The Line of Succession Read online

  “Yeah, well, he’s got about half an hour left of it. He’s got a hell of a day tomorrow.”

  “Oh? Not just because of…?” Lizzie said, taking a brief sip.

  “No. Not that. Well, not just that. Breakfast with mum, tea with granny, and a balcony appearance with the sister.”

  “Oh God … poor guy.” She took another sip and they both gazed at James, marveling at his ability to simply enjoy himself no matter what the situation. “Will there be anything in the papers tomorrow?”

  “I hope not,” Andrew said, necking the rest of his glass.

  “Seriously? It’s his thirtieth, sorry, their thirtieth, you might’ve done something, A glossy pull-out in one of the tabloids maybe. I told you we’d have put him on our cover if you’d only asked. Really, Andrew, you’re the damn press secretary.”

  “Darling, that means keeping him out of the papers,” he replied, reaching for a second bottle chilling in an ice bucket while Lizzie rolled her eyes.

  “Andrew, Andrew! How are you?” a voice called out.

  “Oh, hi, Magda.” Andrew stood up half-heartedly and bent down to give her an air kiss on each cheek. Her petite, almost breakable frame was clad in the shortest of black dresses that could’ve doubled for lingerie on a catwalk. Her dark hair was pulled up in a severe bun, exposing the diamonds dangling from her ears. She looked like something that would shatter if dropped into hot water.

  Lizzie attempted to shake her hand, but Magda squeezed in beside Andrew on the couch, and turned her back to Lizzie. Her slightness took up a lot of space. A young looking blonde girl stood at the side of their table, looking like a little mouse too stupid to know she’d been trapped by a cat.

  “Tell me, darling. Will you be coming to Milan for fashion week?” Magda asked.

  “Oh, no. Sorry. We’ll be in South America for the month.”

  “Oh, poo. I wanted to show you my new dresses.”

  Andrew popped open the second bottle and glared at what she wore.

  “Conservative this season, are they?”

  Magda ignored the jibe. Lizzie had given up trying to be involved in the conversation.

  “And what will you two be doing in South America?”

  “Very little, as it happens.”

  “Andrew, do you ever do any work?” Magda enquired, draping her skeletal arm across his shoulder.

  “Darling, this is work,” he said, gesturing to the rest of the club. “And how are the rest of the Hapsburgs, Magda? Give my regards to uncle Franz Ferdinand, will you?”

  Magda scoffed and gestured to the blonde girl to come over.

  “Well, Andrew, I want you to meet someone.”

  The girl approached cautiously. She looked so out of place in a soft-blue puffy dress, like a tiny fish lost in a school of sharks … or a Disney princess at a leather bar.

  “Now, who’s this?” Andrew asked, trying to be as nice as he could.

  “This is Princess Katyn of Sweden,” Magda said with pride, as if finding a fresh young royal should be worthy of an Olympic gold medal.

  “Ah, of course, the youngest daughter to King Sven. A pleasure indeed.” Andrew offered her a hand and pulled her in for a kiss on either cheek. Katyn giggled and squeezed herself onto the edge of the couch beside Andrew. “Now, Sweden is a real country, unlike Austria-Hungary.”

  “Yes!” Katyn giggled. “Sweden is very much real.”

  “And how is your fine brother?”

  “Oh, Olaf’s fine. Daddy sent him to America to be a cultural ambassador. He’s having a great time. I think he’s in San Francisco now.”

  “I bet he is,” Andrew said, trying not to let memory distract him. “Do tell him I said hello.”

  “Oh, I will. He might be coming to London soon. Anyway, what a great party!”

  An awkward bubble of silence surrounded them, pierced by the thumping music, shrieks from the dance floor, and the chatter of half-heard words and conversations around them. It became quite apparent just how odd this foursome felt.

  “Come on, Katyn,” Magda said, her bony hand grabbing the Swedish princess and pulling her away.

  “Bye,” Katyn managed to get out. “Nice to meet you both!”

  Lizzie shuffled back to Andrew on the couch.

