Page 2 of Prince Material
“I’m not too posh for anything,” Greg protested, but he was already getting up. “I simply have refined taste.”
“Right.” I stood as well, stretching until my back cracked. “That’s why the press had pictures of you eating McDonald’s in your Bentley last month.”
“That was a moment of weakness.” Greg sniffed. “And those photos were clearly doctored.”
The mention of doctored photos made my stomach clench, but I forced a laugh. That was what we did, after all. Made jokes, kept it light, pretended the constant scrutiny didn’t wear us down like water on rock. “At least yours was actually eating McDonald’s. Not some fabricated?—”
“Floris.” Nils’s quiet voice cut through my darkening thoughts. “Massachusetts. Fresh start. Remember?”
I took a deep breath of garden air. He was right. In a few weeks, I’d be a regular student. No press following my every move. No need to watch every word, every gesture. No one recording me with their phones, waiting for me to mess up again.
“Yeah.” I managed a genuine smile this time. “Though I still can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”
“Not me.” Greg slowly sat down again, the thought of a sandwich apparently forgotten. “The King won’t allow it.”
The King being the King of the United Kingdom, aka Greg’s uncle.
“Maybe when Floris and I have a positive experience, he’ll relent,” Tore offered.
“Maybe.” Greg didn’t sound convinced, and I couldn’t blame him. His life was far more scrutinized than that of any of us due to the British press that followed him like bloodhounds on a hunt. The last few months had not been easy for me, what with the scandal and all, but up until then, I’d had it relatively easy. The Dutch media was relaxed and tended to stick to the rules the royal family had agreed on with them, which meant the kids—my older brother plus my cousins and me—were off limits. Usually. Unless we did something stupid when visiting our best friend in the UK… like I had done.
Dammit, why could I not let it go? It had been three months by now, but it kept playing through my head, kept popping into my brain, kept resurfacing at the most inopportune times. Laurens, my brother, had assured me over and over it would take time. He meant well, but he was the golden boy in the eyes of the media, the guy who could do no wrong. Easy for him to say I should let it go.
“It may help to find a specific program you want to do rather than make a generalized request,” Nils suggested. “You’re studying International Relations, right?”
Greg nodded.
“So find some college or university that’s specialized in that or that offers some highly acclaimed special program. Maybe that will help.”
Not a bad idea, actually.
Greg seemed to consider it. “It’s worth a try. Thanks.”
“At least you know what you want to do,” I said, finishing my beer. “The Dutch press is still waiting for me to find my ‘purpose.’ Apparently, becoming a civil engineer isn’t it.”
“Hey, you’re Dutch. Water management is practically in your DNA,” Nils pointed out.
“I know, but they probably expected something more… princely. You know, like international diplomacy or humanitarian work.”
“Water managementishumanitarian work,” Tore said. “Ask New Orleans or, I don’t know, Bangladesh.”
A comfortable silence fell over our group. The sun was setting now, painting the old castle walls in shades of amber and gold. In a few weeks, I’d be trading this familiar view for a dorm room in Worcester, Massachusetts. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.
“Promise me one thing,” Greg said suddenly, his voice serious. “If the press does find you, call us. Don’t try to handle it alone.”
I swallowed hard, remembering those first horrific weeks after the video surfaced. “I promise. But they won’t find me. I’m going to be regular college student Floris who happens to be really into water management and terrible American beer.”
“And maybe find someone special?” Tore waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
I threw my empty beer bottle at him. “Not everyone needs to find the love of their life in college. I’m going there to study, not to hook up.”
“Sure,” all three of them said in unison, and we burst out laughing.
“Besides,” I added, “who’d want to date someone who can’t even legally buy them a drink?”
“Ah yes, because that’s the first thing people look for in a partner.” Greg’s voice dripped sarcasm. “The ability to purchase alcohol.”
“All the more reason to keep things simple in Massachusetts. Study. Make normal friends. Maybe join some clubs that don’t involve anything more scandalous than a heated debate about structural engineering.”
