A Woman’s Prerogative

Kate woke with the blackbirds, very early on the morning before the big day, with a headache. She had been feeling lousy with the remnants of a head cold pressing into her sinuses and the day before had dealt with several nosebleeds. But this headache was more than the result of sinusitis. She felt a great tension in her shoulders and along her spine. As she stood on the scales in the bathroom and tried to look down she felt the tightness in her spinal chord from her neck down to her waist. She found she could not see the scale and therefore did not record her weight in her diary for the first time since she turned 15 which felt rather odd.

She was alone in the flat and after the brief visit to the bathroom she went back to bed, but was unable to sleep. Her mind was turning things over, running in inward spirals. When she did get up half an hour later she went into the kitchen in her dressing gown and clicked on the kettle. She did not feel hungry. She opened up her laptop to see what had been scheduled. The morning radio programme broadcast news of the pomp and circumstance of the dress rehearsal in the streets of London in readiness for the Royal Wedding, with one of the commentators suggesting it had all been carried out with no respect for the sleeping needs of the population of London. Kate smiled wryly and made herself a black coffee then sat down at the computer screen, half listening to the rest of the news. The next item announced the sudden illness of the Dalai Lama who had been taken into hospital with a minor stroke. Kate stopped still and listened intently to the report, which was lacking much detail. She shook her head slowly and pursed her lips. By then the news reader had moved onto a report on the Chancellor of the Exchequer, but Kate had stopped listening. She stood up and went to the cupboard and reached for the meds tin which perched on top, then shook out two paracetamol and two ibuprofen and gently blew her nose. There were several appointments she should keep today, but really didn’t feel she could cope.

A text alert on her phone led her to her handbag: it was from Wills. She texted back, confirming the arrangements then rang the events secretary.

“No I don’t need a doctor. Thank you. Yes, cancel all appointments today. I know, yes it may not be convenient. But that’s how it is. Thank you. I’ll call you later.”

When Wills arrived Kate was soaking in the bath with a few drops of lavender oil added. She heard him let himself in and call out. Despite her headache she smiled. Oh, how she loved him.

“In the bath,” she called. “Can you give my shoulders a rub, your highness?”

Wills came in clutching the post.

“Thought you’d like to see if there’s anything interesting among the fan mail,” he said and knelt down beside the bath. “Oh, Miss Middleton, I really can’t wait until you’re my wife.” Kate smiled again. “Where shall I rub, Darling?” he asked.

The shoulder massage had helped somewhat, but Kate still felt rough. The headache was pressing and she felt faintly sick.

“Look Wills, we need to talk, but just now I need to sleep.”

“Do you want me to stay, or do you need to be alone?” asked Wills, his face soft with concern.

She reached out and stroked his hand. It was mid-day. She needed some head space.

“I’ll be better alone for a few hours, Darling,” she said, “and then hopefully we can have that tête a tête over a nice glass of wine this evening?”

After Wills left Kate gathered up the 12 items of post which were still in the bathroom where he had left them and opened each in turn. Most was fan mail, but the last one she opened made her stop in her tracks – a letter from a charity, “Sandblast” asking if she would consider being their patron. She put it aside to read later.

She walked back to her bedroom and drew the curtains, curled herself up under the duvet fully clothed and shut her eyes. She thought sleep may be elusive, but in moments she had drifted. Soon she slept soundly.

When she woke she felt heavy limbed – drugged almost. The sun was beating on the outside of the bedroom curtains and the room had become rather hot and stuffy. She sat up and took a sip of water. What she really needed was a cup of tea. The bedside clock said 5:30pm. She lay back on the pillows and let her mind wander. The sleep had been dreamless – or at least she couldn’t remember dreaming, but somehow her ideas had crystallised and she knew for certain what she had to say to Wills.

She went back into the kitchen and made a pot of tea then sat down at the computer with the literature about Sandblast. Sandblast is an arts and human rights charity working with the indigenous people from Western Sahara, the Saharawis whose identity and culture is threatened by the impact of exile and Morocco’s occupation.

She knew this was the charity for her and immediately emailed the organisation letting them know of her interest. She glanced at the kitchen clock. Wills would be back at 6 pm and she felt a lurch of nerves thinking about telling him her decision. He’d be shocked, but he’d understand and be supportive. She had no doubt of that. But she knew the great British public would not be so understanding, deprived of a Royal Wedding right at the very last moment.