  “Fucking hell,” she said, refilling their glasses. “What’s she like?”

  “Which one? The Wicked Witch of the East or Princess Scarecrow-brain?”

  “How does he even know all these weirdoes?” Lizzie asked.

  “Well, over there are the rich kids we hang out with in Monaco,” Andrew replied, pointing with the tip of his glass to a corner of the club where the tables were covered in vodka bottles. “They’re mainly your gilded Euro-trash, of course … Nouveau Riche.”

  “Appropriate name.”

  “Trust me, the irony is long lost on them. Over there near where Louise and Milly are sitting are some of the classier sort. The Kensington set, some deposed royals. I think you’ll remember, who was it, the Duke of Tuscany?” Andrew winked and nudged Lizzie in the side.

  “Sweetheart, you didn’t see his salami.”

  “Now, over there are the ones from the party circuits; Berlin, New York, Sydney. The ones at the other side of the bar are based out of Switzerland or Hong Kong, for tax purposes, of course.”

  “And they all come just for this?” she asked.

  “It’s the thirtieth birthday! Event of the season, darling. Plus…”

  “Plus, you two spend your time flitting around the globe hanging out with this lot, so you have to keep them happy with a big royal bash every so often.”

  Andrew lifted his glass and clinked it against Lizzie’s.

  “Exactly. I’m surprised you don’t know more of them. You’re his cousin after all.”

  “Like, third cousins. The Earl and Countess of Windsor aren’t what they used to be. Anyway, I never really got invited to these things before I started hanging around with you.”

  Over on the dance floor, James’ friends fed him shots, rather unsuccessfully. He staggered around and grabbed onto the bar for support.

  “Oh, fuck,” Andrew said, jumping off the couch and downing the glass of champagne in one. “That’s my cue. Bye, darling.”

  “Bye, good luck tomorrow.”

  He kissed her quickly on both cheeks and rushed off across the club. He squeezed through the throng on the dance floor to James, who greeted him with a cheer and gave him a drunken hug.

  “Come on, your royal highness, time to get you home.” The half dozen girls surrounding James booed and tried to pull him back. James pouted, but didn’t put up a fight. Even in his drunken, hyped-up state, James knew who was boss. The two burly plainclothes royal protection officers who’d been sipping soft drinks all night arrived to help bundle James and Andrew through the crowd. As they made it to the fire escape, James turned around and gave one final whoop, punching his fist in the air. Everyone in the club turned at that moment and gave James a cheer and he soaked up every last drop of their adulation.

  • • •

  The black limousine waited for them in the lane behind the club. A royal protection officer stepped out of the car and helped Andrew put the drunken prince inside.

  “Thanks, Frank. That’s it, just take him by the left side,” Andrew said, as Frank lowered James into the back of the car. Andrew nipped around to the other side as Frank buckled James in, then got into the front of the car himself. The driver accelerated just as Andrew slammed the black Mercedes door shut; the other two plainclothes officers followed them in the car behind.

  Andrew gazed out of the tinted window as they sped through the deserted streets and orange glow of early morning London. As the car drove down The Mall, Union Jacks flapped from the lampposts in a windy salute to the dozing prince. The car drove around the roundabout outside Buckingham Palace, passing a few dozen royal watchers camped out in deck chairs behind steel barricades, waiting for tomorrow’s royal balcony appearance. Andrew smiled as the campe
rs noticed the cars. They raised their flasks of tea and waved, and the driver gave an appreciative honk of the horn in return.

  No doubt they’ll be singing “God Save the Queen” from now till morning. The depth of feeling for the royals in the hearts of the British public never ceased to amaze Andrew. They had a grizzly respect for the tough aloofness of Queen Victoria II, but a seemingly endless amount of patience for James. Over the years, his image had transformed from poor child, to tearaway teen, to high-spirited twenty something, to charming globe-trotter, to beloved bachelor. Through it all, the critical headlines and scandalous photos, the public had remained behind him. It gave Andrew hope. Hope that someday they might be able to put up with a little bit more of a surprise.

