Playing Dirty(86)

“Be that as it may,” my mother continued. “From now on, your first thought needs to be to your responsibilities.” She gave a little smile that cracked the surface of the monarch to reveal the mother beneath. “Duty before booty.”

“Please don’t ever say ‘booty’ again,” I said, cringing as every child cringes when a parent tries to get down with the kids.

“Did I not use it correctly?” she asked innocently. “How ‘ill’ of me. Have you said hello to your brother yet?”

I shook my head.

“Go fetch him. I want to talk to you both.”

Traditionally, the relationship between royal siblings is a frosty one. There was always the unspoken but implied favoritism towards the first born, and in the case of me and my brother Michael, the situation was exacerbated by our personalities. I was destined to be King, a future that I wasn’t wholly happy about. Michael would’ve dearly loved to be King, but his birthright entitled him to be nothing but a standby—in case of tragedy we need you, otherwise just shut up and stay back there.

Second-born in a royal family was a profoundly hateful thing to be. It was made no better by the fact that Michael was, by any conventional measure, far more suitable to the task than me. He was controlled, sober and serious, and he always performed all that was required of him. His personality and dedication to his duty and station made him far more suitable for the life of service that a King must live, and of course, infinitely less popular with the public. He was no ‘fun’, whereas I was photographed in all kinds of ‘fun’ situations by the paparazzi every weekend. That had always seemed unfair to Michael, and because of it, he retained a distaste for the British public that was hardly regal, and certainly not kingly.

I located him in the library, and he looked up as I entered.

“You’re back.”

Although Michael was two years my junior, I always felt like a naughty schoolboy being called before the headmaster when talking with my younger brother.

“Just got in.”

“I see that you enjoyed yourself in America.”

Another person might have asked ‘Did you have fun in America?’, but not Michael.

“Yeah. It was good.”

“Your face on the front pages of the tabloids suggests that it was slightly better than good.”

I shrugged. “Sorry.”

“I’m not altogether sure that you are.”

I couldn’t escape the feeling that by enjoying my life, I had somehow let my brother down. In fact, I often felt that by existing I had let my brother down. I decided to try a different tack.

“You know, if you cut loose a little, it could be you on the front page surrounded by pretty girls.”

Michael pulled an affronted face—it was an expression to which his features were ideally suited. “You actually think I’m jealous of your deplorable escapades?”

I considered the question. “Well…yeah.”

He snorted. “I’m not.”

“I would be if I were you.”

“Well, I’m not. At this point we could find a better future king by throwing a dart at a phonebook and picking whoever it landed on.”

I chuckled. Despite being a very serious and often petulant person, my brother could be funny on occasion, whether he meant to be or not.

“Perhaps if you knew more of the details, little bro,” I replied with an exaggerated wink.

At this point I would’ve been willing to admit that I was deliberately riling Michael up. I knew he was at least a little jealous of my carefree lifestyle and attitude towards life, whether he would admit it or not. And by the same token and whether I would admit it or not, I was a little jealous of how easily studious adherence to duty came to my younger sibling. Somewhere between the two of us, there was a perfect monarch—one who was liked by his people, conscientious of his duties and happy in who he was. As things were, there were two people: a well-liked dilettante and a disliked but dedicated fusspot, and neither of us was altogether happy with who he was.

It was in a glacial silence that we made our way back to where our mother waited for us, doing the Radio Times crossword—the quick one, her Majesty had never had a mind for the cryptic clues.

“Ten letters, sugary quality?” She looked expectantly at us.

“Sweetness?” I suggested.

“That’s nine letters, you twat,” said Michael. “Saccharine.”

Our mother nodded. “Ah yes, thank you…but enough of that language, Michael,” she said. “Now, has anyone else noticed that this place is looking a bit down at heel?”

These things were relative, but given the sort of standards that a royal family was supposed to keep up—for the sake of visiting dignitaries, politicians and their ilk—Richmond Palace was looking a bit shabby, as far as palaces go. The dust had accumulated on the priceless objet d’art, the silver was looking rather dull, and some of the centuries-old tapestries were starting to look their age.