Page 54 of How to Date a Prince

“We’re supposed to film your process…” She checks her watch. I already know it’s half past three, and they’re usually done work by 4:30 p.m. As for me, I’m planning an all-nighter.

I flick an eyebrow at her. “You’re welcome to film as long as you like. Maybe you need to work in shifts.”

I turn on a music streaming service on my phone.

“We can’t film with music,” she says unhappily. “Copyright issues.”

“We can shut it off if you have any questions.”

I turn the music up.

She shifts. The crew mumbles. I pull out a box of clay and set to wedging. And wedging. Till my biceps and forearms burn, and the clay is finally prepped the way I want to eliminate air bubbles.

I work until dinnertime, and true hunger from the physicality of the afternoon kicks in. So I take a break, with someone from the crew promising to keep watch over my work to prevent any more untimely accidents.

When I get back, with food and drink supplies for the night, everything is in order under the watchful eye of the crew. Rose is still present. My armature is starting to disappear under coils of clay. I’ve pinned the photo of my mum from my wallet up on the wooden frame of the window beside where I work.

Right now, I don’t care what the other contestants are doing. The less I know, the better. It’s all distraction, anyway. At dinner, Thomas and I continued to create tension between us, striking up the gossip to a new level with the Renaissance men. I overheard a couple of the guys laying wagers about whether I’ll get canned this week. Right now, it’s a dead heat in the pool. Some say I should have gone last week. Others think the producers want to keep a future king on because it’s good for ratings. Whatever happens, I’m not letting anyone trash this sculpture, or else I’ll personally break them myself.

Hours slip by as I work. Thankfully, I remembered the charger for my phone as well as my laptop when I went back to the house, so I can stream music all night, and I do.

The crew switches off at midnight, and I continue, even if I drop from exhaustion. But as a well-trained insomniac, it’s early for me yet. Even the second shift begs for me to stop at 4:00 a.m. so they can get some kip. Someone had brought coffees in at 2:00 a.m., when they made me stop the music for a confessional.

“Is this the Queen?” someone asks, peering at the photo.

I nod. “Yes.”

“Aren’t you worried that people will think you’re obsessed with your mother?”

“If they think that, that’s their problem.”

“So why are you doing this challenge for her again?”

“It’s not for her this time,” I say. “It’s for me.”

I gaze at the crew member, who falls quiet.

“After last week, I need to make it up to both of us, actually. I know I can do better. And even though she’s passed, she’s a key person in my life. She’s the reason I do what I do.” I sip my coffee, leaning back against the workbench. I’m in a hoodie over my jeans now. Typical fashion choices are out the window at this hour, no matter what Gisele or my father’s valet would say. At least this is heather grey and not black, and if there’re any complaints, I don’t want to hear them. There’re no branded logos, at least.

“You were close.”

“Yes. We were. She was the person I was closest to. Who understood me best.” Mum was always my biggest fan and as enthusiastic as me about my Olympic training and prospects. She loved seeing me win. She would come to watch me during competitions and training, sun or snow, so proud I was following her footsteps. But when my father put a stop to it, even Mum couldn’t get him to change his mind, no matter what she said or did. We would have late nights up with tea, trying to find a way to convince him, and then she became ill with cancer the last couple of years of her life while I was away at uni, which eventually claimed her.

I gaze at the clay form. It’s a third of the size of a real person, and I have plenty of clay, but there’s a lot to do. Right now, it’s a rough-in, recognizably a person. If I close my eyes and squint, I can tell it’s meant to be her, even in this state, even in grey clay.

“Do you think she would be proud of you? Of the man you’ve become?”

“I can only hope.” I sigh, setting my coffee down. I wonder what my father thinks of me at the minute. “Right. Back to work.”

As the crew drags by pre-dawn, I tell them they should go off and get some sleep. They say the next crew will be here at 8:00 a.m. I assure them there won’t be any dramatic changes in the next four hours, that the biggest transformations have already happened.

By 4:30 a.m., I start to feel sleepy. And by 5:00 a.m., I decide to sit at a table, fold my arms on it, and use my rolled-up apron as a pillow. By some miracle, I fall asleep.

And when I wake to birdsong a couple of hours later, there’s a quilt over my shoulders and a thermos of tea beside me. Plus, a folded note.

Get it! Show those fuckers. x

I smile, tucking the paper away into my pocket in case anyone sees. Nobody else would understand, anyway.

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