Page 25 of How to Date a Prince (Being Royal #1)

Chapter Twenty

A fter lunch, I head back to the studio, purposeful. And naturally, with a camera crew in tow. The heat is more Mediterranean today than English summer. Everyone sweats.

“I promise we won’t get in your way,” Rose says, who leads this crew. But at least Colin and Gisele are nowhere in sight. They’re doubtless off creating drama elsewhere this afternoon.

“I don’t know how exciting this will be,” I tell her. “For your filming.”

“Pretend we’re not here.”

I have to laugh at the subtlety of a film crew in the equivalent of a bothy hut, but there we are.

I rummage around looking for wire that I can use as armatures, sculpting tools, anything that will do.

I return to the house long enough to ransack the kitchen for supplies with my own personal camera escort.

I will say they are getting some unique footage.

“So,” says Rose, frowning as we’re back at the workbench in the shed, “I’m not an expert, but this doesn’t look like what you did for the tableware you were making.”

“That’s because I’m no longer making tableware.”

“Oh?” She looks startled. “What are you doing now?”

“Sculpture, I’m afraid.”

“Sculpture!” Rose pushes purple hair away from her eyes. “Right. Why the change?”

“Time,” I say grimly. “And I thought it might be interesting.”

“What will you sculpt?”

From the corner of my eye, I can see a crew member furiously texting. Likely reporting to Gisele that I’ve gone rogue. Good. Let them deal with it.

“A figure. A portrait bust, actually. The rest will be a surprise.”

“Won’t that take a while?”

“Yes. But who needs sleep? The piece isn’t huge, anyway.”

“We’re supposed to film your process…” She checks her watch. I already know it’s half past three, and they’re usually done work by 4:30 p.m. As for me, I’m planning an all-nighter.

I flick an eyebrow at her. “You’re welcome to film as long as you like. Maybe you need to work in shifts.”

I turn on a music streaming service on my phone.

“We can’t film with music,” she says unhappily. “Copyright issues.”

“We can shut it off if you have any questions.”

I turn the music up.

She shifts. The crew mumbles. I pull out a box of clay and set to wedging. And wedging. Till my biceps and forearms burn, and the clay is finally prepped the way I want to eliminate air bubbles.

I work until dinnertime, and true hunger from the physicality of the afternoon kicks in. So I take a break, with someone from the crew promising to keep watch over my work to prevent any more untimely accidents.

When I get back, with food and drink supplies for the night, everything is in order under the watchful eye of the crew.

Rose is still present. My armature is starting to disappear under coils of clay.

I’ve pinned the photo of my mum from my wallet up on the wooden frame of the window beside where I work.

Right now, I don’t care what the other contestants are doing.

The less I know, the better. It’s all distraction, anyway.

At dinner, Thomas and I continued to create tension between us, striking up the gossip to a new level with the Renaissance men.

I overheard a couple of the guys laying wagers about whether I’ll get canned this week.

Right now, it’s a dead heat in the pool.

Some say I should have gone last week. Others think the producers want to keep a future king on because it’s good for ratings.

Whatever happens, I’m not letting anyone trash this sculpture, or else I’ll personally break them myself.

Hours slip by as I work. Thankfully, I remembered the charger for my phone as well as my laptop when I went back to the house, so I can stream music all night, and I do.

The crew switches off at midnight, and I continue, even if I drop from exhaustion.

But as a well-trained insomniac, it’s early for me yet.

Even the second shift begs for me to stop at 4:00 a.m. so they can get some kip.

Someone had brought coffees in at 2:00 a.m., when they made me stop the music for a confessional.

“Is this the Queen?” someone asks, peering at the photo.

I nod. “Yes.”

“Aren’t you worried that people will think you’re obsessed with your mother?”

“If they think that, that’s their problem.”

“So why are you doing this challenge for her again?”

“It’s not for her this time,” I say. “It’s for me.”

I gaze at the crew member, who falls quiet.

“After last week, I need to make it up to both of us, actually. I know I can do better. And even though she’s passed, she’s a key person in my life.

She’s the reason I do what I do.” I sip my coffee, leaning back against the workbench.

I’m in a hoodie over my jeans now. Typical fashion choices are out the window at this hour, no matter what Gisele or my father’s valet would say.

At least this is heather grey and not black, and if there’re any complaints, I don’t want to hear them. There’re no branded logos, at least.

