Dylan quickly ushered me out of the cold and into the Serpentine Gallery, the beautiful modern art museum housed in Kensington Gardens near the Serpentine Lake. So quickly that there was no way the photographers outside would have been able to get a clear shot of the dress. I’d have to get photographed inside, if I could, which I realized as soon as we entered wouldn’t be a problem—I could see the occasional flashbulb even from the coat-check area. The party was already buzzing.
Just two years prior, Dylan had been honored there with a similar soiree and exhibit, but tonight was in honor of an emerging British artist, from whom Dylan had commissioned a painting for his hideaway in the country. The space was gorgeous, lit softly for the party but with the artwork still on full display. Although I wasn’t sure how long I’d be able to stand and look at the paintings—the heels Hannah had purchased for me were too snug in the toes and, as promised, very, very high. I had no idea how I would make it through the night.
Dylan looked at me and then at my feet—we both felt how odd it was that my eyes were now level with his chin instead of his chest.
“Well, hello there, tall girl,” he said. “Have you seen my girlfriend?”
“Why, yes. She is back at the pharmacy, stocking up on the Band-Aids she’ll need at the end of this night,” I said, looking despairingly towards my feet.
“Plasters, you mean, from the chemist.”
“Band-Aids, pharmacy.”
“Plasters.”
“Band-Aids.”
“Baby,” Dylan said, shaking his head, smiling at my obstinance, and leading me into the crowd by my hand, with me trying not to wince with every step.
We mingled, sipped Champagne cocktails, and I tried not to appear completely classless as I surreptitiously followed around the waiter who was passing out mini crab cakes. They. Were. Amazing.
“Oh bloody hell,” Dylan said under his breath after taking a sip of his cocktail.
“What?” I asked, following his gaze across the room. I saw a medium-sized guy with overly coiffed brown hair coming our way and raising his glass to Dylan.
“Tristan,” Dylan acknowledged the man, without a hair more warmth in his voice than was strictly necessary so as not to appear downright hostile.
Tristan, whom I’d heard about a few times before, turned to me, and it was immediately clear he was slightly drunk. “So this is the delicious thing that’s kept you too busy to return my phone calls lately, eh?”
I cringed, partially because calling me a delicious thing was ridiculously offensive and also because I knew it would piss off Dylan to no end. Sure enough, the crease between Dylan’s eyebrows deepened considerably.
“I’m Lydia Bell,” I said, reaching out my hand and intervening. I didn’t care who this jerk was or what he thought of me—I wanted to have a nice night with Dylan, and I was happy to defuse the situation.
“Tristan Bailey,” he said while literally eyeing me up and down, as though he were pricing me for an auction. This guy made my skin crawl.
Dylan immediately tightened his arm around my waist and then spoke to me directly. “Lydia, darling, Tristan works for my father. His right-hand man, if you will.” He said the words with a subtle distinction, and I heard his commentary—his father choosing a guy like this to be his right-hand man was yet another indicator of how despicable his dad was.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, summoning my politeness.
“Likewise,” Tristan said with a healthy dose of smarminess. “You let me know if this cad doesn’t treat you right, darling.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” I said. “But thanks for the offer.” I turned away from him, towards Dylan. “I think I need to find the ladies’ room, Dylan. Can you show me where it is?”
Dylan nodded and then looked to Tristan again. The frosty fury on Dylan’s face was frankly terrifying. “If you need my approval on something, Tristan, send word to Thomas. I’m sure he can get you what you need. Have a pleasant evening.”
We were halfway across the room before he stopped. He grabbed two more drinks from a tray, handed me one, then planted one long kiss on my lips and took a swig of his drink. “I fucking hate that prat,” he said, taking another swig. “But I fucking love you.”
I smiled up at him. “That guy’s an asshole,” I said taking a sympathetic swig of my own drink. Dylan chuckled and grabbed my hand, pulling us back into the middle of the party. Tristan had reminded him of all the stress with his father in a two-minute conversation. And with one kiss he was back to me. I relaxed into his side and took another look around the room—the party had really filled up since we’d arrived.
“Is that Thomas?” I asked, squinting through the lights where I was pretty sure I saw Dylan’s assistant by the bar ordering a drink.
