Sweeter than Fiction: A Taylor Swift Fic

Chapter 4: Baby, Just Say Yes

I pulled my coat tight, and hopped onto the red double-decker bus along with the other passengers, not quite sure if I was headed the right way. With the twisty streets, the traffic going in the wrong (pardon me, opposite) direction, and a bit of an excitement-overload hangover, I wasn’t at my sharpest this morning. The perks and perils of being a pop star meant I could never get too lost: I glanced behind me and saw my security hop on the bus and pay their fare as well, and I wound my way up the stairs to the top level, finding an empty seat right at the front — like Harry had shown me — so I could get a view of glorious London, as the bus wound its way towards Hampstead. (At least I hoped we end up in Hampstead.) 

My phone buzzed again in my pocket; it had been blowing up all morning with hilarious comments about my “Livin’ on a Prayer” sing-along with Prince William and Jon Bon Jovi. As if, I smiled to myself, As if that is my life now. I checked the text: Douglas. Think I’m gonna have to give you some royal etiquette lessons. Not sure one is permitted to high-ten the heir to the throne, you cheeky American. See you in 10 mins. I laughed, quickly texted back, and returned to looking out the window, as the city went by in a blur. I’d turned Douglas into my Real Estate Romeo, a nickname he said he hated but maybe (I was convincing myself) he secretly loved it. I wanted to find a place in London, or somewhere near, and we’d spent the most wonderful day visiting friends of his at some country estate. Complete with horses, homemade preserves, and my first time trying port. (Not for me. Blech.)

I’d had a hard time not humming “Love Story” as I wandered around that estate, imagining myself as the Juliet to Douglas’s Romeo (though, acting wise, no way could I come close to Hailee) and for more reasons than one, I knew I would be singing that oldie when I came here for the Winter Whites Gala. First, like how could I not when I would be singing in front of an actual Prince? You'll be the prince and I’ll be the princess… It’s just too perfect. But more than that, I wanted to rewrite my own love story in this city. Reclaim my heart from another Brit, move on, let go. And singing those earnest lyrics about a difficult love, about a love that so many people protested to, I could see that ours was not a true Romeo and Juliet story. It wasn’t the love I’d imagined when I wrote that song so quickly, lying on my bedroom floor and wishing that the boy I liked would like me back. That we were meant to be. I got tired of waiting…

It was still so easy for me to fall back into the memories, and standing there in my floor-length gown, my hair curled and tucked up into a bob, my sparkly guitar in hand, and the small crowd at Kensington Palace singing along with me, I felt a wave of emotion sweep over me, that hopefulness and, well, naivety that I know accompanies the abandon of love. My fairytale was happening, I realized now, it just wasn’t the one I’d imagined as a little girl growing up and dreaming of castles. In my fairytale, the prince was charming but happily married to someone else, and I had an empire of my own making — one that allowed me to connect, to sing with, to dream with, to hope with millions around the world. And as for true love? As for the one relationship that will last forever? I’ll never get tired of waiting.

***

“I’ll race you!” Douglas was grinning at me, just slightly ahead of me, and pointing to the top of the hill — which, at the moment, looked a bit more like a mountain. Around us milled Londoners out and about enjoying the beautiful Hampstead Heath park, walking their dogs, chatting on their ‘mobiles’. Definitely not engaging in ill-advised post-lunch foot races. Thankful that I’d been keeping up my running while on tour, I smirked back at him, and made a break for it. Laughing as we ran, my coat flying open, my hair blowing back in the crisp November wind, I managed to just beat him to the top. But before I could gloat about my decisive victory, I was struck dumb by the view around me. A view of London like I’d never before seen.

“It’s perfect.”

Douglas rubbed his scruffy beard, and said in his dry British way, “Not bad, is it?” I elbowed him and — with no tourist shame — grabbed my phone and started snapping pics. I turned and reached for his hand, but he pulled back. “You’re not the only one taking photos, I’m afraid.” He motioned to some passers-by who had deduced I was that Yankee girl who’d performed for the prince last night and ready to Instagram anything that could possibly be construed as PDA. 

“Sorry,” I said as I plunked down on a bench, a bit deflated by the reminder that I was not anonymous, even a million miles away from home. People always asked why I dated other “celebrities” but this was it. It’s hard for someone not in the public eye not to be totally weirded out by how inescapable — no matter how well meaning — the attention is. And Douglas has certainly had had his own taste of it, handsome model-slash-actor-slash-dreamboat that he was. How would I even figure out if I liked someone? If he like-liked me or was just a good mate? How could I ask the awkward “So do you have a girlfriend?” without fear of being overheard or splashed on the front page of the Sun, the headline screaming (again) “Taylor desperate for love!”?

I looked down at my hands, twisted my ring around my finger like I always do when I’m unsure, and then reminded myself of that old motto that’s kept me going for years now: never never never give up. So what if someone thinks we’re dating when we’re just having a fun, if mildly flirty, friend hang? So what if he doesn’t like me in a romantic way? Or if I don’t like him that way? We’re having a laugh, as Ed would say, and what will be will be.

Douglas stood before me, held out his hand to me, and bowed deep, like I had seen others do at the gala last night. I put on my best prim face, took his hand, and nodded with as much royal gravitas as I could muster.

“M’lady, would you do me the honor of accompanying me in giving these fine citizens of London something worthy of photographing? Perhaps we could roll all the way down the hill. Or...”

 Unbidden, the lyrics popped into my head: Baby, just say yes.

Taylor’s World Tour picks up again in Australia, and she’ll have a bit of downtime to kill while she’s Down Under. Should she…

A — Hit the beach with her band and dancers, or

B — Go on a photography adventure with her brother Austin?

Comment below to vote!