If Only....

Is it possible to reclaim time? If you wished hard enough, could you wake up one morning and be back in your past? No matter how hard I tried, nothing happened. Every morning the minutes and hours marched steadily forward. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday... March, April, May. Too fast, too close to July, the month I dreaded.
July, the papers loudly proclaimed was the month of the wedding. Ally’s wedding. The girl I loved more than anything would soon be someone else’s wife. And the only person I could blame for this mess was, well, me.
How did it change so fast? I had everything. Why did I now have nothing at all?
Everything? Oh yes, let me leave you in no doubt on that point. I was born into money; my parents doted on me. I was the eldest son. The heir to titles and vast estates. Yes, titles, English royalty to be exact. As damn near blue blood you can get without your blood actually being blue. I looked good – or at least, the birds thought so, and if they do, does it really matter whether you do or don’t? I led a charmed life…..until Ally happened along.

I was at uni reading for a History of Art degree – that’s something you study when you know working is an option, not a necessity. I spent pleasant weekends with my friends, drinking at assorted hip clubs and exclusive pubs. I was always surrounded by women. All as rich, titled, and beautiful as I. Ally dropped into this cosy world like a bomb, setting off all the tensions simmering beneath the surface.
She was beautiful; but of course you know that. How many times have you seen her gorgeous face grace your television screens? That October night, she was the star. People gasped when she entered. People as rich and jaded as myself. For the first time in my life, all eyes were not on me. I was astonished. I was hooked. I wanted to meet her, yet I couldn’t bring myself to go up to her. I was nervous. Yes, me. Me. Unbelievable, innit?
Luckily for me, Fred happened to glance my way.
“Hey, cuz!” he called in that half-Brit, half-American way he’s had since moving to LA. “How’s it going?”
I neglected to point out that we were fourth cousins. Instead I waved cheerily. “Come sit with us!” I called.
He made his way through the throng of students, dragging Ally along with him.
“God! It’s good to see one familiar face,” he said, giving me a friendly punch. “I swear, if I have to do this again, I’ll ask for a raise.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. For all his friendliness, Fred and I have never been close enough to know what happens in each other’s lives. There’s a current of bitterness dividing our families. One that I was always too scared to cross. I was grateful he chose to overlook that tonight. Maybe someday my family will do so too.
“By the way, this is Ally – Allison Jones,” he added, pulling out a chair for her.
I quickly made sure it was next to mine. “Hi,” I smiled warmly at her. Was my tie fixed? Hopefully there wasn’t any evidence of my last meal between my teeth. Damn! Why was my smile so wide and fake-looking?
“Hello.” Her accent was so British. She sounded like she’d spent her life at the kind of schools my cousins and I attended, not one of the many middle-class Catholic schools scattered over the Far East. Ah yes, I forgot to mention that fact: Allison Jones was from Hong Kong.
In her interviews she usually described herself – jokingly – as a mutt. Half-Canadian, half-Chinese, she had the Oriental poker-straight hair and slightly slanted eyes. Only, her hair had lightish-brown streaks, and her eyes were green, giving her a cat-like, highly sexy appearance, and making her one of Hollywood’s most sought-after actresses.
I remember the dress she’d chosen for the night: a pale pink sleeveless thing, long enough for decorum, short enough to showcase her stunning legs. She completed the outfit with strappy stilettos. She looked like she’d walked off the cover of a magazine.
I didn’t expect her to look so amazing. I guess when you’ve seen as many stars up close as I have, you realize the magic’s in the make-up. Ally was different. (And how many times have you heard that line?) I’d read somewhere that she was even more beautiful in person, but put that down to pure B.S. till I met her. I suppose the point I’m trying to make with all this rigmarole is that she took my breath, heart, and sanity away.

“You must be a student here, right?” she smiled at me, making small talk. “Unlike we poor creatures who were dragged here.”
“Dragged here?” I didn’t mean to sound like an echo. Really, I didn’t.
“Yeah. Stella’s donated some of the stuff being modelled tonight,” she explained. “She thought Fred and I could put in an appearance since we’re the faces of her clothing line.”
So that was what Fredrick meant when he said he’d ask for a raise! I was never more thankful for the whole nepotism thing which insured that a Beatle’s daughter became a famous designer overnight.

