Royal Disaster by Parker Swift (26)

I walked back into the hallway, and I saw a gaggle of giggling girls scurrying from the bathroom back towards the ballroom, happy on Champagne. We’d missed the toasts, the party, but these people hadn’t. We’d all been in the same gorgeous palace, but they’d toasted to love, and I’d left any hope of love behind. There would be no beginning. This was an end.

I ducked into the ladies’ room and took stock. I quietly wiped the smudged makeup from under my eyes. Patted my cheeks with cold water. Adjusted my dress. And forced a smile—did I look like I’d just been having a grand old time? Not even close, but no one would notice.

Dylan had the tag for my coat, and honestly I didn’t have the energy to explain and try to get it back without it. And I certainly wasn’t going to go back to Dylan and ask for the tag. I just needed to get out of there. I slipped out the door into the cold night. There was the odd driver standing by his car, a guard standing by the door, but otherwise it was quiet. The photographers who’d been approved were all inside, and the party still had an hour or so to go. So no one noticed me as I went down the steps and over the gravel. I didn’t even feel the chill in the air, not yet, anyway.

Leaving the palace grounds on foot felt odd and wrong, like you should only be able to enter or leave by horse-drawn carriage or custom-made Mercedes-Benz. But there I was in my luxury shoes and rumpled ballerina gown, walking out the gates towards Hyde Park. Of course I should have called a cab or gotten on the Tube. It was freezing cold. I had no business walking through the park in the dark late at night, dressed as I was. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t be bothered to take my phone from my clutch—it was a miracle I’d still been holding it when I left the palace to begin with.

So I just kept walking. Waiting. For what I wasn’t sure, but it just felt like the night had a mind of its own. Like I was the night’s captive. Like I didn’t have the power to lessen the misery of it.

When I arrived at my doorstep forty-five minutes later, Will was there on my stoop, his hands deep in his coat pockets to keep them warm. He rushed at me.

“Good god, Lydia, you’re freezing!” He took my keys and ushered me inside.

“What are you doing here?” I asked quietly as I gratefully stepped into my house. The warm air rushed my skin and made it sting. I was so cold.

Will winced. “I’m making sure you got home well. Dylan asked…Look, Lydia, he’s—” I put up my hand to stop him, just as he wrapped a blanket from the couch around me.

“It’s okay, Will. Thanks for looking out for me. Earlier, I mean. And now, I guess.” I went to the refrigerator and poured one enormous glass of wine, drinking it until it was gone. I looked at Will to offer him some, but he shook his head. “I think I need to be alone.”

He nodded and came over to me. He hugged me hard. Really hard. The tulle crinkled around my chest and waist. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to him. I hope you know that,” he said into my hair.

“Will, don’t. I can’t.” I couldn’t hear right now about how he loved me. I knew that he did. Just not enough. Will backed away, and I headed for the stairs before he had even left the house.

I had enough wherewithal to remove the gown and shoes, but then I just crawled beneath my covers. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. It wasn’t like the last time Dylan and I were over. This was too big. I couldn’t let the tears in, or I’d never emerge again. I just closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep.

Saturday I stayed inside all day. More accurately, I stayed in my bed all day. I’m not even sure what I did. My phone rang in the morning, and I saw it was Emily. I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know if she had any idea what had happened, but I couldn’t talk to her. I texted back, saying I wasn’t feeling well. No calls from Dylan. I guessed we were on the same page, then—this was really over. This wasn’t like last time when he’d called incessantly and tried to win me back. This was it.

Sunday was much the same. At around two that afternoon a messenger delivered my coat in a garment bag. I laid it on the sofa and went back to my room.

Finally, around midnight, I did something I didn’t have the energy to do but knew needed to be done. I called Daphne. If I didn’t call her, it wouldn’t be real, and if I was going to get through this at all, I needed to make it real. Because the shitty thing was that it was real, no matter how much I wanted to deny it.

“Oh my god, Lydia.” She sniffled. Daphne appeared able to cry over my breakup even though I couldn’t. “It just feels so wrong. I mean, after Greece? And he’d started opening up to you. I thought you guys were meant to be.”

“Well, apparently we’re not. Maybe this was always supposed to be the year of tragedy in my life. Maybe this is just the gods’ way of showing me rock bottom early, so I can enjoy life more in the future or something?” Wow. I was really bad at cheering myself up.

