Chapter Text
Thinking back, she is almost certain she felt the moment the gunman fired that first shot as a streak of pain through her heart. Her body goes cold and every hair in her body stands on end. Although she is aware she possesses no demonstrative psychic abilities, she is as sure about this as she is about the ghost in her former house. That phantom did nothing more than tease her with the television. This feels much colder, much more threatening. So when she switches on the nine o clock news and sees the words ’Gun Man Fires Two Shots at Prince Charles,’ she’s not surprised. Apart from the shock of the report, she sits stoney faced yet surprisingly calm. Her husband is tiptoeing around her, grating on what’s left of her nerves but he puts a lit cigarette in her mouth and even through her agitation, she inhales gratefully. The cold has returned to her body but with intermittent prickles in her back and around her neck which chill her further.
“And now to our main story tonight. Whilst on tour in Australia, an unnamed gunman shot two shots at Prince Charles before leaping upon the stage, coming within a metre of the Prince before being taken down by security.”
“Darling, he’s quite alright. You can see from the video.”
“Thank you Andrew, I’m not capable of watching the television without your narration.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Evidently not.”
“He ought to have warned you.”
“What, like you did, you mean?”
“Camilla, that was different. I was dealing with the aftermath of a terrorist attack. I lost my men that day. I wasn’t thinking about you.”
“I know. I’m just saying, this is not the first time I find something out on the news.”
“I’ll get you a whisky.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your hands are shaking.”
It’s true. Her hands are shaking so badly, it’s difficult to raise her cigarette to her mouth. “Yes.” It takes her a moment to focus her eyes on him, everything feels so far away.
“Jesus, Camilla, you’re not going to be sick are you? You’ve gone so white.”
“I’m fine. A whisky would be good.”
He doesn’t give her a minute to sink into her thoughts. Each time she replays the clip in her head, he’s demanding an answer to a question, saying her name and pulling her back to the present until she’s drunk so much whisky her tongue comes to life.
“Why didn’t you ring me? I was worried sick!”
“Are you talking about The Prince or about me?”
“The Prince isn’t here. Obviously, I’m talking about you!” It’s so easy to be angry with him. The fear she felt the day of the IRA bomb mixes with her rage with Charles. “I was sat in front of the television, not knowing if you were dead or alive. You couldn’t be bothered getting someone to inform me?”
“He might not have known this would be picked up so quickly by the world’s press…”
“I’m not talking about Charles, I’m talking about you!”
“You’re angry with him and you’re taking it out on me.”
“Don’t get all psycho-babble with me! You’ve no idea what I’m thinking.”
“Okay, I’ll bite, I didn’t inform you because I was the commanding officer at a terrorist site and I’d seen dismembered soldiers in my unit lying dead on the street, horses mangled and screaming and there was a high chance it wasn’t an isolated incident and I knew that I could be blown up at any second. Is that reason enough for you?”
She puts down her whisky and grimaces, the embarrassment of admitting she is in the wrong colouring her cheeks pink. “I’m sorry.”
“Damn right you are.”
The look on his face is unreadable as he stares at her but she doesn’t feel anything other than anger. Anger at being put in her place. Anger at being disregarded. She picks up the bottle and pours it into her glass, glaring at him in disbelief as he takes the bottle off her.
“I think you’ve had enough.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what to do.”
“Actually, I think you might be needing me to tell you what to do just at this moment. You’re acting very strange.”
She feels very strange. Perhaps it’s the numbness that’s creeping through her body, firing off all her nerves into anger. She feels heavy and far away from the world.
“I feel sorry for the poor bloke who was in charge of his security. That’s his job gone.”
“Too right!”
“And the wives of the men who jumped in front of the gun man to take him down…”
That makes her start. What if the gun had not fired blanks? At that range, he would have been dead, the bullets would have ripped through his skull and blown out his brains. The lack of any sort of emotion on his face. He knew and he didn’t care. Suddenly her heart races to action and she feels a cold sweat drip down her back.
“Camilla, breathe normally.”
“I’m breathing.” She is. Breathing so hard to try to fill her lungs which seem to refuse to be filled.
“You’re hyperventilating, Darling, try to match my breathing.”
But she can’t. She can’t see anything other than the dead in Charles’s eyes as he looked at the gunman with scant interest. How he pushed past his security, not caring about his safety, to watch. How easy it would be for some mad person to take him away from her forever. And then she’s crying, these enormous sobs which consume her and Andrew keeps on trying to comfort her but she feels a flash of cold ice each time he touches her, making her shrug him off. Eventually he settles for handing her tissues and giving her a cushion to hold against her chest, which she squeezes as tight as possible.