I could say the night was a blur to me. That we talked all night long, but I’ll be damned if I could remember what the conversation was about. But I’m trying to be honest here, trying not to pretend my life perfect. Yes, we talked the night away. I could give you a word-for-word, play-by-play account of it, but I won’t. You’ll have to settle for the highlights.

“So, what does your dad do?” she asked casually, some time later.
I was so stunned I didn’t reply. She was joking, wasn’t she? How could she not know who I was? The whole world knew. She had to be joking.
“I guess he must have some estate or something, right?” she continued. “Like all English aristocrats, huh?”
English aristocrats? “Yeah,” I stammered weakly, realizing she wasn’t joking.
“You and Fred are cousins, right?”
I nodded. Was it possible I’d actually found a woman who didn’t know about me, or my life story? No. No way. I was misreading something here.
“Just curious, who’s closer to the throne? You or Fred?”
“Um, me, I suppose. I am a little closer than Fred.” The understatement of the century. I would one day inherit the throne. Fred? He’d never get anywhere near it.
She laughed at the expression on my face. “Bet you’re tired of hearing ‘bout your royal connections, huh? Guess you’d have to be one of those princes, William or Harry, to appreciate it.”
She had clearly heard of me. So, what was her game?
“Do you know much about the royals?” I decided to venture into dangerous waters. Normally, I’d never touch such a subject, but she was driving me crazy with curiosity. She knew who Prince William was, so why didn’t she know he was me?
“Not much,” she shrugged carelessly. “It’s not like, a hot topic of conversation back home. I mean, you always hear about that Charles-Diana conflict thing. And then, there was that whole deal over the funeral – not that I saw it.” She paused and gave me a wicked smile. “Don’t tell your cousins, but it’s not like I’m much of a Diana fan.”
Had I not been schooled in the art of maintaining my composure, I possibly would have choked. As it stood, I downed a long draught of wine before I responded. “I’m compelled to argue with statements like that,” I said, managing to keep my tone even. “Harry and I are rather close.”
“Oh, sorry!” she smiled apologetically. “I didn’t think you’d have much to do with them. They’re like thirteen, fourteen-ish, right?”
I had one of those light bulb moments. Probably she hadn’t seen any recent pictures of me. No wonder she assumed I was someone else. The Prince William she knew was a sixteen-year-old boy. Now, of course, was the perfect time to explain that I was he, and take it from there.
“Well?” She was waiting for a reply.
“Harry and I are pretty close, despite the age gap,” I heard myself say brightly. “We do have our separate lives, of course. But we’re like, well, like brothers.”
“Oh. That must be nice. I know Fred’s family is rather cut off.”
“We’re very close. I mean, Prince Charles is like a father to me!” Dear God, what was I saying? I ought to be telling her the truth. Not feeding her a bunch of lies! She’d been so open with me, talking about her life, and the way she dealt with fame. I try to justify it by telling myself I really liked her, and truly assumed she’d freak if she found out who I was.

“What do you plan on doing when you finish with college?” she asked me, changing the subject. She told me about her plans to write and produce movies. She wanted to become the first woman to own a major movie studio. “Where do you see yourself in like, twenty years, or something?”
Where did I see myself? Oh, on the stamps and banknotes of England (provided, of course, we didn’t adopt the Euro) as King William V. Here was a good opening for me to ease onto the subject of who I was, well, am.
“I’m not sure,” my mouth formed the words without my brain’s approval. “I’d like to do something for the environment. Maybe have some sort of business that helps us progress without damaging the planet.”
Ally was very impressed. “That’s surprising.”
“Why?”
“I guess I just didn’t expect a guy from the British upper class to have any ambition. Most just think about polo, parties, and girls.”
I laughed. “I know. A lot of my friends are like that. I can’t fathom why they would assume booze and birds define life.”
Had any of my mates heard me, I would never have lived it down. Till about, oh, two seconds ago, birds and booze were my only ambitions. Suddenly I found myself a would-be environmentalist, spouting theories on conservation, the Amazon rainforest, (and incidentally, where the hell is that? Egypt? Or am I thinking of the Nile?) and how we could increase the ever-declining blue whale population.
“Your buds must hate you!” Ally smiled at me. (God, she had such an amazing smile.) “I’ll bet you’re the only guy who never goes hunting.”
Hunting? Never? Um, more like whenever I got the chance. But why spoil a good thing now? “I think it’s stupid. And I can’t see why they call it a sport,” I remarked loftily.
“There, I agree,” she said. “I love animals! I mean, I’m not forcing people to go veg or anything. But you have to draw the line somewhere.”
Oh, so she ate meat. Good. Thankfully I wouldn’t find myself lying about my eating habits. I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me! I meet a gorgeous girl, a girl who understands the price of fame, and who didn’t care who I was, and what must I do but spend the evening lying to her?
Of course I got caught out. I could hardly spend an entire evening talking to one woman and not have it recorded for posterity, now could I?