Dylan nodded. “One of the perks of the job—he gets tickets too, when he wants them.”
“Who’s that?” I asked, gesturing with my glass to the tall, rail-thin man standing next to Thomas. The two of them were wearing slim charcoal-grey suits and looked incredibly hip, and actually gorgeous. I hadn’t realized how handsome Thomas was before, probably because every time I’d seen him he was on the phone, chasing after Dylan, or bracing himself for a classic Hale explosion about something firm related.
“His boyfriend, Alex.”
“Thomas is gay?” I asked, somehow totally taken by surprise.
“Mmm,” Dylan affirmed just as the two men approached us.
“Sir,” Thomas said, nodding at Dylan. “Lydia,” he added, kissing my cheeks. “Lydia, this is Alex.”
Alex and I chatted for a moment while Dylan and Thomas went over something work related. I could hear Dylan’s tone go all cold and efficient, as it did when he demonstrated just how immovable he was on some feature of a design. I heard him say, “If he wants hippie modernism tell him to call in Behrens. I’m not designing a geodesic dome or a sixties flight deck. He knows what he gets if he comes to me, and if he has half a brain and a pair of balls he’ll make the right decision. Tell him no.” I glanced at Thomas, who seemed remarkably cool. A month ago Thomas would have been sweating his ass off in the face of Dylan’s stubborn business arrogance. Now he took it in stride.
Just as Alex was telling me about the vacation he and Thomas were planning to Provence, there was a familiar stirring in the doorway. A moment later Caroline’s swanlike frame emerged from the crowd the way someone might emerge from the mist in a music video from the eighties. Tall, elegant, as though the very lighting and air quality had been adjusted to make this one woman look profoundly beautiful and perfect. Immediately behind her was her younger brother, Prince Richard, whom I recognized from the tabloids, with his hand snugly around his willowy girlfriend, Jemma. The flashes became rapid-fire as the approved photographers captured the trio’s entrance.
I leaned into Dylan’s side and spoke towards his ear. “I meant to ask you—am I supposed to curtsy?” He grimaced and twitched.
“As an American, no. But since you’re a British citizen, then, technically, yes. But these days the formality isn’t required.” Clearly this whole thing was making him uncomfortable too. I was grateful I didn’t have to attempt the formality, but I took note that several people did bow or curtsy as she passed them.
“Thank god,” I said, tightening my grip around his waist, letting him hold my body tight against his, and just then I saw Caroline’s gaze land on us. Richard caught sight of us and lit up, half dragging Jemma behind him.
“Dylan,” said Caroline, gliding in to give him a gracious kiss on each cheek. “Won’t you introduce us?” She looked down towards me. Even with the increasingly torturous high heels she was taller. I expected to look at her and feel coldness or indifference, but her eyes were warm, kind.
Dylan chuckled and put his broad, warm palm against my bare back. “With pleasure. Caroline, this is my girlfriend, Lydia Bell. Lydia, this is Her Royal Highness, Princess Caroline.” Dylan emphasized the title in a teasing way, and Caroline rolled her eyes at him in a way that spoke to their familiarity with each other, their closeness.
I didn’t say anything—I was pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to say anything until she spoke to me first. This was kind of crazy—I was meeting a princess. Even if I was technically supposed to be rageful with proprietary jealousy, this was crazy cool. She had a lovely warm smile on her lips and was generously holding her hand out. I recovered quickly and gently shook her hand.
“It’s so lovely to finally meet you, Lydia,” she finally said.
“Likewise. It’s an honor, Your Royal Highness,” I replied, surprising myself that I was able to speak at all.
“Please, call me Caroline. Dylan tells me you’re from New York.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Rarely,” I said as images of my Brooklyn apartment, my college life meandering around the Village, and of course my dad flashed before my eyes in a moment. It was amazing how little I’d managed to think of New York lately. I felt Dylan give my hip a squeeze. “I’ve felt very welcomed,” I added, smiling and looking up at Dylan.
Caroline looked genuinely happy—she looked at Dylan with so much fondness, which somehow conveyed a deep friendship but nothing more. “I’m going there next week actually. I’ve only been twice before on state visits, but I’d like to do some more exploring this time. Any recommendations? Something off the beaten path?”
