waiting for Ashton to get his in his hands, and they head into the building.

“Hello,” Ashton says politely to the receptionist, when they get in. “Irwin and Hemmings, please.” Luke doesn’t like the way his name slips so easily out of Ashton’s lips, but swallows it down.

“Oh, yes,” the receptionist says, beady eyes staring at the screen in front of her. “You’re with UCL.”

“Uh,” Luke says, at the same time that Ashton says, “Yes.” Well. Good thing Ashton knows what’s going on.

“Well, here are your room keys,” she says, slapping two key cards onto the desk. Luke and Ashton take one each. “You’re in room 203.” Luke waits, but she doesn’t add anything else.

“And me?” he asks.

“And you,” she says. Luke blinks.

“No, I mean-”

“Is there only one room?” Ashton asks, and the receptionist frowns, and nods. Ashton turns to Luke, a crease of concern between his brows.

“We’re part of the group living together,” he sighs.

Fuck.

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chapter seven

#lashton #malum #5sos fic #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #CAN YOU BELIEVE?#here i am: with another chapter after another exam #this is just how i am #truly how i am #what if after deadlines are over i just dry up

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