The phone rings and she springs to her feet but she’s so light headed, she sinks down again and as her brain spins back to central, she hears Andrew answering.
“Yes, Sir… Very well, Sir… I’ll let her know.”
“I want to speak to him!” She mouths at him across the room but Andrew frowns at her, shaking his head.
“Upset, as you’d probably imagine, but you know Milla. She’s a tough nut… I’ll let her know. Goodnight, Sir. Sorry, good morning, Sir.”
“I wanted to talk to him!” Her voice is a growl across the room and the tears still sound in her voice.
He walks back to her with a sneer, sitting on the arm chair opposite her. “You wanted to talk to him in that state? I won’t let you embarrass yourself like that.”
It’s a flash of anger rather than hysteria which hits her this time. “What did he say?”
“I’ll tell you when you’ve pulled yourself together and stopped crying. He’s going to ring later. You can’t talk to him in that state.”
“He won’t care.”
“Yes he will. The man’s just had an attempted assassination attempt and you’re the one crying? He’s not ringing you to hear you sobbing down the phone.”
“Don’t be cruel.”
“I’m not. I’m just being truthful. You know what he’s like.”
It’s a dark bitter feeling to know that she is wrong and he is right. She can’t cry down the phone to him. It would only panic him. Crying is only for when they are together. When she can hold him tightly in her arms and keep him safe from the world.
“And you need to sober up. He’s ringing you at 11pm. He said there had been a lightning storm and the power went out overnight.”
That’s better. At least there was a reason. She looks at Andrew for the first time in relief and starts wiping away her tears, blowing her nose. She can feel the whisky in her head but she knows she’ll be able to sober up when she needs to. She’s not worried. Once her legs stop shaking so badly, she gets up and heads to the kitchen, lighting the hob and pouring herself a large glass of water. A few minutes pass before Andrew shuffles in and she serves out the leftover stew into a bowl, gesturing to Andrew, who nods, before doling out another bowl. They sit at the kitchen table in silence whilst they eat the stew.
“Did you cry when you found out about the bomb?”
Andrew doesn’t look at her and she takes a sip of water before answering, “No. Not until I knew you were alright. Before that, I was too shocked to cry.”
“So you cried with relief?”
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“Like you were before?”
“I don’t remember but I don’t think so. The children were there.” She’s lying. She remembers it clearly, sitting the children down and explaining what had happened. Remembering the tears which ran like streams down her son’s face and trying to console him by telling him what a hero his daddy was. She was one of the lucky ones, not having to explain her husband’s death to her children. How would she even begin to articulate the death of a parent to two young children? It was unimaginable.
He nods. “Good.”
“Why good?”
“I wouldn’t have wanted you to feel like this.”
“It’s just emotion. I feel better for crying. I needed to.”
“Was I right to stop you from talking to him?”
“Perhaps.” But she’s lying again, trying to make Andrew feel better. Just hearing Charles’s voice would have soothed her far more quickly than anything else.
She makes to tidy away the dishes and he stops her, clearing the table and putting them in the sink for the housekeeper to wash, flicking the switch of the kettle to make a cup of tea. “You look much better now. You’ve got colour in your cheeks again and you’ve stopped shaking. You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve never seen you like that.”
“No. I know.” Of course he hadn’t. She wanted him to enjoy his time with her and caring for a crying woman wasn’t high on his list of pleasures.
“We’ve been married for twenty years and I’ve never seen you that upset. Have you ever been that upset with me?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve hidden it from me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you hide it from him?”
She wonders what he wants to hear before shrugging and telling the truth. “Sometimes, if I don’t think he can cope with me being upset.”
“Only sometimes?”
“Never when we’re together. When we’re together I don’t need to put on an act. But when we’re apart, yes.”
“Why have you hidden it from me?”
“I didn’t want to make you angry, or give you a reason to not want to come home to me.”
“Jesus, Camilla. Am I that shallow? No. Don’t answer. What’s changed?”
She looks at him, her eyes sad and he drops his face to his hands.
“You no longer care…”
“Andrew, I care…”
“But only as a friend…”
“My dearest friend.”
“That’s a lie. He’s always been your ‘dearest friend’. You’re more yourself around him than me. You both turn into a pair of teenagers when you’re together.”
