The Prince & Gemma

 The Prince & Gemma

By Grace Petersson

Prologue

  Now after the craziness of movie tube, I am flat and again rudderless.  I have two beautiful children who are my whole life, and a stunning wife who wants nothing more now than to be the first Native American President of the USA.  So, now I am cast in the role of house husband and possibly first man.  Is this really what I want?

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  I am Prince Thane of Scotland; second in line to the throne.  My brother Harald is first in line.  I am the surplus prince; the spare in case Harald goes AWOL.  My childhood was very entitled with the best private schools money could provide like Gordonstoun, an outdoorsy cold showers 'make a man out of you' type of school.  I am the outdoors type, I love nature, long walks, serving and defending my country.  I hate some of my mannerisms, which when I see clips of my father Malcolm are identical to him.

  However, in spite of all my privileges, my life was not all jollity and bliss.  Firstly, my parents, Malcolm and Marissa’s marriage was not the starry-eyed fairy tale predicted.  I sensed this particularly in my mother for as long as I knew her.  My father is Malcolm XIII.  He at first balked against the XIII numeral after his name, but eventually declared he would not be intimidated by superstition saying “I am the 13^th Malcolm and therefore that is how I will be known.”  Adding to the doomed marriage was the fact that Malcolm was actually in love with another, Amelia.  They met as teenagers, fell wildly in love, and had much in common from a love of all things horsey to a love of the environment and classical music.  However, Amelia had ‘been around’ as they say, and therefore deemed wholly unsuitable.  I am glad about this because Marissa was tall and willowy, giving me and Harald our 6ft tall bodies, making us even more desirable to the world’s women.   My mother Marissa, beautiful and enigmatic, couldn’t care less about horses and the environment.  What made her heart sing was a new dress from Versace, dirty jokes and unfortunately for her, Malcolm.

  So in view of Amelia’s unsuitability, a virgin had to be found for Malcolm my father, and my mother Marissa, fit the role perfectly.  Just 19 years old, supposedly shy and biddable, she was deemed perfect.  Alas, Marissa was complex and unhappy as a result of her own mother being a ‘bolter.’  Malcolm was wholly unaware of this, blithely marrying Marissa at the insistence of his dictatorial controlling uncle, Hereward.

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  My life as I knew it came to a shattering halt when Marissa my mother was shot by a Scandinavian sniper when visiting the Taj Mahal.  She sat looking at the famous majestic building, not knowing this was the last sight she would ever see.  I was 11 and Harald was 16.  Initially, we clung together for comfort and support.  We both knew Malcolm my dad would eventually marry Amelia and I had no problem with this.  He deserved to be happy.  Yet still, I felt angry enough to kill  the world for stealing away my mother. 

  I always felt somehow at odds with the rest of the family.  Also, I sensed Harald was my mother’s favourite and all my life have looked, unconsciously for someone to replace Marissa’s withdrawn love.  Also, I somehow felt more at ease with the marginalised members of society. 

  When I was 17 I hounded my dad for the opportunity to live for a while in the USA, attending Sitting Bull University, a prodigious Native American school, where I learnt much of the plight and tragic history of Native Americans.  Some students even took me home to meet their parents, where ironically I learned most of the real history of these tragic people and I kind of felt they had adopted me.  Even with the constant protection officers, I felt freer.  I believe the students at Sitting Bull were marginalised sort of like me and my mother.  It was here I first met Jemima; a beautiful descendant of the Chinook tribe from what is now called California.

   I was both entranced and mesmerised.  Not just by her obvious beauty, but her ideas, strength and firm beliefs about justice in the world and for her people.  We hung out in the same circles for a while, but I had to return to the UK to take up my pledge to the army, which up until then was the only role making any sense to me. 

   I just could not see myself following the steps of my dutiful brother Harald, the golden boy, who ironically looks like my mother, but is not challenging or confrontational.  I, to my extreme chagrin, resemble Malcolm, both in looks and mannerisms but with striking red hair.  Yet I am a rebel and yet not.  I dutifully joined the army and ‘fought’ in Afghanistan, albeit with several armed guards to make sure I wasn’t a PR coup for the Taliban.  These minders, poor sods, willingly risked their lives for me, whilst I felt I was in a gilded cage, with an opulent lifestyle, but with all eyes on me waiting for me to screw up.

  Screw up I did.  After I left the army, I felt rudderless and lost.  I had a few girlfriends, but they were ultimately scared off by the press intrusion.  Then I met Jemima again, and felt like I had my mother Marissa back.  She loves me and holds me up and I can’t imagine a life without her.  So if she wants congress and a political career, I have to support her if, I want to keep her.  What’s the alternative?  Run back to Scotland and be ridiculed as the bolter prince who couldn’t control his own wife?  Dear reader, what would you do?

Copyright Grace Petersson