This woman was a surprise.
“Something a princess might not come across on her own?” I asked, unsure if my familiarity or reference to her title was a total faux pas. I could feel Dylan smiling beside me—his hand resting heavily on my hip—and had a feeling this was going just fine. He was being possessive, and his position let me know in no uncertain terms that he and I were a unit. No one could have mistaken him for being with anyone but me. I knew it was purposeful, and as much as I hated to admit it, it was appreciated.
I proceeded to tell her about some of my favorite haunts, and the longer we chatted the easier it was to forget she was a princess. She was a pro at making people feel comfortable—she’d clearly been raised knowing how to miraculously and effortlessly maintain her princess-ness while putting those around her at ease. She didn’t blink as the photographers captured our conversation, and she didn’t fidget. At all. If it hadn’t been stunning to watch, I might have almost been creeped out by it. Despite all my intentions to grumpily feel competitive with her, I felt brought into her fold.
Prince Richard joined the conversation just as Caroline gracefully excused herself. He had a bouncy, energetic jocularity about him. Floppy blond hair, twinkling blue eyes. He was a mischief-maker but kind. It was clear that his role as the younger sibling, the third in line to the throne, afforded him a more relaxed life. He spoke to Dylan with informal admiration, like Dylan was a cool older brother figure.
And he was clearly eager for Dylan to meet Jemma—Richard was beaming as he introduced her, as though seeking Dylan’s approval. When Dylan reached out his hand, I saw Jemma blush, and at first I thought it was what women blushing around Dylan normally was—just taking in how domineering and handsome he was. But when I caught Dylan’s expression—his mouth in a firm line, his brow slightly furrowed as though he was trying to communicate something to her—I knew it was something more.
Holy shit.
She was blushing because she was remembering.
* * *
“So when did you sleep with her?”
We’d been in the car for five minutes, and I still wasn’t touching him, my ass firmly planted on the other side of the car. I was sitting on my hands, and my nails were digging into the leather. I was so mad at the situation I didn’t quite know what to do with myself.
Part of my mood was about those horrible shoes, which were clearly a size too small and which I had removed as soon as we were in the car and out of the photographers’ sights, but ninety-five percent was about the obvious look of lustful nostalgia on Jemma’s face.
“What? Who?” he asked, looking at me warily, loosening his tie.
“Oh, please.” Somehow I’d left this incredible party full of positive feelings for the gorgeous member of the royal family he used to date but completely annoyed about the bouncy, doe-eyed Jemma. “You think I didn’t see the way she looked at you? Like she was remembering the best sex of her life?”
Dylan exhaled, loosening his tie even further and turning to me. “Would it help if I said she didn’t even come close to being the best sex of my life? That no one could hold a candle to you? That I honestly couldn’t remember her name before Richard reintroduced us?”
“Ugh,” I said with a look of disgust. “Your prior self is kind of repulsive.” He looked sad when I said that, and part of me wanted to apologize, but I was too pissed. I knew he had a colorful past full of countless ex-lovers, but I didn’t normally think about it. Somehow I’d convinced my conscious self—the one who actually went through the world day by day—that he had been celibate during all of those years between Caroline and me. If you’d asked me to discuss the topic out loud, outside the fantasy land of my brain, then obviously I would admit that wasn’t true, but I’d found myself remarkably capable of avoiding that reality. Until now.
“How many?” I asked.
“How many what?” He looked at me quizzically, pulling my hand out from under my ass and gripping it, trying to pull me towards him. I glanced out the window, and I knew we were only a few moments from my house, but I wanted to talk about this now. I needed to know. I gave him an incredulous look that said Think about it for two seconds, douchebag.
“Oh,” he said, realizing. “God, Lydia. You really want to talk about this?”
“I can’t believe we haven’t talked about it already.” I raised my palms and slapped them back down on the seat for emphasis.
He sighed in frustration. “Loads.”
“How. Many?” I asked again. He was dragging his long fingers through his hair, then he reached over and gave me another tug. “If you’re going to make me talk about this, can I at least do it with you on my lap?”
