“It’s more environmentally friendly this way,” Beatrice explained, puzzled.
“No, you shouldn’t apologize.” Louise flicked her ponytail over one shoulder. Sunshine shot through her blond hair, highlighting its platinum streaks. “You just told me that you’re sorry. Never use those words.”
Beatrice hesitated. “What if I really am sorry?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry means that you made a mistake, and you cannot admit to that. The world will forgive a man, but rarely a woman. Certainly not a woman in power.”
No one had ever spoken to Beatrice like this before. It was exhilarating.
“You’re right,” she agreed, nodding. “That makes sense.”
“Of course I’m right. I’m always right,” Louise said breezily.
They started up the lawn toward the terrace. A footman must have seen them through the windows, because he hurried forward with a pair of chilled water bottles. Beatrice took a grateful sip. Franklin whined softly until the footman returned with a bowl of water.
“I noticed that you don’t run with headphones.” Louise shot her a curious glance. “I assumed you were the type to listen to a podcast, or at least music.”
“You didn’t run with headphones either,” Beatrice pointed out.
Louise shrugged. “I prefer silence.”
“Exactly. I want to turn my brain off, for a little while at least.”
When her feet were pounding against the pavement, Beatrice could temporarily silence the anxieties and fears that flitted around in her head like birds in a cage. If she ran fast enough, she could wipe her mind clear.
“I know the feeling. I’m trying to outrun some things too,” Louise said softly.
Beatrice blinked, surprised by that level of vulnerability from magnetic, enigmatic Louise. Before she could formulate a reply, the bells in the clock tower chimed.
“We should get going,” she said reluctantly.
Louise nodded. “See you later, Béatrice.” She started back toward the cottages, moving as if she were weighted down by a tiara and the full regalia of state, rather than sweat-drenched workout clothes.
Beatrice had long ago accepted that no one could ever really relate to her. Her position was too unique, too specific and strange. But…Louise was the first female ruler of her nation, too.
If anyone could understand, it was Louise.
Beatrice reached out a hand, and Franklin nuzzled into it, whining when he realized that she wasn’t giving him a treat.
“You know what, Franklin?” she murmured, smiling a little. “You and I might have just made friends with a cat lady.”
Samantha had walked down plenty of red carpets in her day, but they were East Coast red carpets, rolled out before a charity gala so that wealthy donors could stand before the flashbulbs and feel momentarily famous.
Sam’s mother—and her grandmother, and even Beatrice, for that matter—always resented being asked to walk down a red carpet. Don’t linger before the cameras a second longer than necessary, her mother would say. You pause once, smile, then move along. You’re a princess, not a pinup girl. Queen Adelaide believed that the royal family wasn’t there to be celebrities; they were meant to govern and to do good in the world. She saw their fame as an unfortunate but requisite part of their position.
Everything was different in Hollywood. Instead of bored, wealthy businesspeople and gossiping heiresses moving slowly past the photographers, this red carpet seethed with frantic celebrities. Even the carpet looked better, a crisp crimson instead of the tattered felt rugs that museums rented. Everyone was shouting, laughing, sucking in their stomachs, blowing kisses to the crowds in a shameless bid for attention. A wild, thrilling energy pulsed through it all.
When Marshall got out of the car, then extended a hand to help Sam onto the steps, the roar escalated into complete frenzy.
For a moment, everyone at the premiere looked her way. The director—an Oscar winner who’d recently gone over budget on a space epic and somehow got talked into Aunt Margaret’s pirate movie—was so stunned that his jaw fell open. The lead actress jabbed an elbow into her date’s ribs; a pop singer tripped on her heels. They were all stars in their own right, yet they stared unabashedly at Sam, the most famous of them all.
It wasn’t the date night Sam would have picked, but at least she got to be there with Marshall.
The two of them had seen each other nearly every day that week. At first they’d tried to go out: to drive along the coast, eat oysters at the famous food truck overlooking the water, stroll up the boardwalk and watch the sunset. But they’d quickly realized it was easier if they just hung out at Bellevue or at Marshall’s apartment in LA. Their relationship was so famous, so incendiary, that everywhere they went, people seemed to want a piece of them.
Sam laced her hand in Marshall’s and they started up the steps together, smiling into the blinding explosion of flashbulbs. Paparazzi lobbed questions at them. Unlike the journalists in Washington, who at least wore a veneer of professionalism as they pried into her life, these reporters seemed out for blood.
“Sam, do you really think you and Marshall make more of an ‘it couple’ than your sister and Teddy?”
“What do you have to say to Kelsey Brooke?”
“Marshall, how does it feel being ranked lower than your girlfriend? Does she wear the pants in the relationship?”
She expected Marshall to make a snarky reply to that one, maybe joke that rank didn’t matter or that only weak men were intimidated by women in power. But he just squeezed Sam’s hand, his jaw set.
Finally they emerged into the theater lobby, which was mercifully free of photographers but crowded with guests. Stowaway’s promotional poster—which featured a half-naked couple in a very suggestive embrace, a ship’s sails billowing in a way that strategically covered all necessary body parts—had been blown up in the corner, and the cast and crew were all signing it.
Then Aunt Margaret herself was rushing toward them, a gauzy white caftan floating around her legs. How typically capricious of her, to wear a resort dress in September.
“Samantha! I’m so delighted you could make it.” Margaret pulled her into a hug. “I’ve been missing my favorite niece. Don’t tell Beatrice I said that,” she warned, and Sam laughed. Aunt Margaret had always had a soft spot for her, probably because she saw so much of herself in Sam. They both chafed at the constraints of the family they’d been born into, both grappled with what it meant to be a spare royal sibling.
“I miss you, too. Hopefully I’ll be out on the West Coast more often,” Sam told her.