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The stadium quiets as Roger Federer ever-so-gracefully swings his racket forward and the springy, thudding pop of a tennis ball being hit echos around the main arena. This, and the murmurs of the crowd make for a soothing soundtrack for the tournament. Even when the grounds of Wimbledon are filled, the chirps and pops of the court can still be head underneath the chatter and cacophony of applause of thousands of people. I am sitting on the edge of my seat, watching as the Croatian-born Marin Čilić responds to Federer's serve, slipping happily into his role as risk-averse defender.
As I watch, I settle into a twelve-year old mindset; reverting back to my earliest days on the court. I am barely out of elementary school when I first discover tennis. The under armour shirts and the neon nylon skirts, fluid backhands and center court serves. It's a passion I have long given up, but as I clench my hands around the metal railing overlooking the blistering hot court, crane my neck and nearly see sweat beads glistening on Federer's headband-wrapped forehead, I am overcome with awe and gratitude. If it wasn't for Florence van der Woodsen, a public relations mogul who supplied one of my red carpet looks and quickly became a friend of mine, I would have never been able to enjoy all of the VIP perks.
Sitting courtside at Wimbledon was a dream come true. Sitting with a brood of posh British aristocrats – well, that wasn't even funny.
Caroline Spencer, daughter of the 9th Earl Spencer, wraps her hand around my shoulder and pulls me back to the present. "Look. Over there," she mouths, cocking her head toward nowhere in particular from what I can tell.
I lean back into my seat and fan myself. "What?" I ask, picking up my flute of complimentary champagne. As long as it's free, I help myself to as much as I'd like.
Wimbledon was a bit like Disney – with more booze and less children.
"The royal box is only a few rows away."
"Oh?"
Sebastian Mansfield, celebutante and husband of one of my closest friends, leans down and puts his face in between our conversation, as if his ears had started to tingle with the mention of the royal family. "What's this I hear?"
Caroline supplies, "Prince William and Vivienne Six Names are down that way according to the Daily Mail. I suspect Prince George will join them soon."
Sebastian snorts at the unflattering sobriquet. He shakes his head as blood rushes to his cheeks. "Of course. That's the royal box."
I raise my brow at the two of them. "Vivienne Six names?"
"Vivienne Frances Georgiana Bishop-Yates-Hawthorne," Caroline nods, "William's rumored girlfriend. The word 'bitch' translates in over eighty different languages and all of them are reserved for her. That troll."
"Goodness. What a name." I discreetly pull my Aviators down the bridge of my nose, narrowing my gaze to get a better look at the royal box. My vision is obscured by a sea of vibrant hats and fascinators adorning every wealthy woman's head, dotting the crowd in a wave of creams, peaches, and blues, all fanning out into frilly lace and tassels.