I didn’t move.
“Lydia. On my lap. Now.” I rolled my eyes and began to move towards him, but I hadn’t moved more than an inch when he just hauled me over him. “If you’re going to force me to think about other women, I want my hands on my woman.” He pushed the skirt of my dress up to my hips. He tucked his fingertips under the side of my thong and moved his whole palm underneath it. I could feel the short hair there, just growing in, against his palm, and the sensation made me shiver. I needed to focus before he successfully sexed his way out of this conversation.
I gripped his hand to stop him from moving. “Don’t get distracted.”
He sighed again. “Fine, but we need to get you waxed again soon.”
“Dylan!”
“Fine! I don’t know,” he said, his eyes flashing closed for a moment with what emotion? Was it embarrassment?
“What?”
“I didn’t exactly keep a tally, Lydia.”
“Guess.”
“All right,” he said, sighing in resignation and looked to the ceiling of the car, as though the answers were written there. “Well, it’s been seven years since Caroline. And it was about two months after our breakup that I started sleeping with other people, and that was June, so we’re talking almost exactly seven years until I met you. I’d say I was having sex about two or three times a week, and there are fifty-two weeks a year. I only did repeats occasionally, so I’d say somewhere between…” He started to try to do the math in this head, but I beat him to it.
“Over a thousand women,” I said, astonished.
“That’s not possible.”
“Well, if it was three times a week, and no repeats.”
“But if it was two times a week, with some repeats—” he objected.
“That’s still over seven hundred women!”
“I did go on holiday with my family. Occasionally. It couldn’t have been all fifty-two weeks of the year,” he protested, but I looked at him with a skeptical look of shame.
“Fuck me,” he finally admitted.
“Apparently,” I scoffed, pushing myself off his lap.
“No. Get back here,” he said, pulling me so I was straddling him, my dress gathered between us. We’d been parked outside my house for a few minutes, but I knew he wouldn’t let us out of the car until we’d sorted this out. He firmly planted his arms around me, wrapping me, pulling me into him. I rested my forehead against his shoulder, and I could feel his lips in my hair. I hit him in the arm.
“Ow,” he huffed, but he knew he had to take it. “How many men?”
“Dylan—” What was the point of even asking?
“Just answer me. How many men?”
I sighed in defeat. “Three before you.”
He breathed into my hair, kissed my head, and pulled me even tighter into him.
“The best I can offer,” he continued, “is to tell you that none of them meant a thing to me, as evidenced by the fact that I didn’t even remember Jemma’s name when I saw her. It wasn’t me who was with any of them—in fact, being with them helped me avoid being me, to protect myself from the utter chaos of being a real person with anyone.”
I scoffed again audibly, but he continued, “You know, in a way I’m grateful for those years.”
“What? Why?” I asked, lifting my head to look at him.
“I wasn’t ready to be myself with anyone. This probably makes me an asshole, but I was using them. I can only hope they were also using me.” He paused for a moment and started to loosen the pins holding back my hair. “Plus,” he continued, “by the time you came along, I knew well enough how to make you come in under a minute.” I couldn’t stop my small smile. He was right. He could. “And if that had anything to do with my being able to trick you into loving me back, then how on earth could I regret it?”
I rolled my eyes. “You are so annoying.” I pushed against his chest.
“Who? Me?”
“I’m not supposed to get stupidly jealous about how many hundreds of women you’ve been with only to have you commandeer the conversation and turn it into some kind of sweet profession of love…and have it work. You’re too good at this.” He held my face in his hands, his fingertips weaving into my loosened hair, and he placed a long slow kiss on my lips.
“I’m taking you inside now,” he said, no room for arguing. “I’m going to bring you upstairs into your frigid bedroom and bury you under the covers. When I have you nice and warm”—he kept talking, now rubbing his hands up and down my bare arms and across my bare back—“I’m going to make sure you fully comprehend that no woman before you meant a thing. And I’m sure as fuck going to drive the memories of those three other men so far into oblivion that you won’t be able to remember their names either.”
With that, my legs wrapped around his waist, my arms wrapped around his neck, he carried me inside. All thoughts of previous lovers, his and mine, disintegrated into the cool night air.