It was all over the papers the next day. ‘William Finds Ally Jones More Interesting Than Lingerie’, blared the headlines. The article went on the detail how I’d spent the evening, and the night apparently as well, with Ally. Naturally they included several pictures of women in various stages of undress to illustrate the view I’d ignored. I binned the papers and wondered when the axe would fall. It couldn’t be long now. Gran and Nan – unlike my father – read several papers a day. I could hardly expect them to ignore headlines with my name featuring in them.

“Allison Jones! Dammit, you arse! And you didn’t invite me!”
My brother was the first person to call – which accounts for the enthusiasm. He was a young, horny teenager. Ally was viagra to him.
“I didn’t know she was going to be there,” I explained. “And I only met her because Fred was there too.”
“Do you like her? Have you asked her out yet?” Harry was nothing if not subtle…and did I mention he was nothing?
“Yes and no.”
“If she turns you down, can I ask?” Ah, his loyalty was touching.
“If you do, you won’t live to see Christmas.” I thought it best to lay it out in black and white. My brother was colour-blind where every other shade was concerned.
“Ooh! Touchy! Looks like someone’s got a crush.” He did his best ‘female’ voice.
“Fuck you! I’ve got bloody enough problems without you!”
“Gran rung you up already?”
“Not yet. But I can wait.”
“Oh. Come on! Papa’s always on our side. It won’t be so bad.”
“Harry, every fucking paper has mentioned very prominently that she’s a Chinese citizen and a catholic. Every bloody paper!” I was yelling now.
“Will! It’s okay. Just relax. You haven’t even dated her yet.”
“So then why the fuck should they put me through this? I meet the one girl who doesn’t treat me like the prize in a lottery, and this is what I get!”
“It may not be so bad.” Maybe now’s the time to mention Harry’s cheerful, optimistic nature.
“No. It’ll be worse.” Oh, I guess I neglected to mention that we were opposites.

This time round, I was right. It was worse. My grandmother is a fantastic person – don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Her only problem is that she takes that commandment ‘Honour your father and mother’ literally. And my Nan isn’t the world’s most open-minded person. If there’s one good thing about burying your parents, it means you won’t have them to order you around when you’re reigning.
“William, you didn’t tell me about this nice girl you were seeing.”
“Maybe that’s because I’m not seeing her,” I responded carefully.
“That’s wonderful to hear. Please do continue like this.”
“I plan to change it.”
“Don’t.”
“Well, I’m going to. I like her, and she seems like she’ll be able to understand my life.”
“Really? And would you let Harry live a life like my father’s? He died all thanks to the pressures of duty. And none of this would have happened if his brother cared enough to leave that Catholic woman.”
“As you said, Gran, your father…your life. Not mine,” I said, gritting my teeth.
“A fine brother you are, leaving Harry in the lurch. All that pressure on the poor boy’s head.”
“What pressure? All you do is travel around and meet people. What fucking pressure?” Oh, calm down! Screaming at one’s grandmother is never a good idea.
“You remind me of your mother.”
“Well, better that then my reminding you of my spineless father,” I yelled, all traces of rational thought gone. “If only he’d had the bloody guts to ignore Nan’s and your stupid ideas, Harry and I might have had a far better childhood!”
“William…”
“At least have the decency to admit it! Thanks to your stupidity, I have one dead mother, a family I never see, a father with a mistress, and the pleasure of childhood memories children are not supposed to have! I’ll be damned if I pass that legacy on to my kids. I’ll be damned if I obey you!”
I slammed the phone down, and ran my hands through my remaining hair. A few deep breaths later, I had calmed down and was able to reflect. What the hell had come over me? I’d managed to insult my father – along with most of my family – in the short span of two minutes. I was insufferably rude to my grandmother; a woman most of the UK couldn’t speak to without first bowing or curtseying. And all this for a girl I’d met a grand total of once. I was speedily qualifying for a stint at the local loony bin.


