Page 84 of How to Date a Prince

I’ve only made a half-hearted attempt at drawing since the accident, even though my therapists said it would be good practice for my fine eye-hand coordination. Technically, I can do it, but it takes a lot of concentration. Or at least it did the last time I tried. Which was once. I mostly stared at the last images in the sketchbook, my various designs for the tableware set and the studies for the sculpture, remembering being together with Thomas in the pottery bothy in blissful debauchery, which is truly the biggest distraction of all. Things I most definitely can’t tell Anne about.

My head droops.

“Auggie? I can paint your nails if you want. Before the others arrive.” Anne searches my eyes. There’s something vulnerable in her face, and belatedly, I realize I’ve shaken her up too. Because there was a time when we were younger, we were good friends, and I was her big brother she looked up to. I would take her outdoors on adventures or ride double on my horse when we were small, with Mum leading us around the paddock. She offers the nail varnish again and gives me a hopeful look. “If you pick a color.”

I lift my head a moment later to meet her gaze more evenly, and I let myself relax into a half smile. “Lavender.”

“Good.” Anne gives me a small smile in return. “Here. Give me your hand.”

I’m quiet as I watch her work methodically: bottom coat, color, topcoat. It really is a beautiful shade. Then, I sit still for my nails to dry.

“Gav and Katie should be here in a few minutes. Do you want me to help you find something to wear?”

“I suppose I shouldn’t wear pajamas to watch a film with friends, even if I’m home. I have a reputation to uphold,” I quip.

“Let’s see what you have.” Anne brightens hopefully, leaping up.

We go into my walk-in wardrobe. “I can’t touch anything yet,” I remind Anne, looking around and pausing over in the beige and khaki department with chinos and white shirts, which Lauren loves so much. “My nails are wet.”

She runs a hand along the trousers hanging from a rail. She pulls out a pair of black jeans. “This.”

“Okay.”

“And this?” She points at a pink top with a low cut. Fun, but not palace approved.

I shake my head. Pink is far too dangerous. Beautiful too, but trouble guaranteed to lead to more trouble, something I can find all too well on my own.

“Or this?” Her next selection is a patterned floral shirt with winding vines and leaves.

I shake my head again. I’m not sure nature can be trusted either.

In the end, I pick a soft, lightweight grey cashmere pullover. It’s a compromise. Even though it’s summer, it’s cool in the palace today.

She leaves me to get dressed, which I manage better on my own than those first days, though I’m still careful about bending down to tie my shoes. Waves of dizziness can come unprompted. One day, I tell myself, I won’t feel like I’m orbiting the Earth like a satellite whenever I pull a shirt over my head.

I come out, changed, and step into some trainers that are loosely laced.

“Mostly good.” Anne gives me a critical look.

“Mostly?”

“Your hair.”

I walk over to the bureau with its mirror. My reflection shows me with rumpled hair and a little bleary-eyed, with my hair showing its waves and a little blond from the summer sun. No product, no styling. Good enough for a night in. Not quite ready event-ready for my close-up inVogue. At least there’re no photographers inside the palace to worry about.

I turn away from the mirror. “I’m as ready as I will be.”

Anne starts to lead the way out.

“Wait.”

She pauses, glancing over her shoulder, a question in her eyes. “What do you need?”

I clear my throat. “I need to apologize to you, actually.”

“For what? I’m not responsible for your wardrobe choices.”

“Not that.” I laugh, before drawing a deep breath. “About New Year’s.”

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