  The car turned into their home of Clarence House, and James fell onto Andrew’s shoulder, waking himself up.

  “Come on then, sweetie. We’re home.”

  The central London mansion had been the official home of Prince Richard. Now it belonged to James. Andrew helped him up the stairs and into their bedroom. James had already started to undo his belt.

  “I want you,” James said, grabbing Andrew’s face and shoving his tongue deep inside.

  “I’ve been waiting for this all night.” Andrew kissed him back and plunged his hands into James’ pants, rubbing his hardening cock. James kicked off his shoes and pulled off his shirt. He fished inside his trouser pocket and pulled out a small bag of cocaine.

  “You still have some left?” Andrew asked and James nodded, grinning. “I’m surprised. Thought those bitches would have hoovered it all up.”

  “Nope,” James said, kissing Andrew’s neck. “Saved some for us.”

  They kissed again as Andrew scrambled to undo his own belt and whipped his cock out. His hands then returned to James, pulling his boxers down. James turned and dropped face-down onto the grand mahogany four poster bed and kicked off the rest of his clothes. Andrew popped open the small plastic bag of cocaine and dabbed the last of the powder onto his cock. Carefully, he angled down to James, lying flat on his stomach, now completely naked, holding his ass cheeks apart.

  “Ready?”

  “Give it to me, Andrew, fuck me hard.”

  • • •

  Later, they lay naked and entangled on the bed, the room dark and smelling of sex. Andrew leaned over and glanced at his phone on the bedside table. Two-twenty.

  Andrew kissed James’ cheek. “Hey, sweetie. Time to go to sleep.” James stirred from his doze and kissed Andrew back.

  “Mmm … okay. I love you so much. Thank you for the perfect birthday.”

  “You’re welcome. I love you too.”

  “Love you more,” James said, looking through the dark into Andrew’s eyes and giving a long, hard sigh. “If only things were different.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I just wish … I don’t know. We were other people. Just two ordinary guys, and, you know, in love. I think about it sometimes. Every morning we’d sit and have coffee together, in some kitchen in some street no one cares about. I’d be a teacher I think, a primary teacher. You’d be working in PR with a high-flying agency, you’re so smart.” James kissed him again. “Then every night we’d cook dinner together, watch TV, see our friends at the pub. Take the dog for a walk. Go to the shops and the cinema. And that … that would be our life. Then things would be wonderful.”

  Andrew maneuvered the covers over James’ naked body. His eyes were already closed and his breathing soft. “It does sound wonderful, my love. Goodnight.”

  • • •

  Fifteen years ago

  Captain Archibald Agnew could be described as a man after his time. He had known, from his youngest memories, that he would never best his father’s heroic war record. The memory of Major Archibald Agnew, Sr. had been lionized in his son’s mind, forever to be known as the man who helped chase Rommel across the desert, fighting tooth and nail with the Desert Rats before gloriously sacrificing his own life on the sands of El Alamein. In fact, the Victoria Cross, presented posthumously to his grieving mother, had never strayed far from Archibald’s side.

  It gazed at him now, in the darkness of the headmaster’s study through the glint of the cabinet in the corner. The moonlight from the window caught the sheen of the small silver cross, and sliced through the darkness Archibald now found himself in. Becoming headmaster of Eton had given Archibald the opportunity to be the kind of father he’d never had to countless hundreds of boys, future leaders of the country. Archibald rested back in his chair and replaced the telephone receiver even though the other person had long since hung up.

  He had never been troubled by his father’s untimely passing … never been bitter or even truly sad. His mother had remarried after the war, and he’d practically had a free pass into Sandringham thanks to the memory of a man he barely remembered. The amount of men Archibald had known who’d been terrible fathers, or who’d had terrible ones thrust upon them and found themselves repeating the cycle were too many to count. Perhaps it would be better to grow up without one at all than with a bad one.

  Archibald leaned forward in his chair, reaching out through the darkness to grab onto the desk, in an attempt and pull himself up. As much as he tried, he found he could not. The lies he told himself were useless. A tear ran down his cheek, the sensation so alien that he imagined it must be blood. Prince Richard had been the best damn father he could ever have imagined for a boy like James. The tears were real.

