“Not sure exactly what that’s supposed to mean, Giles, but I see I’m out of time to unpack your latest passive-aggressive comment.”
“If either of us is passive-aggressive, it’s definitely—”
Feed cuts and commercial for Unicorn Gold Toilet Spray starts up.
From One Spare to Another …
Princess Arabella
Valcourt Palace, Valcourt, Kingdom of Avonia
From: [email protected]
Dear Spike,
Sorry it’s been so long since I’ve been in touch. I’m sure you won’t hold it against me, since you’re one of very few people on the planet who understand a life of constantly running from pointless thing to pointless thing, morning, noon, and night.
Anyway, how’s my fellow ‘just in case’ friend? And how is little Archie doing? I bet he’s almost ready to walk. And what’s life like in Canada? I heard there are no mosquitoes on Vancouver Island. Is that true? Because if it is, that sounds like utter paradise. They’re already out in full force this spring, so we’re in for another summer of slapping at the little bastards (discreetly, of course, so as to hide the fact that they like blue blood as much as the red variety).
Cone of Silence: Now that you live among the Canadians, you probably have a much better idea whether they’re actually as friendly as they seem or if it’s all a big act. I have a secret theory that Canadians are every bit as ornery as the rest of us, but they’re much better at hiding it under a cloak of politeness that allows them to be well received wherever they go. Do tell, because I simply must know if I’m right.
I still cannot BELIEVE you got out! Seriously! After all these years of talking about it, you finally did it. I bow to you, sir. I’m seriously blown away by your tenacity (and Meghan’s as well). You two are the perfect power couple—superheroes fighting injustice, racism, and the paparazzi everywhere you go. Well done to you both. I wish I had one tenth of your courageous spirit. Perhaps you could lend me a bit so I can finally have a taste of freedom.
Life is much the same for me, only worse. I’ve hit the dreaded phase of ‘you’re almost thirty and you’re a woman so you must find a man to marry before it’s too late and you turn into a shriveled up old maid and never procreate on behalf of the monarchy.’ It started literally one week after my twenty-ninth birthday, and it seems everyone wants to get in on the fun, from all the senior advisers (who can suck it) to the media (who can also suck it) to my family (who I’m very close to telling to suck it).
I’ll be at Pierce Davenport’s wedding this weekend and have already been given dossiers on six eligible men that will be in attendance. SMH. I don’t know who put the list together, but honestly, horrid! Remember the fellow we nicknamed Hal, as in halitosis? Yeah, he’s on the list. Quite a mystery as to why he’s still single. Although I guess I’m single, too, so I shouldn’t talk.
To update you, I submitted the proposal we discussed for me to serve as patron for the Avonian Mental Wellness and Suicide Prevention Foundation, but was told it would be ‘too challenging for someone of my delicate disposition and sensitivities.’ Instead, they’ve added the Valcourt Civil Service Sports Council to my duties. It’s an organization that provides sporting opportunities for civil servants (which I find confusing because, surely if they have the mental capacity to get a job, they can also sort out their own exercise requirements). In light of being turned down for the wellness initiative, I thought I might put in that proposal about the Equal Everywhere Campaign that Meghan and I were chatting about. Hopefully they won’t think me too delicate to work on that project.
As you wrote, the hours truly do turn into weeks of following the same routine and attending the same annual events until each year becomes a replica of the last one. I chuckled at your analogy about it being like the movie Groundhog Day, only it's an entire year that repeats itself rather than one day. Unlike Bill Murray (and you, you brave soul), I will never get out of it. I’m terrified that one day I’ll die, having never breathed a single breath on my own terms.
Can you imagine if anyone intercepted these emails? They’d hate us for whining when our lives are filled with such privilege (and they wouldn’t be wrong). We never have to hold a real job or worry about money. But if only they understood the flipside of it—that we can never hold a job, even if we’re wildly passionate about something.
Speaking of which, what are you going to do now that you’re out? Military consultant? Paid spokesperson for a charity? Stay-at-home dad while Megs heads back to Hollywood to rake in the big bucks? I’ll be watching with bated breath to see how it all turns out for you. Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll get out of it, too. But for now, I must go. I have to attend a formal tea for The Friends of the Valcourt United Cathedral’s Platinum Fund for Choristers, where I’ll be subjected to the never-ending debate on the difference between the mandate of the Platinum Fund vs. that of the Friends of the Platinum Fund. Honestly, who gives a rat’s arse? Not me.
Say hello to Celine Dion for me,
Airy
Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder. Except Sometimes, When It’s Obvious to Everyone…
Will Banks
Paradise Bay, Santa Valentina Island, Benavente Islands, Caribbean
“Oh Will, just look at her,” my brother, Harrison, says, pointing out toward the calm early morning sea. “She's every bit as beautiful today as she always was.”
My eyes land on a bikini-clad senior citizen strolling along the shore. I reach up and put my hand on my brother’s forehead, checking for heatstroke. “You don’t feel feverish. Is everything okay with you and Libby?”
“Of course. Why?” Harrison says, giving me a strange look.
“You’re ogling a woman who I'm pretty sure is somebody's great-grandmother.”
“Not her, you jackass,” he says. “Matilda.”
I look again, this time past the woman and out to sea, spotting Waltzing Matilda, the ninety-foot schooner that used to belong to our Uncle Oscar. Harrison had to sell her to a greasy businessman (who we call Stogie Stew) a couple of years back to save our family's resort from going under. The yacht glides along in the turquoise water, and even though I don't glance over at my brother, I know his expression is a mixture of longing and grief. Harrison would give his left nut to have her back so he could take his own family on the same kind of adventures our uncle took us on.
I fight the urge to smile. Not because I’m a prick who likes seeing my brother upset, but because very soon, I’m going to surprise him by purchasing Matilda back for him. Honestly, I’ve never been so excited about anything in my entire life—which is saying something because I’ve spent the last several years on an adrenaline high. I’ve bungee jumped from the skid of a helicopter over the bubbling crater of Villarrica Volcano in Chile. I’ve gone cage diving with great whites off the coast of Gansbaai, South Africa—without the cage. I’ve traversed the icy crests and rocky pyramids of the Ellsworth Mountains in Antarctica. But none of it compares with what I’m about to achieve.