elevated since me,” I said. “He’s dating an expert in nuclear disarmament.”
“And the marine biologist?”
“Ehhhh…” I hedged.
Eleanor made a noise indicating that this was no surprise.
“Personally, I have found being romantically unencumbered to be freeing,” she said. “Frederick should try being alone for longer than fifteen minutes. It’s unrealistic to expect to find peace in the arms of someone else if you can’t find it within yourself.” She glanced over at me and raised a brow. “Yes, I’m quite wise. Don’t look so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I just think you should tell him that,” I said.
“What makes you think I haven’t?” Eleanor said. “Now, call down to the kitchen for some Champagne. Our Cubs have won their opening game.”
* * *
“This is the building where Congress works.”
“The Capitol,” Nick said. “With an O.”
“First president?”
Nick scoffed. “George Washington. Everyone knows that.”
“I didn’t make these notecards. Take it up with Bea,” I said, setting that one aside on the messy “correct” pile that was spilling across the desk in our Apartment 1A royal tour war room. “My turn.”
Whenever it felt like my entire life was in flux—the shifting sands of my relationship with Eleanor, whatever was going on with Freddie and Nick, the ever-changing expectations of the public, even the wallpaper in my bathrooms—it was reassuring to have one thing I could count on: Lady Bollocks assuming I was a dumbass. Seemingly every day Nick and I took deliveries of neatly collated tour binders titled and annotated in her persnickety penmanship. The first ones focused on each city we were visiting, then expanded into the organizations we’d be touring, dossiers on local dignitaries, dress-code suggestions for specific situations—the one for the Calgary Stampede was called Western Wear (Respectful)—and even one that listed the political opinions I was to avoid while on American soil during an election year (in short: all of them). Cilla had texted me one day that she’d walked in on Bea and Marj chortling over an office supply catalog, and I was happy that Marj was handing the reins over to someone who shared her organizational élan and who was, in many senses, the devil I at least knew. But that didn’t mean I enjoyed Bea’s ensuing weekly quizzes, which required cram sessions.
“What is the name of Winnipeg’s Canadian Football League team?” Nick asked.
“We’re not even going to Winnipeg!” I protested. “I’m sorry, but there is no way Bea knew Canada had a football league until two months ago.”
“If I’ve learned anything, it’s that we’ve no idea what Bea knows and when she knew it,” Nick said. “I need your answer.”
I leaned back in my chair, an old, overstuffed chintz number. “The Winnipeg…Wombats?”
“That is not even a sincere guess,” Nick said. “It’s the Blue Bombers. Famous Canadian Kiefer Sutherland is going to be so disappointed in you.”
“Is he from Winnipeg?”
“No idea,” Nick said. “His binder hasn’t arrived.”
As intense as Bea was, it was fun for me and Nick to be united against a common enemy who wasn’t also a close member of his family. We knew her whipcracking was ultimately for our benefit, and so as the months wore on and the spring rains ceded to early summer sun that we were too trapped indoors to revel in, we kept ourselves sane by keeping a running tally of who was scoring higher on her tests and who managed to get more words in edgewise during her lectures. It made us feel closer to have an in-joke to grin about while Bea monologued about what would happen if we forgot that Toronto is not Canada’s capital city. And it helped deflect the weight of what was, essentially, an international audition for the Commonwealth. Instead of faking jollity with Freddie, acting as Eleanor’s personal fun ambassador, or being forced to clean Marta’s iPhone screen, we finally had an assignment that was all about us being us.
“Are you excited, at least?” Lacey asked. “Because the Daily Mail said you’re so work-shy that you made Richard give you the rest of the year off. Hand me that level, please.”
I dug through the tool kit on the floor of her front entryway until I found the neon-green level. Lacey had invited me to the cozy shoebox of a flat she now shared with Olly, ostensibly to catch up in person, but mostly to help with a variety of small tasks. “I’m trying to keep you grounded,” she’d teased. “Also, Olly takes two hours to decide which screwdriver to try. He’s fired.”