  Chapter Two

  Present day

  The alarm bleeped, bleeped, then bleeped again. Alexandra reached an arm out from under the covers, hoping to smack the clock in just the right place. She got it first time. She yawned and stretched. As she pulled the covers away from her face, she noticed a glaring space in the bed where her husband should be.

  The alarm clock said six-thirty. A few bars of London sun filtered through the curtains. She pushed herself up in bed and reached for the remote control. Now had come the time, now had come the day. She tried not to let the heavy years of waiting for this moment make her nervous. Turning thirty she couldn’t care less about. There were other things on her mind. Alexandra turned on the news.

  “A concert later this evening will celebrate the birthday of their royal highnesses, Prince James and Princess Alexandra. The royal family will also attend a private memorial service this afternoon in memory of the late Prince of Wales, Prince Richard, who was so tragically killed in a helicopter crash fifteen years ago today.”

  Alexandra noticed she hadn’t taken a breath.

  “Now, more allegations about Prince James’ private life have hit the headlines this morning.”

  Her breath came back, and she sank into the pillow, feeling every goose feather inside it.

  “I’m joined by our royal correspondent, David Humphrey. David, what are the papers saying?”

  “Well, we are very used to the stories and pictures in the tabloids showing off the rather party boy lifestyle that Prince James, the so-called Playboy Prince, is known to lead. Of course, many royal observers and much of the public have been waiting for the day he would eventually grow out of his lavish lifestyle, settle down at some point and, crucially, produce an heir.”

  “So, what’s changed today?”

  “Several reports in the newspaper are quoting an unnamed palace official who says there is growing concern that James has never had a serious girlfriend and that he’s never even brought someone home to meet the family. Some are saying it’s a bit unusual for a man who is now thirty years old to still be single with no serious prospects.”

  “But, David, hasn’t the Prince been linked to numerous women … often models, actresses and socialites … over the years?”

  The day’s headlines splashed across the screen as the two reporters talked: Playboy Prince can’t find a girl. 30 and still single? Will James EVER marry? One million dead as brutal Syria bloodshed continues. Alexandra’s concentration from the screen didn’t waver. She didn’t
even notice the creak of the bedroom door.

  “Of course, we frequently see rather racy pictures from the paparazzi of the Prince and his entourage. Only last month came those rather embarrassing pictures of Prince James sunbathing naked on a yacht in Monaco with a number of friends. There’s no doubt the Prince is quite the ladies’ man, but perhaps this is an attempt in some royal circles to encourage him to think about the line of succession, particularly as the Queen will turn ninety this year…”

  “Now!” the voice from the door said as it flew open. Her husband Faisal stood there smiling in his silk dressing gown, his black hair quiffed from sleep. Beneath him stood the lights of her life, Hassan and Jasmine, clutching a breakfast tray between them, although she breathed a sigh of relief to notice Faisal holding the coffee percolator.

  “Happy birthday, mummy,” Hassan said, beaming at her.

  “Happy birv-day, mummy!” Jasmine screamed. Faisal leaned down and kissed them both on each cheek. With one hand, he took the breakfast tray from them. How beautiful they all are. And how much they look like their father. When her children ran to the bed and jumped on top, she embraced them both in a bear hug.

  “Mummy, mummy, look! I made you a card.”

  “Oh, thank you, Jasmine. It’s beautiful. Mummy is going to put it right here, okay?” She leaned over and placed it on the nightstand. One eye flicked to the TV. The reporters had moved on to talking about the party planned for the evening, and, of course, the guest list. Only a bloody thirtieth birthday can push Syria off the front page. She turned it off.

  “Don’t worry,” Faisal said as he sat on the bed and kissed her on the cheek, “I supervised all breakfast making activities.”

  “Yes, well, I thought it was rather a lot of initiative for a six- and eight-year-old,” Alexandra said. A knowing wink to her husband confirmed that she knew he was the architect of this plan.