The kettle starts singing and she moves to stand before he stops her, taking his time to fill the tea pot, stirring it absently to speed up the diffusion before pouring hers out. He waits a minute longer for his, allowing it to stew and then pours, adding a dollop of cold milk to his and a slice of cut lemon to hers. As he hands the cup to her and sits down, the familiarity isn’t lost on her. The cup of tea is perfect.
“So, ironically, you let me know you better, now, because you no longer love me. Oh, Milla, I’m sorry.”
“What for? I wouldn’t change anything.”
“Does he make you happy?”
“What?”
“HRH, does he make you happy?”
“Andrew, I…”
“All I see is all the pain he causes you. The past two years, you’ve been so unhappy. Your name slung across the tabloids, trapped inside our house by the paparazzi. He’s made all our lives miserable. So I want to know, is he worth it?”
“Yes.” She blurts it out quickly, forcefully. Perhaps too earnestly but she means it with all her heart and she doesn’t want Andrew thinking anything else, for him to think she wants them to get back together.
“Have you got a dastardly plan to get rid of me so that you two can be together?”
“No! Of course not, Andrew!”
“I’m wondering what the point is, Camilla?”
There is no point to her and Charles. That is the entire point. Andrew wouldn’t understand, unless he was referring to the two of them and in that case the point was always the children. “Well you’re just waiting until the children are grown, isn’t that the point?”
“Yes, I am. Then I can escape this bloody circus.”
That hurt. She doesn’t bother hiding her face from him. He meant to hurt her with his words but now he’s looking repentant and he reaches across to squeeze her hand before encasing them both in his. It’s always nice to hold his hand, hers dwarfed by his. She gives him an out. “Are you planning on marrying Rosemary?”
“Possibly. What about you? Are you hoping to become his official mistress?”
“I don’t have any plans.”
“Oh my God, Camilla, you’re planning on marrying him!”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not. Your face. You’re planning on marrying him!”
“I’ll never be allowed to marry him.”
“That may be so, but that’s your plan. Jesus. You’re not even doing it for status. You just love him. You’re an idiot.”
“This is nonsense.”
“Yes. So we have about four years left. Charles and Diana are never going to last another four years… So you both divorce around the same time and then you attempt to marry him.”
“You’re talking fairytales.”
“Perhaps. Well I want a seat at the wedding.”
“Really, Andrew!”
“I can be your lady in waiting!”
“You’re a man!”
“Ah ha! It is a plan!”
“It is not!”
“I want to be front row at the coronation.”
“You’re delirious.”
“I think it’ll be a bit weird bobbing to you though. I might give that a miss.”
“Charles won’t like that…”
“Charles can suck my…”
“Andrew!”
“What? It made you laugh, didn’t it?”
“Yes… Yes, it did.”
“Let’s go back to the lounge. I want to sit in comfort.”
She doesn’t let go of his hand and when they sit down, she feels him pulling her to him and curls up against him, his arms wrapped around her. They sit for a few minutes, watching News Night before she pulls away, leaning instead into the sofa and raises her eyebrows at him as she plants her feet on his lap. He just smiles at her, pressing his thumbs into the sole of her foot from habit.
“Andrew, whatever happens, I don’t want to lose you.”
“You’re not going to lose me. Perhaps you can grant me a title?”
“Give over.”
“Seriously though. I promise you lunch dates.”
“Lunch dates?”
“Yes. We can have lunch dates and it will all be very civilised. I’d like to bring Rosemary, if we’re still together then. We can all go out together.”
“Charles won’t do that.”
“His loss. We’ll have lunch dates. And parties. You can both come to our parties. But I do expect to be invited to yours too.”
“You are invited to our hypothetical parties.”
“Do you think you’re going to be the next queen?”
“No. Not really.”
“Does he not want you to be?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Ah. There, you see, that’s where I am better than him. I would make you my queen. No questions asked.”
“Thank you. I think.”
“Now all you have to do is tell him that. He’s so stupidly jealous of me, he’ll do it to spite me.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“So tell him.”
“No. It’s his decision or not at all. I don’t want anything from him. I want to be with him as an equal and the only way to do that is to go in with no expectations. If he wants to give me anything, that’s his choice. The only thing I want from him is his love. It’s the only thing I can give him in return.”
“Everyone has expectations. You had them of me. You expected to be married. A house. A garden. Children. You wanted a certain lifestyle and I gave that to you.”
