Chapter I
July 2017
I didn't really plan to take my girlfriend Megan to Botswana with me, but her birthday was coming up and she hinted pretty strongly that it would be a nice birthday present. It would be good to have a few weeks alone together, hopefully without any intrusions from the press.
I'm pretty sure she was also hoping her birthday celebration would include an engagement ring. The press were after us like hounds on the scent.
They and the public wanted Megan and me to get engaged soon.
My grandmother the Queen wanted me to get married years ago. I think she had her fingers crossed hoping Megan was The One. Everyone was crazy for another royal love story, another royal wedding.
Everyone wanted another Happily Ever After.
I wanted well, it didn't much matter what I wanted, did it?
Dad and Granny were patient with me, but they thought it was time for me to settle down. Sometimes the thought of settling down drove me crazy. I didn't want to settle. I wanted to be wild and crazy and free.
I wanted to travel without any press watching me. I wanted to walk out of my house in jeans and slippers to get the bloody paper, with my hair stuck up on all sides, and not worry about what anyone thought.
But I couldn't. I could have a lot of things, but freedom was not something I could have.
And Megan-
I knew she loved me. I knew she wanted to marry me. She was also getting just a tiny bit impatient and beginning to be a little clingy. I mean, when I looked at the situation objectively, Megan checked off a lot of the right boxes. She was beautiful. As an actress, she knew what it was like to live in the public eye. My gran liked her.
Bloody hell.
"You have to think about who you are," Dad said to me once when I'd been caught out doing something stupid and made the cover of the tabloids again. "You're not the baker's boy. You're a Windsor. You're a prince. And you have a duty to this country and to your family to do the right thing. And it won't necessarily be what Harry wants."
And I supposed when it came down to it, I would do the right thing.
Shiloh A.K McDowell
I didn't really come to London with a plan. My dad was kind of upset about my lack of direction since he was partially bankrolling my adventure. I only knew I was not ready to apply to grad school. I had no idea what I was going to do with my degree in textile arts, other than making strange-looking clothes. I joined the military right out of college and got out three years later.
When a late-night internet search informed me I could get a UK working visa that would let me stay for two years, I just thought why the hell not? I didn't really think I would stay that long. A year, maybe. I was just going to take my time, find some kind of work, and see what happened. Maybe I could sell some of my weird clothing on the streets.
Not many people in Isreal wanted to wear my odd boho creations that were pieced together from old velvet curtains, antique lace, and thrifted bits of ribbon.
Luckily for me, Dad had a friend who knew somebody who was going out of the country for a year and was willing to let me rent her Notting Hill flat for a reasonable price.
I didn't realize at the time what a great deal this was but I was happy to settle into the white-walled, minimally furnished place, promising to keep her plants alive until she returned.
I am not great with plants, so I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. I am good with horses, and within a week I chatted up a lovely lady who was a riding instructor at one of the riding schools in the area.
A few days later she offered me a part-time job mucking out stalls. It wasn't a great job, but it was better than waiting tables, and the horses didn't care what I was wearing.
Soon my days soon fell into a kind of routine. Stalls in the early morning, a quick lunch, and maybe back at the riding school in the afternoon to saddle up for lessons and rides.
Back to the flat in the evening for some sewing and on days off I traveled around, visiting museums and manor houses and pubs and boot sales and anything else that caught my fancy.
I quickly made a few friends among the other girls working at the riding school and then I had company in the evenings and on my jaunts.
I sat in the neighborhood pub one evening with my new best friend Willow, having a few drinks after a long day of boosting school children and tourists up onto horses.
Over Willow's shoulder, I kept seeing the same video footage playing over and over a smiling young couple standing in a garden.
"What's up with those two?" I asked, gesturing with my glass.
Willow turned to look and squealed with delight. "It's Prince Harry and Meg Moran. They're finally engaged!"
"Should I be excited?" I asked.
"Oh, it's been a big deal for months now. Everyone was wondering when he would pop the question don't you know?" I shook my head.
"Sorry. I'm from Isreal and we don't give a shit about the Royal Family." Willow laughed.
"Well, you'd better get used to it. There'll be a royal wedding in the spring and it will be a very, very big deal. I want to go and watch the procession, waving a flag, and get roaring drunk. And you can come with me!" I shrugged.
"Sure, if you want me to."
"Are you kidding? You can't go back to Vancouver and tell them you ignored the royal wedding when it takes place practically in your front garden."
I didn't think most of my Isreal friends would particularly care, but if Willow was so excited, why not? I was there to experience things, wasn't I? And royal weddings don't happen very often.
"Okay then," I said, lifting my glass. "To Harry and Megan!"
"To Harry and Megan!" she echoed, and the cheer was taken up by others in the pub.
"To Harry and Megan!"
