Read Online The Royal We by Heather Cocks, Jessica Morgan - Free Book Online
Authors: Heather Cocks, Jessica Morgan
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could binge on the whole saga from the beginning while we waited for the newest hours, and she was delighted to have what she viewed as a profound impact on Nick’s life.
The more fun I had feeding Nick’s obsession, though, the more often Clive found himself displaced from my bed. While I was never in love with Clive—the closest we got to being official was agreeing that, officially , there were no strings attached—we definitely were involved. There’s no denying it, no revising it, no editing my behavior into something more innocent. Nick’s great-grandmother, Marta, the Queen Mum, once asked me if I was nervous about—and I quote— losing my maidenhead on our wedding night. I snickered before I could catch myself, and she playfully wiggled the scotch in her hand and said, “Too right. A woman can’t bloody well pick her signature drink without sampling the whole bar.”
Not looking to fall in love didn’t mean I didn’t want to sample the cocktails, so to speak, but at Oxford, the bar wasn’t as open as I’d have liked. Half the men we met wanted an in with the Crown, were prone to spouting off on the plight of the landed estates, or just wanted to ask endless conspiracy theory questions, like whether the Queen ever rigged the horse races (no) or requested certain Coronation Street storylines (she says no, but I don’t believe it). Any promising guys without Nick-related agendas lost interest in me once they got wind of who my friends were, and decided I wasn’t worth the fuss. It turned out to be less agita just to walk down the hall, and Clive made himself a habit that was hard to break. He was attentive and witty, and with a bit of coaching, his kissing vastly improved (he’d always been skilled at the rest of it). I thought it was sweet that he’d put his hand on the small of my back to steer me through crowds, and that he bought a hypoallergenic pillow in case I wanted to sleep in his room. But it was hard to untangle that warmth and comfort and familiarity—that pure like —from the other truth of the circumstance: I enjoyed Clive’s company, but I also enjoyed the company Clive kept. Cutting the umbilical cord that yoked me to Lacey for twenty years was so much easier thanks to everyone on my floor not named Bea, and over time, their friendship became my cocoon. Especially because the instant the grapevine gleaned that I had gotten tight with Nick, polite nods and interest in the American newcomer gave way to under-the-breath jokes about my nationality, or snickers about the origin of my family’s money. Assumptions about my motivations had been made, and I was being assessed and found wanting.
“All hail the Sofa Queen,” one guy said at a pub.
“Cheers, BHS!” said another, at breakfast, referencing a British furniture store.
“Are you getting the next round, Bex?” Lady Bollocks said one night in the JCR. “Don’t forget, here at Oxford we keep the drinks all the way up at the bar rather than under our bums.”
Most of the teasing was casual, except possibly Bea’s—although even that I could handle; I wasn’t ashamed of my dad actually working for his wealth. But my friends never succumbed to nor stood for those jokes, nor made any of their own, and my gratitude for that loyalty colored and heightened my appreciation of everything. Which therefore kept me from acknowledging the raging case of Clivus interruptus that was developing every time Nick and I settled in for a Devour marathon, and I wasn’t doing anything to stop it.
What nobody knew, and neither he nor I said aloud, was that my room had become a safe haven for Nick. Although he trusted his friends with his life, he wasn’t as liberal with his self, yet something about those uncinematic, quotidian hangouts in my room relaxed his grip on the real Nick. He grew comfortable shuffling in wearing the old Snoopy pajama pants that had been Freddie’s Christmas gag gift; bringing in coffee and crosswords when it was
The more fun I had feeding Nick’s obsession, though, the more often Clive found himself displaced from my bed. While I was never in love with Clive—the closest we got to being official was agreeing that, officially , there were no strings attached—we definitely were involved. There’s no denying it, no revising it, no editing my behavior into something more innocent. Nick’s great-grandmother, Marta, the Queen Mum, once asked me if I was nervous about—and I quote— losing my maidenhead on our wedding night. I snickered before I could catch myself, and she playfully wiggled the scotch in her hand and said, “Too right. A woman can’t bloody well pick her signature drink without sampling the whole bar.”
Not looking to fall in love didn’t mean I didn’t want to sample the cocktails, so to speak, but at Oxford, the bar wasn’t as open as I’d have liked. Half the men we met wanted an in with the Crown, were prone to spouting off on the plight of the landed estates, or just wanted to ask endless conspiracy theory questions, like whether the Queen ever rigged the horse races (no) or requested certain Coronation Street storylines (she says no, but I don’t believe it). Any promising guys without Nick-related agendas lost interest in me once they got wind of who my friends were, and decided I wasn’t worth the fuss. It turned out to be less agita just to walk down the hall, and Clive made himself a habit that was hard to break. He was attentive and witty, and with a bit of coaching, his kissing vastly improved (he’d always been skilled at the rest of it). I thought it was sweet that he’d put his hand on the small of my back to steer me through crowds, and that he bought a hypoallergenic pillow in case I wanted to sleep in his room. But it was hard to untangle that warmth and comfort and familiarity—that pure like —from the other truth of the circumstance: I enjoyed Clive’s company, but I also enjoyed the company Clive kept. Cutting the umbilical cord that yoked me to Lacey for twenty years was so much easier thanks to everyone on my floor not named Bea, and over time, their friendship became my cocoon. Especially because the instant the grapevine gleaned that I had gotten tight with Nick, polite nods and interest in the American newcomer gave way to under-the-breath jokes about my nationality, or snickers about the origin of my family’s money. Assumptions about my motivations had been made, and I was being assessed and found wanting.
“All hail the Sofa Queen,” one guy said at a pub.
“Cheers, BHS!” said another, at breakfast, referencing a British furniture store.
“Are you getting the next round, Bex?” Lady Bollocks said one night in the JCR. “Don’t forget, here at Oxford we keep the drinks all the way up at the bar rather than under our bums.”
Most of the teasing was casual, except possibly Bea’s—although even that I could handle; I wasn’t ashamed of my dad actually working for his wealth. But my friends never succumbed to nor stood for those jokes, nor made any of their own, and my gratitude for that loyalty colored and heightened my appreciation of everything. Which therefore kept me from acknowledging the raging case of Clivus interruptus that was developing every time Nick and I settled in for a Devour marathon, and I wasn’t doing anything to stop it.
What nobody knew, and neither he nor I said aloud, was that my room had become a safe haven for Nick. Although he trusted his friends with his life, he wasn’t as liberal with his self, yet something about those uncinematic, quotidian hangouts in my room relaxed his grip on the real Nick. He grew comfortable shuffling in wearing the old Snoopy pajama pants that had been Freddie’s Christmas gag gift; bringing in coffee and crosswords when it was
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