“I’m sorry for pushing you to go for it with him.”

“What? Daphne, in no universe is this your fault.”

“Well, I feel like I should have done more to protect you—”

I screamed into the phone. Literally screamed. “Why does everyone feel like they have to protect me?!”

“Because we love you!” I didn’t say anything. She sounded almost fed up, as though that answer should have been obvious to me. “Sorry,” she added. “Look, Lydia, your dad was never able to be your protector, but he wanted to be. It’s what we do for people we love. You’re so used to taking care of yourself you don’t understand that it’s not about anyone thinking you’re weak. It’s what we do. You do it for me all the time—we take care of the people we love. You’re going to have to learn to accept that at some point. I know you’ll get through this. You’re stronger than anyone I know, you’ve waded through more and accomplished more on your own than anyone, but this? This thing where we take care of each other? The way you wanted to take care of Dylan, help him navigate all of his stressful stuff? That’s where the rubber meets the road in terms of relationships. He wanted to do that for you too, but he felt like he was failing.”

I sniffled. A tear had almost escaped, but I pulled it right back where it belonged. “Where the rubber meets the road? Are you reading refrigerator magnets again?”

Daphne huffed a small laugh. “See? You’ll be okay.”

“Daphne, I’m really tired. I think I should go to sleep.” I couldn’t talk anymore. I felt shaky and cold and sad.

“Okay, lady, I’ll see you in a few days, right? I get in Thursday morning—Thanksgiving. Good timing, right?”

“Right.” I sighed. “Oh god, your flight. I mean, I don’t think Dylan would cancel the plane or anything, but I guess you should check with Thomas? I should do it for you—”

“Stop. I’ll take care of it,” she said. Daphne sighed deeply on the other end. “I love you,” she said, and I hung up the phone.

Monday morning, Frank was waiting outside my door in the Jag. I went to the window, figuring he didn’t know that Dylan and I had broken up, so I told him.

“You’re off the hook, Frank. Talk to your boss, but you’re free of me.”

“He told me. He also told me to drive you to work.”

I shook my head. “Not his call anymore.”

He looked at me sadly. I must have seemed pretty pathetic to him. “What about as a friend, Lydia. Can I drive you as a friend?”

“No, Frank. I need to get back to myself. Plus, we both know there’s no risk anymore. But thank you.” He nodded at me, resigned, and I walked towards the Tube.

The next three days at work were a blur. Not a busy blur. A sick blur—I’d developed the cold from hell after foolishly walking home that night after the engagement party, and I was currently living off Lemsip and Kleenex. And a numb blur—each moment the same as the one before and the one that followed. I went through the motions. I must have mumbled to Fiona that Dylan and I had broken up, because everyone seemed to know, but I didn’t remember telling them.

Somehow I managed to get the dress back to the studio and the coat back to Selfridges. Somehow I managed to respond to emails and check on the training of the store employees. Somehow I managed to send Frank an L.L.Bean flannel shirt as a thank-you gift—I figured he needed to be in his natural lumberjack habitat. Somehow I managed to turn my eyes from the front-page headlines that Dylan and I had broken up—had he leaked that information himself, I wondered, put the final nail in the coffin? And somehow I managed not to crack. All those weeks of practicing for the press, willing myself to hide my emotions out in public, were finally paying off. The great irony: Dylan and I broke up, and I became a master at putting on the perfect show.

The fact that my office was isolated in the back of the store had originally been a downside—I didn’t want to spend any days huddled in the back of a retail space alone—but now I was grateful for the solitude. Fiona and Josh tried to talk to me. Even Hannah wanted in on the making-sure-Lydia-held-it-together party. I still didn’t cry, but I also didn’t talk. I drank my lattes and ate just enough lunch not to worry anyone, even though all food tasted like sandpaper. I kept the business going. I did my job. I was a good girl, then I came home, stared into space, and went to sleep.

Thursday morning was Thanksgiving Day. Daphne would be arriving at my door any minute—her flight had gotten in at six in the morning, and it was already eight. Apparently, she was still flying in on Dylan’s plane, which meant he was either feeling guilty or just extremely polite. Probably the latter. And Fiona and Josh surely knew to come to my house instead of Dylan’s if they were going to come at all. I’d asked Hannah for the day off weeks earlier, and now I regretted it. Wouldn’t it be easier to just go to work and pretend none of this was happening? This whole day was going to interrupt the good thing I had going. The good, albeit very fake, thing I had going.