“You were close.”

“Yes. We were. She was the person I was closest to. Who understood me best.” Mum was always my biggest fan and as enthusiastic as me about my Olympic training and prospects.

She loved seeing me win. She would come to watch me during competitions and training, sun or snow, so proud I was following her footsteps.

But when my father put a stop to it, even Mum couldn’t get him to change his mind, no matter what she said or did.

We would have late nights up with tea, trying to find a way to convince him, and then she became ill with cancer the last couple of years of her life while I was away at uni, which eventually claimed her.

I gaze at the clay form. It’s a third of the size of a real person, and I have plenty of clay, but there’s a lot to do. Right now, it’s a rough-in, recognizably a person. If I close my eyes and squint, I can tell it’s meant to be her, even in this state, even in grey clay.

“Do you think she would be proud of you? Of the man you’ve become?”

“I can only hope.” I sigh, setting my coffee down. I wonder what my father thinks of me at the minute. “Right. Back to work.”

As the crew drags by pre-dawn, I tell them they should go off and get some sleep. They say the next crew will be here at 8:00 a.m. I assure them there won’t be any dramatic changes in the next four hours, that the biggest transformations have already happened.

By 4:30 a.m., I start to feel sleepy. And by 5:00 a.m., I decide to sit at a table, fold my arms on it, and use my rolled-up apron as a pillow. By some miracle, I fall asleep.

And when I wake to birdsong a couple of hours later, there’s a quilt over my shoulders and a thermos of tea beside me. Plus, a folded note.

Get it! Show those fuckers. x

I smile, tucking the paper away into my pocket in case anyone sees. Nobody else would understand, anyway.

Rubbing my eyes, I put my apron back on and pour a cup of tea. And I get back to work.

When the crew returns, they marvel at the sculpture. I run a hand through my hair, scratch at the hint of stubble along my jaw. There’s no time to preen for the cameras. They’re going to have to deal with the realities of an all-nighter, like I was back in uni all over again.

Except this time, there’s far more riding on this.

* * *

I work steadily through the morning. At 10:00 a.m., someone gives me a muffin. I’m not hungry. It’s pure adrenaline that’s got me going now and hyperfocus.

The sculpture really does look like my mum.

I’m trying to polish this off as nicely as I can, given the tools that I have.

But it’s amazing what someone can do with their fingers, cutlery, and a lot of determination.

Plus, they did leave me a set of clay tools, though it’s not quite like the kit I’ve made up back at home.

When Gisele breezes in at noon, she stares from the sculpture to me and back again. “How the fuck did you pull this off?”

“No sleep,” I reply easily, like I sculpt figures out of thin air, like breathing. “That’s how. Also: language.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. I hide a smile because I can tell even she’s impressed.

“You have until 1:45 p.m.,” she says gruffly. “The call is for 2:00 p.m. in the ballroom.”

“I’ll be there on time,” I promise, chewing my lip as I work out fine details. Rose and the original crew are back. Even they don’t want to interrupt my working, clock watching as anxiously as I am. Every minute counts.

At last, I straighten with a sigh. My feet and my back ache, and my eyes burn from the lack of sleep. With care and help from the crew, we transport the bust to the house on its plywood base, carefully wrapped and boxed up.

“Go change,” Rose whispers to me when we reach the house. “Not only are you covered in clay, but we want to give the impression it took you all week to do this and not done in a single frantic bender.”

“I like your characterization of me. Much more authentic.” I grin. Without sleep, I’ve reached the giddy phase.

“Sorry, Your Royal Highness. Just—go.”

I go. And I find something to wear, perfectly benign cinnamon slacks and a white shirt. I wash my face and brush my teeth, at least, and hurry back downstairs. Light-headed, I realize I’ve only eaten a muffin today. And I’ve had caffeine by the gallon.

Arriving in time, the remaining nine men assemble in a half arc in the room. There are various items that are set up and covered in cloth as our backdrop. A couple of instruments wait off to the side.

Colin appears in a blue tux like we’re at some gala.

As for the men, we’re in some manner of our usual smart casual.

I’m at one end of the arc. Thomas is at the other.

In the middle stand Wilson and Travis. The others—Sandeep, Connor, Jax, Martin, and David—all look impassive and, frankly, enviably well rested.

The all-nighter seemed like a good idea at the time. All I want to do now is go off and sleep for as long as humanly possible.