This was getting to me. Was all of this worth it? I hadn’t even gone out with Ally, and I was subjected to this. Actually dating her would probably be worse. But she was gorgeous, funny, and her smile! No, I had to see her again. I pestered Fred until he finally gave in, and gave me her number. I called her on Wednesday. Plenty of time to plan a date. Dinner and a movie? Or was that too traditional? Maybe we could go to a nightclub instead.

“Hi, Ally? It’s me, William. We met at St. Andrew’s on Saturday, remember?”
“Yes, why good afternoon, your Highness. It’s so touching that you remembered me, a lowly commoner.” The sarcasm was unmistakable.
“Ally?”
“What? Did you take me for a fool, William? ‘My dad’s a glorified farmer’! Yeah, right. I’ll admit I didn’t place you at first, cos I thought you were younger. But did you really think I’d not get it when the papers call my publicist and want the details of my liaison with the heir to the throne?”
Right. She was just as famous as I. She had press guys too. Why wouldn’t the papers call her up as well? I felt like the world’s biggest arse.
She sighed. “Well, why did you call? To ask me not to say anything? Don’t worry. I wouldn’t admit to knowing you if you paid me!”
“Ally, I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t think,” I murmured. “Can I make it up to you over dinner?”
She started laughing. I, as was only natural, panicked.
“I thought of a movie, or something,” I babbled. “But then, nothing good is playing. We could go someplace else……..anything you want…….”
She laughed even harder. “Dinner? Damn, William, I give you an A for audacity! Sure, if you want.”
“You said yes?” Hey, she was laughing, wouldn’t you want to double check?
“I could say no, if you’d prefer that.”
“Yes – no! I mean, well, I’m not sure what I mean,” I paused to take a deep breath. Never in my life had a girl rattled me like this.
“I mean, I’d really like to, if it’s okay with you,” I continued in a calmer voice. “How about Saturday?”
“I have plans on Saturday, but I’m good for Sunday,” she said. “Let’s say Sunday at eight?”
“Sure, that’s perfect.”
“See you then.”


I don’t suppose I need to tell you how nervous I was. Anyone who saw me at services that morning would have guessed. Not only did I show up early, I actually prayed. It’s possible God might have a soft spot for desperate princes, innit?
I presume he did, as nothing untoward happened over the course of the afternoon. I didn’t fall downstairs and chip my front teeth. I did not trip over the dog and break my nose. No spots popped up without warning. And if that’s not enough to make you believe, I only found one hair in my comb!
The drive to Ally’s wasn’t a pleasant one. The last time I spoke to her, she went from furious to hysterical. I wasn’t even sure why she’d agreed to meet me. Maybe she’d given me a fake address, and would be filming the whole thing for a laugh. Maybe she planned on fixing me up with a really minging female friend. I was so anxious I didn’t even remove the Nsync disc from my CD player. (I’m a nice guy, guilt trip me enough and I’ll play chauffer for my younger cousins.)
Thankfully, her address did exist. Further, she answered the door of her flat herself, and no one else appeared to be there. She ushered me into the living room and left me there with instructions to make myself at home. So I snooped unashamedly.

