Page 13 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)
Chapter Eight
Nicholas
Twelve hours into a twenty-four-hour flight, and I’m trying to ignore the fact that I’m effectively trapped in a metal tube hurtling through the stratosphere with no escape.
Well, I guess technically there is an escape. It just involves plummeting approximately thirty-eight thousand feet without a parachute. Which seems a tad dramatic, even for me.
Out of the window, the endless blue expanse of the Indian Ocean melds with the endless blue of the sky, leaving the impression that the jet is suspended in nothingness.
It’s quite a fitting metaphor for my current state of existence, now that I consider it.
“Your Royal Highness, would you care for some refreshment?” The flight attendant—Emma, if I recall correctly—appears at my elbow with a practiced smile.
“Do you have anything potent enough to make the remaining twelve hours disappear?”
Her smile widens. “I believe we have an excellent selection of whiskeys, sir. Single malt? Blended?”
“Surprise me.” I give a wink. “I trust your judgment.”
“Very good, sir.”
I catch Officer O’Connell’s gaze from across the cabin. His expression remains impassive, but something in his eyes suggests he’s cataloging this interaction as another example of my inadequacies.
Marvelous.
The other two security officers on this leg of the journey, Officer Singh and Officer Davis, maintain their positions with considerably less visible judgment than O’Connell.
Singh is engaged in quiet conversation with James, my private secretary, while Davis appears to be reviewing building schematics on his tablet.
Emma returns with a crystal tumbler containing an amber liquid. “Talisker 18-year-old, sir. A robust single malt with notes of maritime salt and smoky peat.”
“Sounds perfect for crossing an ocean,” I say as I accept the glass. “Thank you, Emma.”
I take a sip, savoring the burn in my throat. It’s excellent, but even the finest Scotch can’t silence the incessant drumbeat of thoughts in my head.
My phone buzzes with a message from Callum.
Just checking in. How’s the flight? Did you get a chance to read through my notes? Remember the note about the First Nations peoples’ welcome ceremony.
My half-brother, ever the responsible heir, making sure I don’t embarrass the Crown on the other side of the world. I can’t entirely blame him. My track record for dignified behavior has been somewhat…inconsistent.
There was that rather unfortunate incident at university when I convinced half the Oxford rowing team to streak through the Bodleian Library during finals week.
And there was the New Year’s Eve in Monaco where I bet Prince Jacques I could water ski in a tuxedo.
And I can’t forget the time when I accidentally set fire to the curtains at the Danish ambassador’s residence, trying to light a cigar I’d pilfered from Uncle Albert.
I was seventeen and convinced I was James Bond, right until the smoke alarms went off.
In my defense, who leaves highly flammable Victorian drapes next to a drinks cabinet? That’s practically entrapment.
Although I like to think my record has improved since I had to become a working royal. Now everything I do has wider repercussions.
I type back:
Flight’s fine. Relax. I promise not to cause an international incident.
His response comes quickly:
That’s all I ask. And, Nicholas…thank you again.
I stare at those last words, and that familiar tangle of emotions stirs inside me. Affection for my brother wars with the lingering resentment of being the understudy, the spare part shipped halfway around the world because the star of the show has more important business.
Absently, I unlock my tablet and find myself scrolling through media coverage of my upcoming tour. The headlines are predictable:
Prince Nicholas to Shore Up Monarchy Support Down Under
Playboy Prince Takes Center Stage as Australia Tour Approaches
Nicholas: The Placeholder Prince Steps in for Brother
That last headline stings.
Luckily, I’m not nearly the most exciting thing dominating the news cycle because a few days ago, the Conservative leader Harry Matheson made a rather public statement in the House of Commons about LGBTQ+ rights and his own sexuality.
And filling in the blanks, it appears Harry Matheson and his political nemesis, Toby Webley, found interesting ways to keep warm in the Finnish wilderness while they were on the run from armed terrorists.
It’s rather like some sort of political rom-com: When Harry Met Toby: An Enemies-to-Lovers Story, Now With 40% More Parliamentary Procedure .
And the press is currently falling over themselves trying to get photos of the oddest couple in Britain to transpose next to clips of Harry and Toby’s infamous exchanges in the House of Commons, where they verbally tear each other apart.