“And look what that got me. Got both of us. We’re stuck in a marriage we’d both rather be out of but for our obligations. We’ve both fallen in love with someone else who we can’t be with. We’re so lucky to be friends but it’s not enough. No. Love. That’s my choice now. Just that. Anything else is a bonus. I don’t need it.”
“Are you saying you didn’t love me?”
“No. I loved you. But you didn’t love me. Not the way I wanted to be loved. And I was young and foolish and thought that you’d change. You’d settle down. You’d grow to love me back. That I loved you enough for the both of us. I was wrong.”
“I’m settling down now.”
“But not with me.”
“I would have happily settled down with you, Camilla. That was the point. You choose someone you want to grow old together with. But I can’t now. Because you’d be half a person if I made you give him up. Don’t deny it. I remember the first time I made you give him up for me. And I was of the understanding that you were quite pathetically in love with me yet it still hurt you to leave him to marry me. So I allowed you to cling onto him as a friend.”
“I didn’t require your permission.”
“But I encouraged it. The second time I made you give him up was much worse.”
“That wasn’t your decision.”
“Ultimately, it was. I steered you both towards it and after his wedding you seemed to shrink. Everything about you was less vibrant. You were so quiet for such a long time, even though you claimed you didn’t love him. If that was your heartbreak to lose a man you didn’t love… I don’t want to be responsible for doing that to you again. I know it’s the real deal between the two of you. If you get ripped apart now, I’m not sure you’d ever be whole again.”
Surprisingly, she’s dry-eyed although perhaps that is because she cried out all the tears in her soul beforehand thinking about Charles. There’s none left for Andrew. “I’m sorry.” It seems so insignificant to her. What on Earth can the word ‘sorry’ do to atone for all that?
“It’s just bad timing. It took me thirty years to want to settle down with you. You wanted to settle down immediately. You could have coped with ten years. You were at your breaking point with twenty years. But thirty. That was too long. You gave up on me. I don’t blame you. Perhaps if you’d have taken many lovers, we might have been okay. But you’re not like that. You’re loyal. That was never going to work for you.”
“No. I’m not built like that.”
“Unlike me, he’ll appreciate your monogamous loyalty. Us two, we’re good together. We’re a really good match. But you’ve never looked at me like you look at him. You’ve never been that degree of desperate to answer the phone to me. I think you’re hopelessly in love with him, the all bells all whistles desperately in love epic like you read about in one of your novels.”
“Does it make you feel nauseous?”
“Completely. But I feel better for getting it off my chest. Thank you for listening.”
“Any time.”
“It’s almost time for you to wait anxiously by the phone as if staring it it will hurry it up.”
“Don’t be mean.”
“I’m being factual. Time to listen to your other husband.”
“Don’t joke.”
“Just tell me one thing.”
“What is it?”
“Tell me that I’m better in bed.”
“Oh! I don’t remember. It’s been too long.”
“No! I can’t have that. Tell me I’m better in bed. Surely I’m better in bed?”
“Andrew, you were quite exceptional in bed.”
“I know that. It wasn’t my question though.”
“Well, sex just gets better with age, doesn’t it? So it’s not really a fair comparison between now and then.”
“Does it? I think it peters out, personally…”
“And it’s definitely better the longer you’ve been with somebody…”
“Hmm… I’m not sure I agree with that either… Hold on, have you been sleeping with HRH for longer than with me now?”
“With Charles? I think so.”
“God it must be dull.”
“Perhaps I enjoy dull sex?”
“You don’t.”
“No, I don’t, you’re right.”
“Could you imagine the two of us having sex now?”
“Not really.”
“It used to be really good.”
“Yes, it did.”
“I taught you everything you know.”
“How boring does that sound?”
“You’re not boring. I’ll give you that, Milla. Insane, yes, but boring, no. Never.”
“I’m calm now, thank you.”
“Don’t say I don’t look out for you.”
“I never would.”
“Duke… I would make a good Duke. Or a Baron. I’m not grasping.”
“If it were up to me, you would be a Duke, if that’s what you wanted, your Grace.”
“Instead I’m just a Brigadier and the Silver Stick.”
“What a lowly position.”
“Compared to what you’re going to be, it is.”
“I’m getting it.”
“What? The crown?”
“No! The phone.”
“It’s not…”
The bell sounds and she smiles, getting up and walking out of the room to answer.