Her flat was lovely. It was everything you’d expect from one of Hollywood’s A-list stars: beautiful, tasteful, and really comfortable. If I hadn’t been so curious, I probably wouldn’t have gotten out of the chair. It was that cosy. However, magazines always say you can tell a lot about a person from their CD, DVD, and book collection. In view of that, I did a little browsing.
Ally was surprising. Comics stood side by side with The Odyssey. Bridget Jones’ Diary was next to The Agony and The Ecstasy. I even found a well-thumbed copy of War and Peace. (It was right beside Harry Potter and The Prisoner Of Azkaban) After a few minutes of snooping, I resumed my position on the sofa. One thing was clear – Ally was complex.

“Ready to go?” Ally asked as she entered.
I gave a low whistle. (Force of habit) She looked bloody gorgeous. Today she’d chosen a dark brown dress, held up by thin straps. The dress ended some inches below her arse, leaving her legs on display. She wore impossibly high stilettos, which only showcased her legs further. Once again, she took my breath, heart and sanity away. Which is my explanation for what I did next; I crossed the room and kissed her.
Her lips parted easily under mine, and her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. I willingly complied, tightening the embrace. What I felt for her before was magnified a thousand times. To be holding her and kissing her like this felt so perfect – and so right.
I don’t remember how long we kissed, nor the exact moment it changed from innocent to intimate. I couldn’t tell you how we got from the doorway to the sofa, to her bedroom. Among the few things I do remember was the image of her naked. God! She was so damn beautiful! I felt this desperate need to possess her body and soul; possess her the way she possessed me. I’ll never forget the way she arched her body to meet mine, or the way that she felt under me. So soft, so smooth, and everything felt so, so right. We couldn’t get enough of each other that night. We made love till the first rays of dawn crept across the sky.
“Princess, I have to go,” I whispered softly. There was the long drive back to St. Andrew’s to face.
“Take care,” she said, kissing me.
I dressed, and wrenched myself away from her arms and her flat. Unfortunately I left something behind – my heart.

I’d love to say that this dream, this amazing dream, never ended. For me though, dreams are always just dreams. Reality is my constant, unpleasant companion. And it didn’t take long for reality to set in.

“A Catholic! Like that awful woman?” quavered my great-grandmother’s voice.
I love my Nan, but if I were to be honest, she’s the reason my family lives in the past. Gran wouldn’t dream of doing anything she disapproves of – and she disapproves of plenty. Among other things, dating women who aren’t aristocratic enough for us. She’s the real reason Father married Mum, as opposed to the woman he really loved. Nan absolutely hates ‘that common thing’ as she calls Camilla. (She’s also made Gran promise never to acknowledge Camilla as long as she lives.) And Catholics? Let me just say that Nan’s the reason that the Duchess of Windsor didn’t get an HRH. Not surprisingly, she didn’t take to the idea of Ally.
“Where did you meet her? I thought your friends had better class.”
“She’s a famous actress,” I said coldly. “My friends were falling over themselves to meet her.”
“An actress?”
Oops! Wrong choice of words. In the early twentieth century, actresses were as high up on the social ladder as prostitutes, and garnered the same amount of respect.
“What happened to all those nice girls you used to know? What about that pretty one who was in the fashion show?”
“She walked down the runway in her underwear,” I pointed out. “Ally keeps her clothes on in every damn movie she’s done.”
“What are parents doing these days?” sighed Nan. “No one wants to do their duty anymore.”
“Duty? What the hell does my love life have to do with duty?”
“It’s your duty to give the country a decent woman for a Queen – not some three penny Catholic. Ah, but then, what can you expect? You are your mother’s son.”

Duty, that charming word. The word that shaped – and wrecked – my life. If I didn’t do whatever unpleasant task I was supposed to, then I was ‘Diana’s son’. The wilful brat, typical of my Mum’s lack of respect for the Windsors. How on earth was someone supposed to live with this? My ‘duty’ was a constantly recurring theme running through my days. It was at times like these, I wished I were Harry….. or the local garbage collector. Harry didn’t give a shit about duty. He always followed his gut feelings. He didn’t care what anyone said about him. I’d spent most of my life repressing my needs in order to please others. I didn’t regret it until the day I left Ally for ‘duty’.