I can’t help clicking on one particular exchange now, where Toby Webley criticized the Conservatives’ environmental policy, and Harry Matheson had responded, “Perhaps if the Honorable gentleman applied as much energy to policy formation as he does to theatrical gesticulation, his party might actually accomplish something.”
Webley had immediately fired back, “I’d rather gesticulate with purpose than maintain such rigid composure that one might mistake you for taxidermy with a particularly expensive haircut.”
I can understand why the public is fascinated by the idea that these political enemies are now in a romantic relationship.
Eventually, I tear myself away from watching Harry and Toby insult each other and instead open the document Callum sent me—seventy-three pages of notes on Australia’s history, politics, and culture.
Reading through his research, I discover that Australians apparently use “yeah-nah” to say no and “nah-yeah” to say yes.
Brilliant. I can already see myself accidentally agreeing to abolish the monarchy through linguistic confusion.
I also discover that Australia has more camels than Saudi Arabia, and that their former prime minister, Bob Hawke, set a world record for downing a yard of ale in eleven seconds. Fascinating knowledge that will undoubtedly help me appear culturally sensitive.
I’m embarrassed to admit that before agreeing to come on this tour, I hadn’t spent much time thinking deeply about the United Kingdom’s relationship with the Commonwealth, which is what remains of the once vast British Empire. The countries we collected like Monopoly properties throughout history.
Although nobody ever agreed to play and we definitely made up the rules as we went.
Fifteen countries in the Commonwealth still have the British monarch as their head of state, including Canada, Australia, and New Zealand.
But now, reading through Callum’s summary of the controversy around Australia Day, which marks the anniversary of the arrival of the First Fleet and the raising of the Union Flag of Great Britain, I gain a deeper appreciation of how fraught the history between the United Kingdom and some of these countries actually is.
Because while Australia Day is celebrated as a public holiday in Australia, it’s also known as Invasion Day by the First Nations peoples.
The section on Australia’s republican movement catches my eye.
“Recent polling suggests approximately forty-four percent of Australians support becoming a republic, with fifty percent opposing and six percent undecided. Support is strongest among younger Australians aged eighteen to thirty-four, with fifty-two percent favoring a republic. The upcoming tour presents a critical opportunity to demonstrate the continuing relevance of the monarchy to modern Australian life…”
Splendid. So over half the young people I’ll meet wish my family would kindly cease to be their head of state. This should make for some delightfully awkward conversations.
A related video link catches my eye.
Professor Sarah Langton: Understanding Colonial Legacy in Modern Australia .
The thumbnail shows a First Nations woman in academic robes speaking at what appears to be Oxford.
I click through, turning my tablet sideways for better viewing.
Professor Langton doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.
Within thirty seconds, she’s dissecting how colonial wealth extraction created modern inequality with the kind of surgical precision that would make my old economics tutor weep with envy.
She cites specific figures about resource exploitation that make my stomach turn.
“The comfortable fiction of bringing civilization,” she says, her voice carrying an authority that makes me shrink into my seat, “ignores that we’re talking about sophisticated societies with sixty thousand years of continuous culture, decimated within decades for profit.”
When she mentions that British museums still hold sacred objects taken without permission, objects her people have been trying to reclaim for generations, I find myself gripping my whisky glass rather tighter than necessary.
The video ends with her receiving thunderous applause from the academic audience. The suggested videos show she’s written three books on the subject.
Books that were definitely never on my reading lists at Eton or Oxford.
To distract myself from the uncomfortable feeling growing inside me, I glance up at Officer O’Connell. He’s stationed himself near the galley now, his back to the wall, eyes methodically scanning the cabin in that robotic way of his.
As if terrorists are going to manifest themselves from the walls of the cabin and attack me.
“Officer O’Connell,” I call. I can’t deny that I enjoy the slight stiffening of his shoulders in response to my voice. “Would you please come here a moment?”
His jaw tightens as he approaches, stopping at what I assume is the precise regulation distance from my seat.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Did you know that the kangaroo and the emu were chosen for Australia’s coat of arms because neither animal can move backward? Symbolic of a nation always moving forward, apparently,” I say.