The next week of my life is insane.
And not just because I wrote about—and provided photographic proof of—my "second" encounter with the Davenports.
First of all, Alistair was none too pleased to find that I went to the polo match without telling him or pitching a story about it. When he asked me to explain why I didn't tell him, my flimsy excuse was that my landlord only extended the invite the night before and that I figured he already had someone covering it—which he did, turns out. But I've now learned that he's the type of editor who expects his freelancers to tell him every single time they're going to be somewhere a royal might show up.
Which means that my invite to Ascot is going to make him blow a gasket.
Second, my personal profile has risen substantially. Since writing about seeing the Davenports at the polo for my site as well as US HuffPo, my social media following has increased by several thousand, and I've been deluged by emails and tweets and website comments. I used to make it a point to reply to every email and be active in my my site's comment section, but now I just don't know how I'm going to manage it.
Third, the reports coming out of the polo match surrounding one Prince Liam are all, unsurprisingly, about him and Poppy. Every royal reporter from major sources in London are running with it, and the headlines have gone from the speculative "Liam and Poppy Spotted Together at the Polo" to "Back On: Prince Liam Rumoured to Be Proposing to Poppy".
For real.
I used to take these things in stride.
But that was before I was dating Prince Liam Davenport.
Now, seeing the rumor-mongering that are straight-up lies has driven me into a fury.
During one of my rants about it, Liam asked, "Do you just want to go public now? We can. Let's post a photo of us kissing on your blog. Right now."
I gave him a pointed glare even though I wanted to do exactly that.
He just shrugged and said, "This is just how it goes" before giving me a massive hug.
It made me feel a tiny bit better.
Unfortunately, Liam hasn't been around much since then, as he's been prepping for Trooping the Colour and his trip to Kenya, and I've been writing up a storm, planning my reader meet-up—which is happening while he's in Kenya—and getting ready for my dad to arrive next week.
Which I'm psyched about. I've made reservations for three different afternoon teas and am working on finalizing our very full itinerary. The big question about it right now is whether or not he'll be able to meet Liam.
He'll be in town the week between Liam's Kenya trip and Ascot, so my boyfriend will definitely be in town. I figured it'd be an easy thing to work out: Liam could just meet him at the flat for dinner one night, as going somewhere in public isn't possible. But, for some reason, Liam hasn't committed to that yet.
And I can't help but find myself paranoid that the reason has to do with Poppy.
The rational part of my brain knows that that can't be the case. That maybe there are meetings and events that Liam might have invites to that he's trying to determine whether or not he needs to accept for that week, and he doesn't want to commit to a night only to have to cancel.
But the insecure part of my brain is screaming that he doesn't want to meet my dad because he isn't actually serious about me.
An alarm goes off on my phone, letting me know that I need to get a move on to make it to Trooping the Colour early enough to post up on the Buckingham Palace Mall in order to get a killer view of the balcony.
As it's going to be a very long day – I'm heading there hours early, the actual military event will probably last around two hours, and who knows how long it'll take for me to get back to my house – I'm wearing incredibly comfortable clothing, but still did my best to make look professional still. I slip on my white sneakers, take a look in the mirror at my ironed shorts and sleeveless, button-up, blouse, and shrug at my reflection.
It's not going to get me on a best-dressed list, but I also don't look like a slob. Good enough.
I double-check that my phone is fully charged, I have a backup battery pack, and that I have a notebook and mechanical pencil (journalism 101: pens burst, so pencils are better) to jot down any observations that I'm not able to capture via audio or video.
Once everything is triple-checked, I finally grab my sunglasses and get on my merry way.
I spend the morning posting photos of the mall, palace, and crowd as it grows—plus one selfie—to my social media accounts, and chatting up other royal watchers. Everyone is jovial and many people in the crowd are tourists who weren't about to miss catching sight of the royal family while they're in town, though I do meet a few locals who come every year. I get some good sound bites that I'm already playing around with in my mind. As I pull out my phone to start typing out my initial thoughts so that I don't forget any sentences or clauses I think of now, I see that I have texts from my dad, Haley, Olly, and Liam.
Which definitely does not hurt my ego.
I check Liam's first, just in case it's some sort of pertinent information, but it's just a hello text. I quickly type back and send him my selfie; he immediately sends back the eggplant emoji, which makes me blush furiously.
The other texts are mostly in the same vein – Haley and Olly have both seen the photos I'm posting and wanted to say hello and how excited they are for me to see the Trooping in person, and my dad's is a "wow" to the photo I sent him earlier of the palace.
