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7
Jazz
The security procedures for members of the press on the royal tour are intense. Between the background check, the mountains of paperwork, the interviews, and the leagues of red tape, I’m almost shocked I get my press badge the day before I’m set to leave.
With that badge hanging from a lanyard on my neck, I make it through two security checkpoints and into the royal lounge at the private airfield in Stirling. Along one wall, chefs in white uniforms stand in front of sizzling pans. A table full of drinks—alcoholic and non-alcoholic alike—lines the wall adjacent to them, with a salad bar in the middle. There’s another long table laden with desserts, including a three-tiered cake and a chocolate fountain. It’s…a lot.
The half-dozen other reporters scheduled to go on tour are all standing around with drinks in their hands, laughing, eating, drinking. I know none of them feel as strongly about abolition of the monarchy as I do, and why would they, if they get treated to this kind of luxury any time they come near the royals?
I perch myself on the end of a chair and jot down notes. I snap a few pictures to remember every corner of this lounge, the lavish spread of food, the open bar.
For a bunch of journalists waiting in the guest lounge of the royal airstrip, this is beyond luxurious. Outside on the tarmac, a huge jet waits for us. It gleams white in the early morning sun, with ground staff hurrying around to check the plane and load luggage into its hull.
All I have is a small black roller suitcase at my feet and a cross-body laptop bag, but it’s enough. I’m just here for work, and I know how to pack light. This morning I hesitated, my hands almost grabbing the one fancy dress I own—the same one I wore to the party with Rhea—but I decided against it. There’s a press gala in Farcliff that happens every year, but I’m not planning on going. From what I understand, it’s just an opportunity to be schmoozed by the elite. Not my cup of tea, and probably wouldn’t work with my whole schtick as an anti-royalty writer.
“First time, Crawley?”
I turn to see Will Broderick arching a brow at me, a confident smile tugging at the corner of his lips. With thick, sandy-blond hair and light-blue eyes, he looks like his ancestors were Vikings. The man is taller than me by a foot and a half and built like a warrior. I remember what he looked like naked, and I have to admit his body is easy on the eyes.
His crisp white shirt is tucked into tailored slacks, black shoes gleaming on his feet. He nods to the reporters crowding around the drinks table, one of them throwing his head back to laugh. Enjoying every bit of all this free food and drink. Will snorts, leaning in close to me. “Feels like the Crown is trying to buy us off with all this luxury, doesn’t it?”
“You’ve been part of the royal tour for half a decade, Broderick. Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”
He flashes a charming smile at me—one I know he only deploys on women. “I’m looking forward to three months in close company with you, Crawley.”
I roll my eyes. “That ship has sailed. You failed to impress me the first time, and I’m not in the business of giving second chances. I’m here to work.”
“Even going to the biggest red carpet event any of us will ever get to attend? Surely you’ll take a night off for that.”
“What, the Gala of the Press in Farcliff?”
Will dips his chin.
I shrug. “Not going. I don’t need royals to buy me off with a fancy night out just so I won’t write up all the dirt I can find on them.”
The journalist chuckles as if I’ll change my mind. He leans against the wall next to me, letting his eyes drift down my body and back up again. It’s not often men ogle me like that. I don’t mind, exactly. A part of me enjoys hate-flirting with Will. I know he respects my work, and he’s inclined to agree with most of what I say. The night we had together was… I wouldn’t go so far as to say good, but it was a fun distraction, if anything. I don’t regret sleeping with him.
A murmur goes through the crowd, and Will glances toward the window. “The Prince is here.”
Jumping up, I crane my neck when I see a convoy of black vehicles approaching the plane to catch a glimpse of Wolfe, the second eldest in the royal family. A hush falls over the room as we all stand, crowding toward the window. The line of black vehicles stops, and a full security detail exits the front and back cars.
The center car is positioned right at the foot of the aircraft stairs. I hold my breath, watching for Prince Wolfe. I shouldn’t care—not really. I’m supposed to think of these people as my equals, but here I am, nose pressed against the glass, trying to get a glimpse.
Emotion rises up inside me, choking me. It feels a lot like disgust—mostly at myself. Turning away from the windows before I can see the Prince exit the vehicle, I head back for my bag and continue jotting down notes.
Will meets my eye, still leaning against the wall where I left him, grinning. At me.
I ignore him.
I’ll write an article about this—about the waste, the needless luxury, the ridiculous pomp and ceremony around everything royal. I won’t hold back.
No matter how nice Prince Silas was to me, it won’t make me change my opinion on Wolfe or the rest of the family. I have a job to do. I’m here to be the voice for the end of the monarchy.
Still, I can’t help but feel special when we’re led to the aircraft. I’ve never flown on a private plane, and never one like this. As we step onto the tarmac, Will explains to me that it’s a refurbished A380 aircraft. “The entire top level has been turned into a royal apartment, with us plebs on the bottom level. Don’t worry, though—it’s not cattle class.” He grins, nodding to a flight attendant at the bottom of the aircraft stairs. She blushes, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
He’s right—it’s nothing like an economy flight. The whole bottom level of the cabin has been renovated for the press team. Huge seats are set up in groups of two or three, facing each other in small pods. A full kitchen is set up in the galley, with an army of staff ready to welcome us. There’s a lounge area with a circular bar near the back, which will be opened up once we’re at cruising altitude. I’ve never had so many attendants lead me to a seat and shower me with drinks and snacks. Never had a hot towel handed to me between a pair of tongs, and a huge, plush seat with my name on it.
A trill of excitement passes through me as I dig through the gift bag on my seat, even though I hate myself for it. Travel-sized toiletries, perfume, a toothbrush, eye mask, socks, and everything I’ll need for a comfortable flight from here to our first stop on the tour—Ottawa, Canada. I flick open the cap on a little bottle of lotion, sniffing it. Floral—and from a brand that I’d never actually be able to afford to buy for myself.
