Samantha
I went back to work at the stables the next day. My bruises did cause a bit of interest, but after I detailed my first hunting experience (minus the fact that my companion had been Prince Harry) the excitement died down. One of the other grooms offered to take me hunting in the fall in her home county, promising smaller fences and a more-laid back experience. I smiled and was noncommittal, unsure if I would even still be in the UK in the fall.
The next few days were blissfully quiet in some ways—the press had other stories to pursue, and some actress had been featured in a secret sex tape, so her picture was all over the papers and Twitter instead of mine. But my phone was unusually quiet as well—neither Randa nor Harry contacted me.
I continued to show up at the Sleeping Lion as usual, but Randa did not, and I was baffled as to how to reach out to her. Apologizing didn't seem the right thing to do—what was I going to apologize for? Seducing Harry away from Meg? That was laughable. Even if I had managed to seduce him, it wasn't something I owed Randa an apology for. And it seemed to me like he was the one doing most of the pursuing—not me.
It wasn't my fault I was in the papers. I would have much preferred to be out of the spotlight rather than in it. In fact, given a choice, I would have preferred that Harry be both not a prince and not engaged...but that wasn't the way fate had dealt the cards this time around. It's not that I regretted falling for him, but there was a lot of baggage with our relationship that I could really do without.
I went to bed Thursday night, still thinking about it...and still wondering what Harry meant when he said he wanted to give me more than a weekend. Did that mean what I thought it meant? When he talked about the future, did he really mean a future with just the two of us...without Meg? A future where I was not the prince's ill-kept secret, but someone by his side—acknowledged and accepted by his family and the public?
I woke up Friday morning to hammering knocks on my door way, way too early. I peeked through the curtains and then stepped back with a curse.
There were a dozen photographers on the sidewalk, staring at the downstairs door.
Grabbing my phone, I texted Harry, even though we were supposed to be "out of touch."
Me: I think I've been discovered. Photogs banging on the door. Any advice?
While I waited for Harry to respond—if he was going to—I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. What now? There was only one way out of the flat. I couldn't very well tromp through the crowd of paparazzi and go to work. And if I didn't go to work, I wouldn't get paid.
I waited. There was no more knocking, but I could still hear the voices downstairs.
"Shit," I muttered, and called my boss Ricky, Mr. Coster's polo manager.
"Hey, it's Sam. I won't be able to come to work today—" I began, meaning to call off sick.
"Does it have anything to do with all the cameras?" he asked abruptly.
"What?"
"Cameras. The press. You know. The Cinderella thing."
"Cinderella?"
"It's all over the internet. #Cinderella." When I didn't respond, Ricky said, "Harry's secret love is Cinderella stable girl?" like it was a question. "Stable girl wows the prince? Barn to Buckingham Palace?"
"You have got to be kidding me."
"I wish I was. There are reporters or whatever outside the stables. And I'm calling the police if they don't leave soon."
I had no idea what to say, but I'm Canadian, so all that came out was "I'm sorry."
"Not really your fault," Ricky said briskly. "I mean, you didn't invite the press here. But do me a favor, okay? Take a week or so off and get this all straightened out. I can't have this kind of distraction going on outside the stables every day."
I didn't ask if he was going to pay me during my time off. I knew the answer would be no. "Okay."
"I need you back here, focused and ready to work in the polo yard, as soon as possible," Ricky said. "You know how grumpy the gray mare is going to be with you gone."
"Yeah, I know. Tell Driz I'll be back in a few days."
"Sure."
I ended the call and reeled off a string of profanity. This was not what I needed right now.
Against my better judgment, I typed #Cinderella into my phone. Just as Ricky had said, the tweets and stories began scrolling by...not only with my photo, but with my name and other personal details.
An incoming text from Harry pulled me away from the headlines of horror.
Only it wasn't from Harry. It was his number, but not him.
This is Colin, HRH's secretary. We advise you not to speak to the press.
Yeah, no shit, Sherlock, I thought. So how do I get rid of them?
You can call the police was Colin's less than helpful answer.
Me: And then what? That won't stop them.
No response.
Me: Will you tell Harry I need to talk to him? I hated to say it like that, but if Harry wasn't using the number anymore, how else could I get a hold of him?
HRH will contact you when he can.
"Fuck," I said, and flung the phone across the room. "Now what?"