At eight thirty the doorbell rang, and I stumbled down in my leggings and sweatshirt but was shocked to find Lloyd and Molly at the door, holding a box and grocery bags.

“Hello, dear,” said Molly with a sad smile. “All of your groceries for today were at the house, and well…” She paused, flustered.

“We thought you’d need them here,” Lloyd finished.

I must have looked terrible. I still hadn’t said anything, and Lloyd and Molly exchanged concerned looks.

“Oh. Um. Wow. Thank you for bringing all this,” I finally said and opened the door. I took a bag from Lloyd’s hand and let them follow me to the kitchen. “This was so unnecessary. Thank you.”

Just seeing them was making my eyes sting, and I knew I’d start crying if I let them stay or if I spoke to them for too long. But Molly must have been able to see I was on the brink, because she pulled me into the most un-British hug. I weakly hugged her back.

When she let me go, I wiped a tear from my cheek and looked back to them.

“You know, he’s not well.” Oh god. I couldn’t hear about Dylan.

“I’m…I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, pleading with myself to maintain control.

“He’s been at Humboldt Park for the last day or so. His Grace had a heart attack on Tuesday.” My eyes flashed up. Oh god. Poor Dylan. I couldn’t hear this. This was the last thing Dylan needed. I was struggling to hold on to my own sanity, and believing that Dylan was doing well, was somehow happier and less stressed without me, was one of the very important ingredients in my this-was-all-for-the-best recipe. I gulped and used whatever energy I had to stay together.

“Is Geoffrey okay?” I asked, not even realizing I’d called him Geoffrey out loud.

Molly sighed. “I’m sure he’ll recover, dear. I just thought you’d want to know.”

I nodded my head. “Thank you both. Um…Please tell the Hales that I’m thinking about them.” Lloyd and Molly looked at each other again, surely questioning my saying “Hales” instead of Dylan specifically. But I couldn’t, wouldn’t get into a situation where I was communicating with him through his staff.

Not five minutes after they left, Daphne arrived.

I pulled on my jeans and tall brown boots and grabbed my wallet, and we walked to get some coffee. I was three blocks from the house before I realized I was wearing my beautiful black coat from Dylan. And it wasn’t until I went to pay for the coffee that I realized I was still wearing my bracelet. I’d been wearing it for five days and never even noticed.

“Whoa, what is that?” Daphne asked, pointing at my wrist.

I shrugged my shoulders. “He gave it to me on Saturday night. I just…I just can’t take it off yet.”

She put her hands on my arms, turned me, and gave me the first real hug I’d let her give me since she’d gotten there. The barista must have thought we were loons—this hug was clearly the work of two American girls. And there, in that upscale coffee shop buried at the bottom of Portobello Road, my tears started flowing.

Daphne grabbed our coffees and urged me to the back of the shop. We turned our chairs towards the back of the shop, and she just let me cry while she rubbed my back.

I cried because I felt so powerless. I cried because I was exhausted by keeping up a good front, by pretending I wasn’t dying inside. I cried for Dylan and what he was losing, for the life he was choosing, for the limits he was putting on himself. And I cried out of the sheer frustration that he wouldn’t fight for this.

Eventually I was able to pull it together enough to head home. Thankfully I had sunglasses in my coat pocket—the aviators Dylan had bought me in Greece—and we left the coffee shop. I kept my head down, remembering the photos I’d seen of Caroline from years earlier and suddenly recalling how sad she’d looked. I wondered if that was how I looked now.

We made it back to the house, and Daphne took over. Thank god she was there. She chopped and cooked and basted. She shredded herbs and even pulled out a bag of Pepperidge Farm stuffing from her luggage, which actually made me laugh.

I was devastated, there was no way around it, but a part of myself had cracked through the despair now that Daphne was here.

Fiona and Josh would arrive at six, so I had no idea who was at my door when the bell rang at four thirty.

Will.

He was standing before me with two white boxes tied with string. “Here, for your treacherous holiday,” he said with a sheepish smile. I looked at the boxes, confused. “Apple and pecan. The Internet said those were the traditional options. They also mentioned pumpkin, but pumpkins aren’t exactly plentiful over here, and Emily said it sounded foul.” He shrugged apologetically.