I busy myself with posting notes and observations to Twitter, and not much later, I get another text from Liam that simply says, showtime.
I pull out my GoPro to capture the procession of the ridiculously beautiful horse-drawn carriages to the military grounds just at the top of the mall and ready it to the video setting after much internal strife about whether to video or photograph.
I definitely should have hired an intern so that one of us could man the GoPro while the other snaps photos.
Alas.
Once the parade gets underway, everything happens quickly. The carriages are so incredibly stunning that I nearly forget who they're carrying, and that this will be the first time I see many members of the royal family in the flesh. I change my focus and spy Ben and Liam's younger cousins with their parents—Duke David and Duchess Anna—waving to the crowds, followed by my boyfriend with his parents. I don't even have time to process them, really, because then Ben and Emilia are in my line of sight, followed by the Queen in a sunny yellow suit and pink hat, and her husband, the Duke of Rochester.
I can't help myself I gasp and then squeal like a ridiculous little girl.
And then, I'm surprised to find that I begin to cry.
I quickly move to wipe away the tears as quickly and nonchalantly as possible, but then I think of my grandmother and the tears begin to fall faster.
She would have loved this.
Not the me dating a Liam thing—though I'm sure that would have delighted her—but the me living and working here, and being able to experience this event in person. We used to watch it together every year. When I moved to New York, we'd both turn it on and one would call the other so that we could still watch it together.
I dig in my bag for a tissue, and a lady next to me hands me one from the pack that she's holding and says, "It's all right, dear. It's always emotional seeing The Queen."
"Thank you," I say, laughing a bit, but very glad that I'm surrounded by like-minded people.
Once the carriages have past by, I know the rest of the event will be, well...the technical term is a bore. I won't be able to see the parade from here and there's nothing happening on this end of the mall.
Which means it's time for me to be a reporter again.
I introduce myself to the people around me and get their permission to record our conversation, then we all talk about the event, the royal family, today's weather, and where everyone is from.
My phone buzzes, and I look down to see a message from Natalie.
Spotted you on the mall. Looks like you got a great spot! L would like to know if you're available for dinner tonight?
I respond immediately with As it happens, I am.
Natalie types back Great. Dinner is at 7:30pm at Clarence House.
I nearly scream.
Clarence House.
Where his parents live.
I'm having dinner with his parents.
Holy. Bazoo.
"Everything okay?" the lady with the tissues asks me.
"Yeah," I say quickly. "Just got a surprising message, that's all."
"I could tell," she says. "Wasn't sure if it was a good surprise or a bad one."
"Well," I say. "I think it's a good one. But the kind that also makes you very, very nervous."
"Ah," she says, knowingly. "So a very good one."
Here's hoping.
The time passes quickly, thankfully, and some clouds roll in, providing much-needed shade.
I deeply hope that I'm not horribly sunburned despite the sunscreen I lathered myself in this morning.
Soon, the carriages make their way back to Buckingham Palace and around to the carriage house, where the royal family alights away from the prying eyes of the public, and then go through the palace to what is maybe the most photographed balcony in the world.
I'd be willing to put money on it. Though, the Vatican might be some solid competition, now that I'm thinking about it.
After a suspense-filled eight minutes, the balcony doors open and the royal family walks out to wave to the massive crowd that's gathered to see them.
This time, I take tons of photos instead of a video, and from the screen on my phone, I swear that Liam is looking right at me.
I put it down to see if if he's just looking in my general direction or if he's somehow actually spotted me, and when he winks, I'm sure that I have Natalie to thank for that.
"Did you see that?" someone asks. "Prince Liam winked at someone!"
"Did he?" someone else asks, and then the crowd is off, speculating who it could be: the cameras, a child in the crowd, a friend, Poppy. Though, the person who suggests Poppy immediately says, "Nevermind, she'd never be caught dead here."
I can't help but laugh.
After the flyover—which was exactly as awesome as it's always seemed—the family heads back inside, and the crowd begins to disperse.
I say goodbye to the people I've been around most of the day, and they all tell me they'll be on the lookout for my article, which is very sweet of them.
I wait out the crowd a little longer, plugging my phone into the backup charger and posting some of the photos I snapped of the Davenports on the balcony, and then writing out a few more notes to save for future use.
When I start the walk back to my flat, it's only when I'm halfway there that I remember my new dinner plans.
And with that, I quicken my pace, with every intent to do become the foremost expert on James and Mary Davenport—and all the things I'll need to do to impress them—before 7pm.