Page 57 of Coronation
The former suggests just how low an opinion my press corps has of my social capabilities. Nobody would dare say such a thing, but the subtext is clear:Don’t you dare fuck this up, you grouchy moron.
Since the news broke, press have been camped out on thesidewalk outside Zelda’s hotel, necessitating added security—which I provided double of without being asked—but have begun to drift away in the last few days. Especially since, as far as I can tell, she has done nothing more newsworthy than itch her nose.
Unfortunately, even being utterly boring isn’t enough to save her, and Zelda’s picture has been splattered across every dubious source of “media” in the country, dissecting her entire life story with a fervor which is fairly alarming.
When Arthur married Lillian, the press was on my late sister-in-law night and day, going so far as to hide behind trash cans and ambush her on the way to her car. Even the lackluster courtship period I had with my former wife made headlines, but nothing even remotely like this.
It wasn’t until after the story broke that I realized what I’d inadvertently done. After starving the beast for over a year, I offered up a beautiful American actress who is far too young for me. Naturally, the beast did what it does best and didn’t hesitate to bite. Hard.
The goal of today’s outing is to provide it with something more substantial than a look to dig its teeth into, and as my car stops on the corner across the street from Zelda’s hotel, I experience my first flicker of true trepidation.
Until this point, my focus has been on our relationship—or lack thereof—and what this would mean for it. Plan or no, Zelda still seems determined to keep me at arm’s length, and I owe it to her to respect that. If it wasn’t already the case, going forward with this fraud of a date will mean we’re linked forever. When she dies, “former girlfriend to the King of Stelland” will likely be in her damn obituary.
There isn’t time to call it off, though, because as I stare out the tinted car window, I see an unmistakable figure in a yellow summer dress emerge from the hotel, slipping right past the photographers. She’s tied her hair up and is wearing a baseballhat and oversized sunglasses, a disguise almost as feeble as the ones we wore to the pub in Fernhill. Nobody was looking for us then, but they sure as hell are now, and as she crosses the road, I see a few men with cameras following at a distance.
Just as planned, the moment she opens the door, a flash goes off, capturing the image of her slipping into a darkened car. The door is closed long before the photographers can get close enough to see me, but the operation is officially in motion.
Regardless of my reservations, there is no going back now.
“Good afternoon,” Zelda greets me calmly, pulling off the hat and releasing her hair from its high ponytail as the car pulls out into traffic.
My fingers drum on my thigh in a futile attempt to vent some of my restless energy. “Good afternoon.” My eyes are on the rearview mirror, and as I watch the cars queuing behind us at a light, I see a man on a bicycle, a black bag slung over his shoulder, peddling hard to catch up to the car.
“I’m quite interested to see what the palace’s definition of a casual date is,” Zelda says, her tone determinately light. When I glance at her, though, there is a tension in her shoulders that betrays her nervousness. Is it due to the intensity of this situation alone, or am I responsible?
It’s hard to say what’s worse: Zelda being anxious about seeing me, or her being totally unaffected.
The anticipation I experience in the run-up to seeing her face, and the rush that comes when I finally do, is as far from nonchalance as I can imagine. Regardless of whether anything will happen between us, it’s difficult to stomach the possibility of her truly beingover it.
“I had words with them and made it plain neither of us would be partaking in any activity which requires either a bow tie or evening gloves.”
To my pleasant surprise, Zelda lets out a soft laugh. “Ishould also make it known I have no idea what the rules of Polo are, either, and I don’t own a single pastel-colored hat.”
I counter this statement with a single word. “Marco?”
Zelda’s lips twitch, obviously fighting a smile. “Polo.”
“You seem quite well-versed in the rules, actually. Perhaps a last-minute change of plans is in order?”
“I can see the headlines now,” she hums. “King Benedict and Zelda Flowers ruin a championship Polo match with an inexplicably timed game of Marco Polo.”
I sigh heavily, shaking my head. “That’s far too long for a headline, Zelda. No self-respecting gossip rag would waste that much cover space when there are moon landing conspiracies to be had.”
Zelda rounds on me, eyes wide and indignant. “I can’t cut it down! It’s a very complicated fake scenario!”
“Oh, that’s no excuse. Very complicated fake scenarios are the bread and butter of tabloids, darling.”
My stomach has begun to fall before the word is even halfway out.Darling.
I shouldn’t have called her that. We were… It’s always so easy to talk to her. I didn’t think, the damned word just came out, and now—I glance at the woman beside me, only to find her stony-faced and silent.
All the effortless warmth of a moment ago has drained from the back of the car, and I realize the source of my new jaw pain is the intensity with which I’m grinding my back molars. Searching for something to do other than hit myself with the nearest blunt object, my eyes return to the rearview mirror.
While we were talking, the car had picked up a bit more speed, turning off the main drag toward a historic section of the city. The man on the bicycle is still following at a distance, pedaling furiously and weaving through traffic to keepup with us. If I’m not mistaken, there may even be a second photographer following the first.
I don’t have time to think of some way to excuse my slip to Zelda, however, because we’re already coming to a stop. Our destination, Percy and Stowe, is tucked away in a line of other shops. Its old stone storefront and hand-painted wood sign look as though they were taken right from the pages of a storybook.
Certainly not a coincidence.