“You made me pies?” I asked, smiling, and Will nodded.

“Do you want to stay?” I asked before realizing what I was saying. My heart was all of a sudden breaking in two again. I loved Will, but he was Dylan’s friend. I’d have to let him go.

He shook his head. “I wish I could, sweetheart, but I’m needed elsewhere. I know…Look, I know it’s probably hard right now. But I do adore you. I hope you’ll come by the restaurant soon.”

I nodded, knowing full well I wouldn’t. “Thank you for the pies, Will. And…see you around?”

The five of us sat around my little farm table. Fiona and Josh had come right on time and on the sidewalk had run into Michael, who, clueless as to the change in plans, had been headed to Dylan’s. I couldn’t imagine what would have happened had he shown up there. I had completely forgotten I’d even invited him. He sweetly had brought Champagne, and Fiona and Josh had filled him in before they got to my door.

The turkey, thanks to Daphne, was perfection, although she’d had to literally pluck feathers out of it before cooking it. Apparently Molly had bought the absolute freshest bird she could find. Fiona and Josh brought sides, and really it was only because of the culinary perfection of Will’s pies—who knew that a born and bred Brit would make the best apple pie I’d ever tasted?—that the meal was at all a success. In terms of food, anyway.

In all other respects, the Thanksgiving dinner was my bleakest in my twenty-four years, but I suppose that gave me cause to be more thankful than ever for my friends. It was my first without my dad, and my grief over him was oddly a welcome reprieve from my grief over Dylan. I finally let down my guard in front of Fiona and Josh and let them see how crushed I’d been.

“He’s a bloody pathetic pile of bollocks if you ask me,” announced Fiona supportively at one point. Michael looked slightly shocked, as though he hadn’t quite realized what he was walking into.

“The thing is, Fee, I don’t think he is…Okay, well, maybe a little. But you have no idea how hard this is for him,” I pressed quietly.

“Oh puh-lease,” she said. “He’s the bloody ‘Most Shaggable Bachelor of London.’ I’m sure he’s doing just fine.”

“Fee,” said Josh, scolding. “Really? You saw how that man was with her. You think this was easy for him? Plus, it’s not as though Lydia put up a fight.”

“Are you kidding? Lydia fought incredibly hard for him!” Daphne was coming to my defense. “She just knew when to leave a losing battle. This is just one of those tragic life things. He’ll realize in time just how stupid he was not to fight harder for her, but by then Lydia will be living a fabulous life elsewhere with someone else.”

Michael had the decency to keep quiet. I couldn’t imagine that future. Not yet, anyway.

“Guys, please,” I begged. “I’m not ready for this. Can we talk about something else?”

There was silence around the table as we all moved the crumbs of pie around on our plates with our forks.

“Well,” said Fiona, “we could talk about the opening party for the store. Hannah said that Kate Moss might make an appearance?” she offered glumly, knowing I couldn’t muster much excitement at the moment.

Just then someone’s phone buzzed, and Josh reached into his man bag. “Have you got a telly?” he asked me, his face suddenly pale, and I nodded. “BBC News.”

We turned on the TV only to see an old portrait photo of Dylan’s father, dressed in full regalia. And the words listed under his photo startled me.

Holy shit.

“Oh my god,” I said. “Lloyd and Molly said he’d had a heart attack a few days ago but thought he’d be okay. Oh my god. Poor Dylan.”

As if on cue, the screen showed live video of Dylan and his mother leaving the hospital and getting into a car. He looked horrible. He’d shaved, which didn’t surprise me—his sense of duty and obligation in these matters was what would pull him through—but his face was cold, empty.

I told everyone I needed to be alone. Daphne followed the others to the pub down the street. There was something about this that was too overwhelming. This was what Dylan had been afraid of—this day when the world would come crashing down on him, when the responsibilities and choices about how to be the head of his family would be thrust upon him. We’d thought he had years before this happened, but he’d only had days. Why did it have to happen now? Why should he have to deal with this? I was overcome with sadness, not because there was any love lost over Geoffrey but because my heart was breaking for Dylan on top of my heartbreak about Dylan. And I also knew that any chance of him realizing that life wasn’t so bad, that it wasn’t that stressful, that there really was room in it for me, was gone. Even if there was a tiny spark somewhere inside that didn’t want to believe it, most of me knew it was true.

It was really over.