Page 25 of Tabloid Princess

“And then another account aimed at educating those who know nothing about the situation?” I could see this—a little bit.

“Yeah, so the one you want to go viral could be like a personal account. It doesn’t just have to be about being homeless. It could be simple things like ideas for cheap dinners. Good places to get help, little snippets that could guide people. You don’t want to be all ‘Come to Bright Futures and we will fix everything.’ It needs to be more, ‘The bakery on Lime Street gives out leftover stock at four p.m., just a heads up.’ And then the next day drop the name of a place that could help.”

“I don’t know if I can do that; it would feel fake.”

“People do it all the time, Leia. You need someone famous to follow your pseudonym and retweet, or like what you post. That’s one way to get everyone talking.”

“I don’t know anyone famous.” I cringed. I did. I did. I just couldn’t stop being rude to him.

“Just an idea.”

“But what if people think it’s just trite shit and don’t listen? I won’t be helping anyone.”

“Leia, you’ve told me what you went through. That fifteen-year-old can’t be that far away.”

I blinked into the steam, my memory skimming back to dark times and hard moments. Then as I switched off the hob, I turned it all off, unwilling to let myself fester on things long past.

“Maybe.”

“Muuuuuuuummmmmmmyyyyyy.”

My blood chilled at Daisy’s blood-curdling cry.

“Gotta go.” I hung up the phone, dropping it onto the work surface as I launched myself to the small front room where I’d left Daisy playing and watching television.

“What’s wrong?” I screeched to a halt, sliding on the laminate flooring.

“Look.” She pointed at the television. For a moment I stared at it, not making sense of the pictures on the screen. My initial main focus was on why Daisy was watching the news and not her favourite cartoon channel. “Isn’t that the prince you ran into?” She blinked up at me through her blonde fringe.

My attention skittered back to the screen. It was him. My heart thumped a little too loudly as I grabbed the buttons and turned up the sound.

Utterly ridiculous, my first thought was that he’d been hurt.

Stupid thought.

Stupid brain.

Like he isn’t in the news most days? Maybe he had a new date?

Shaking my head to clear my erratic thoughts, I perched on the edge of the sofa. Daisy settled on the floor at my feet, her arms wrapped around my legs.

“Prince Oliver surprised staff at a local homeless shelter just a short while ago, and the BBC were lucky enough to be with him on his visit,” the presenter said, “when he turned up unannounced to help with the serving of the evening meal.”

I couldn’t breathe.

My chest tightened until I rubbed at it with my palm.

Sure enough, the images on the screen showed him smiling and shaking hands; his pale-blue cotton shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. More shots of him buttering bread (of all things) and chatting to some of the staff and visitors came next.

The presenter spoke again, “When asked about his visit with only a small press crew the prince had this to say.” The camera panned in on him again, closer this time. If I’d got on my knees closer to the television, I would have been able to count the freckles.

“More people should be aware of the essential work that goes on in places like this. In a vast city like London, with our enviable position as one of the greatest cities of the world, it’s paramount that we don’t forget those in need.”

He was talking to someone—an interviewer I guessed.

He nodded at a question. “It’s going to be my thirtieth birthday initiative to bring awareness to these areas and to garner as much support as I can, so these people with winter fast approaching, can look forward to respite and care.”

The voice of the interviewer cut in again. “Some people say that giving cash to the homeless on the streets is the wrong thing to do. What’s your stance on this?”