So, I may have gone ‘off script’ as they say in Hollywood. So bloody what? You’d think I’d just declared war on the Americans, the way everybody is going on about it. For years now, my father’s been on me to ‘show more initiative’ and ‘think for myself because, above all else, that’s what reigning monarchs must do.’

I called him last night after spending the evening alone with a bottle of bourbon. Well, not really alone. Dexter, my constant companion, a Vietnamese pot-belly pig, was there, too. He didn’t drink the bourbon, but we did share a bag of salt ’n’ pepper crisps while we watched reruns of Baywatch. Oh, I do like the part where they run in slow motion. Reminds me of my boyhood days.

By the time last night’s meeting was over, the duchess was on her way to the airport for an impromptu ski trip in the French Alps. So, I missed the one bit of fun I had planned for the entire month of March, which quite frankly has put me in a bit of a crusty mood. And before you start accusing me of only having one thing on my mind, please note that it’s really frigging hard for a prince to date casually. Before I can even ask a girl out, I have to instruct Vincent to have her sign a non-disclosure agreement. And he can’t even tell her who it’s for, just in case she leaks it.

Not exactly a good ice-breaker. If I do manage to find someone I may potentially fancy, and she signs the NDA without knowing who it’s for, I’m sort of turned off by the fact that she signed it in the first place. Somehow it seems a little desperate, which means I immediately lose interest.

Anyway, I finally got around to calling my father just after one in the morning. Turns out it was also the middle of the night wherever in the hell he is this week. And he wasn’t alone, if you get my drift. (Unlike me, my father has no problem asking for NDAs from any woman he meets.)

I used to believe that if my mother had lived, he wouldn’t be spending his nights with so many random women, and that maybe, if she were still alive, he wouldn’t have turned out to be such a giant arsehole. Then, I wouldn’t be in this current predicament, because the people are not as dumb as he, and all the advisers, think. The people know a rat when they smell one. And a rat he is.

I hate to say it of my own flesh and blood, but it’s true. He’s hurt the entire kingdom, and his family, by ignoring the economic troubles of the nation, not to mention that whole sketchy tax-dodging business. He’s cooked his own goose, and probably mine as well.

So, back to my phone call with His Serene Sleaziness last night. When I started to explain our current dilemma, these were his words: “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Be decisive, boy. You need balls of steel to do this job, so you better grow a pair before I kick off.”

I heard the distinct sound of giggling in the background right before he hung up. I decided right then and there to hold a press conference first thing this morning to announce my plan. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I stumbled over to my computer and immediately wrote an email to my favourite reporter, Veronica Platt of ABNC, to ask her to tell all her friends. Veronica. The legs on that one. Mmm. Okay, so I may have been drunk when I wrote her, but not so drunk that I mentioned how badly I’d like to spend a weekend between those legs of hers. Well done, drunk me.

Veronica apparently did as I asked because by eight in the morning, our front lawn was lined with reporters and camera crews, waiting with bated breath for the big announcement. I showered, sucked down a vat of coffee, and threw on my casual ‘man-of-the-people’ sweater and slacks.

I know what they were thinking. You could see it in their beady little eyes— ‘Oh, please let it be a royal wedding! Please!’ They were looking around for Brooke Beddingfield, the woman everyone assumes I’m destined to marry. But I threw them a curve-ball with the whole ‘I’m giving the keys to the castle to my nastiest critic’ thing. By eight-forty-five, the vans were peeling out of our driveway, and I was tucked in bed nursing my hangover.

Unfortunately, by nine-thirty, I was back in my office—dry mouth and all—surrounded by all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, who, as much as they want to, will be unable to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. And by Humpty Dumpty, I mean turning back the clock so that Ms. Tessa Sharpe will not, in fact, be calling the palace home for the next two months. Well, that was a bit of a crap analogy. I really am quite hungover.

“Your Highness, we haven’t even had time to do a background check.”

That vein in Damien’s neck is pulsing, so I know he’s really mad. I don’t care, but I don’t want you to think me completely oblivious to these things.

“Well, someone better get on it, because she’s arriving tomorrow. I’m sure there’s some tedious paperwork that will need to be done if it turns out that I’ll need extra guards posted outside my bedroom door.” I stare Damien down while I tap my fingers on the cool leather arm of my chair. It’s a total power move. I got it from Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock. Nice guy, by the way.

Damien doesn’t answer, so I go on. “Listen, it’ll be fine, I promise. In case you haven’t noticed, I tend to have a way with her type.”

“What’s her type?”

“Female.” Oh, that was arrogant, wasn’t it? “I’ll show her the library, the stables, I’ll open up the vault and let her try on some sparkly things. She’ll be putty in my hands by Friday.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, I’m not so sure we can base our entire plan on your ability to woo this woman,” Vincent says. “Not that you don’t have a way with the ladies, but due to the gravity of the situation, we should probably have a backup plan.”

“Fine, Damien. Dig up whatever dirt you can on her, so we’ll have it if we need it.”

“Already on it,” Damien says, and quite frankly the look on his face suggests he should be twirling his mustache right now—if he could grow one. I think he must have some pituitary disorder or something because he doesn’t have even one whisker on that pale face of his.

“Good, everything’s settled then. If you’ll all clear out now, I have a raging hangover that needs attending.”

The sound of laughter breaks out from the back of the room. At first, I assume it’s a result of my wit, but I soon discover the source of the humour is coming from one of the assistants to somebody-or-other, who is watching a video on his mobile phone. The guy next to him gasps. “Isn’t that…? It’s her! The Royal Watchdog!”

Everyone turns to them, and the room goes quiet. The young man blanches when he realizes that we’re all staring, then he looks at me. “I really think you ought to see this, Your Highness.”

And then the very best thing that I’ve seen in my entire thirty-one years comes onto the screen. It’s Ms. Sharpe in form-fitting jogging pants and a tight shirt. My sceptre wakes up and asks if we’re going somewhere, because, even though I feel like shit on a stick, he’d be up for that. I’m trying to focus on what she’s saying while she runs, but it’s really no use. Those lovely, perky breasts are speaking volumes on her behalf. Suddenly, her feet leave the ground, and her entire body coils up into a ball impossibly high in the air and she’s screaming, “Mother fucker!”

I burst out laughing so hard that I missed most of the rest of the video, just managing to catch the part where she whips the shock-thingy at her friend who immediately drives into some giant shrubs.

Tears stream down my face. When I finally manage to speak, all I can come up with is, “What the fuck was that?”

* * *

I wait all day for an answer from Ms. Sharpe, but nothing comes until dinner time. I’m just sitting down to another healthy-but-dull meal of tilapia with roast vegetables when I catch a whiff of blue cheese. We really need to get rid of these plush carpets so I’ll hear him coming. “She’s taken you up on your offer! Ms. Sharpe arrives tomorrow afternoon!”

My fork and knife clatter as I drop them on my plate. “Really?” A slow smile spreads across my face. I feel like a jaguar (considered the most cunning hunter in the forest, in case you didn’t know) luring its prey. What? I only watch Baywatch when I’m drunk and lonely. Otherwise, I’m a pretty big fan of David Attenborough.