“Let me get this straight, you think we shouldn’t see each other anymore ‘cos your Gran says so?” Ally was highly indignant.
“No, not exactly,” I faltered. “I mean, we’re doomed anyway. You’re a catholic, and by law I can’t marry one….”
“When did we talk about marriage?” Ali interrupted furiously. “We’re talking about Saturday night dates!”
“Well, I can’t stay in a relationship that’s going nowhere!” I retorted, my temper rising. “Why can’t you bloody see that my life is so different from yours? I have duties that you know nothing about!”
“Oh, really? Like what? Marrying someone you hate ‘cos breeding is far more important than love? I thought you were human, William, not some fricking robot programmed to obey! Do your choices ever come into the question?”
And then I said it. Said the words I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting. Words that were a complete lie. Words that I said only because I was Prince William of Wales. Words that I wish I could take back.
“Maybe this is my choice.”
Ally slapped me so hard my cheek stung. “Get out!” she said through her teeth. “Get out, you fucking SOB!”

I stormed out of her flat to slump over the steering wheel in my car. Why, why, why was I such a fool when things mattered the most? Why did I always give in when it came to my family? Why hadn’t I told Ally I loved her, that I would give anything to spend my life with her? Why didn’t I tell her the truth?


My father tried to reassure me. Ally would come around. If I liked, Camilla wouldn’t mind having a little chat with her, and explaining the family situation.
Harry tried to cheer me up. He was a perfect terror that weekend. The amount of tricks he played! Tea would vanish from cups when picked up. There was a positive influx of large spiders, and my father’s study was broken into by his prize cow. (Needless to say, everyone was very relieved when Harry headed back to Eton.) Even my dog got in on the ‘cheer William up’ campaign. She brought me her best bone in an attempt to make me smile. (Although she took it back, insulted that I didn’t eat it.)
I was grateful to get back to uni, and bury myself in my work. I guess I was clinging to the hope that there might be a ‘someday’ for Ally and me.


“That bloke must be thanking the gods,” Fergus declared one evening, as we sat in a pub watching Manchester United play Aston Villa.
“Why?” I asked, looking at the player he pointed out: a Man U defender. “It’s not like they didn’t expect to win this match.”
I love Villa, but it must be admitted that Man U can – and mostly, do – beat them.
“I didn’t mean that,” Fergus said. “I meant, footballers are lucky blokes. He looks like crap, but he’s got a hot bird.”
I laughed. “Next to him, anybody would look hot.”
No offence, but the kindest thing anyone could say about Gary Neville was that he had a decent body. His face, well, let’s just say it looked like a truck had collided with it recently.
“I’m serious. He’s dating Ally Jones. Talk about luck!”
I choked. Ally? My Ally?
Well, he had every right to, I reminded myself. It’s not as though I was dating her. A mixture of emotions welled up inside of me. Jealousy, misery, and a rage at myself for giving her up so weakly. I was an idiot. A blue-blooded, brainless fool – a robot, as Ally had called me. Why was I so stupid? Why couldn’t I stand up for myself? Things would be so different, if only I hadn’t chosen duty.

Ally would be in this pub with me, not in the director’s box at Old Trafford. We’d be arguing over our conflicting loyalties (she’s a Man U fan, I support Villa) and laughing. I could almost see it. My arm draped protectively around her shoulders, she leaning into me, her head resting on my chest. Something ripped through me. A feeling of such regret, regret that I’d given up a chance at love, real love, just to keep the peace in my family. I could feel my heart shatter into a million pieces.
When did I turn into the family peacekeeper? When did I sign away my happiness in exchange for civility? Everything and everybody’s needs took precedence over me. And all I got was a broken heart, and shattered dreams.

I’d love to tell you that my life ended in that moment, because it really felt like it did. But we all know that’s not true. The isolation of St. Andrew’s makes it the perfect place to ‘get over’ Ally. Kate and I, both suffering from the fall-out of relationships are growing closer. I know I can date her without anyone in my family hitting the roof.
But when I blow out those candles on my birthday cake this June, I won’t be wishing for Kate. I’ll wish that my phone rings. I’ll answer it.
“William,” a sexy voice will say, “I can’t do it. Help me!”
“Don’t worry, Princess,” I’ll whisper. “I’ll be right there.”
And the next day the headlines will announce that Ally Jones has broken off her engagement to Gary Neville.
If only….