How are you?
I'm laying low for a bit, Josh. I'm.. in a bit of a power struggle, to say the least. How was your flight? I hope you're not too sunburnt.
The flight was ok; I couldn't stop thinking about all the headlines. I'm not sunburnt — yet — but Jeremy is already tanned. Hugh is as pale as a ghost.
I hope you're having fun.
Definitely. We went out to a bar last night and chatted with these girls who said they were from England too. It was great.
His words stung a little. It wasn't that I didn't trust him but after the whole condom comment I'd had a doubt in my head and, in truth, I felt jealous - though I wasn't going to be telling him that.
I'm glad. I keep checking your Insta for updates.
I paused, wondering what to type next.
I love you.
Love you too, Princess.
Are you fucking with me?
You're literally a Princess, Matilda. Thought it would be a nice way of reminding you of what you mean to me in the best possible way ;)
If anything I'm a Queen you cheeky sod.
Sorry, Your Majesty.
Sorry - I need to go. We're driving to set in a few minutes. Jeremy and Hugh say hi.
Love you. Tell them I say hi.
Love you too.
Our texting only made me miss him more. It was no surprise — he'd been gone a week by now and I was motivating myself with the thought of surprising him. Weeks went by, slowly, dreadfully. Each second felt a little longer than the last, dragging their heels like a child who didn't want to go to bed.
Edward's stance didn't change. My 'paternity' threat was useless; we both knew I'd never go through with it. It had shocked him a little and gained me more time but no more than that; if I discredited him, I would be Queen. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy — the only Queen I needed to be was the view Josh had of me.
My weeks were spent in the Scottish highlands. I didn't want to see many people and laying low was best, as we all knew. Everyday there was a new article about my wild exploits though, most weren't true — nevertheless, a denial would merely ignite the fire further.
"Rosa?" I called, grabbing her attention. I was sat in the gardens, surrounded by bright greenery. The flowers were a range of colours, from a bright pink to a deep purple and the hedges were intricately cut, not a leaf out of place. It was scorching hot; you could probably fry an egg on the concrete.
"Yes?" She responded, folding up the blanket. I paused, looking around. I didn't like to be overheard, so to speak.
"I was hoping to go into town." I spoke, eyeing her. I wasn't suspicious of her — I trusted her, it was more her reaction to my request. As I feared, she frowned immediately and shook her head, dismissing the request.
"I don't think that would be suitable, Matilda."
"Why not?" I frowned, whining. "I have spent weeks cooped up like a chicken — I need to interact with humans! The newspapers will think I've been assassinated for hashtag shoe gate." That was what it was called — #ShoeGate. I would never live down the embarrassment that intoxicated Matilda caused; that much was obvious.
