“And if you keep blaming yourself for everything, we’re not giving you any popcorn,” added Louise, who hugged me, which is something she never does; she once told me that “Hugs are what idiots do instead of voting.”

I tried every conceivable method of contacting Edgar, but my texts and calls and emails went unanswered. He was resolute about not dealing with me. I had one number for James, but it went to a voice mail with the recording, “You have reached James Claverack with your concerns. Good luck, dear.”

I had no means of getting through to the security team, and I was in the strange position of cursing myself for not having the Queen of England’s personal email.

I lay on my bed and asked Ruth Ginsburg, who I’d retrieved from my duffel bag, if there was anything else I could do, but she shook her head sadly, finally mentioning, “You could change your sheets.”

I had two choices: drink or drug myself into some version of sleep, or stay up all night replaying everything that had happened since I met Edgar. Both of these were bad ideas, so instead I did what lovelorn people always do: I listened to sad love songs, everything from country-western vengeful breakups to Broadway power ballads to whispery female singers who liked the words “morning,” “hurt” and “rain.” None of this helped, because nothing ever would.

Outside my door, DuShawn had joined Adam in softly harmonising on the score from The Book of Mormon to cheer me up, but they knew: even musical comedy has its limits.

After maybe five minutes of fitful napping it was seven a.m. and time for Edgar’s speech. I could refuse to watch it, which seemed cowardly. If nothing else, his abdication would truly end things; it would be a lasting emblem of the damage I’d done and why, despite James’s and the queen’s best efforts, Edgar and I would never see each other again.

Louise, Adam and DuShawn were up, stumbling toward the couch with their coffee. I fell onto them for one of those occasions when a group of friends becomes a single lump of support under one frayed, fairly disgusting blanket.

The cable news networks and morning shows were all carrying the speech live, and CNN was as good a choice as any. The anchor intoned, “There’s been no announcement as to the content of Prince Edgar’s speech, and the Palace has refused to confirm or deny rumors of abdication.”

Edgar was seated behind a desk in his palace office. He was pale and doleful, in a dark suit, as if serving as his own somber attorney. He cleared his throat.

“He looks thin,” said Adam.

“Thanks, Great-Aunt Miriam,” I told him.

“He looks like his dog just died,” said Louise.

“And his eyes are red,” said DuShawn. “He’s either been crying or doing cocaine.”