Oh no. Jesus. I’d crossed the Atlantic to meet this woman, and I’d planned on showcasing myself at my most polished, as humble and civilized and an irresistibly articulate and well-groomed companion for her grandson. And here I was, in sweats, bleary from the flight, with God knows what in my hair, and Queen Catherine was insulting me and shooting lasers from her eyes and about to hoist a cleaver from a rack on the wall and slice off at least one of my larcenous hands.

“I . . . I’m so sorry, I’m Carter, I’m a guest of Edgar’s . . .”

I was saying this with a partially chewed cracker in my mouth, crumbs of which were spewing out and onto the floor. Not my best look, with my words barely intelligible. I was like a greedy raccoon, caught in the glare of a homeowner’s flashlight as I rooted through the recycling bins.

“You’re him,” said the queen. “You’re that dreadful person in the photograph who humiliated my grandson, myself and the Commonwealth. And here you are, stealing foodstuffs from my larder.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll put it right back and I’ll pay for whatever I’ve eaten—”

“Stand up. Let me see you.”

I’d been crouched, rifling through a lower cabinet. I swallowed the rest of my cracker, almost choked, stood and moved closer to the queen, but not too close, because I didn’t want to come off as disrespectful and because while Catherine was eighty-two years old and seemingly unarmed, she was a powerful physical presence, like the most superior, battle-ready, potentially lethal pitbull, off its leash.

“You resemble the photo, only you’re wearing more clothing and you’ve misplaced your cheap paper crown. You look like an American homosexual.”

Was this a slur? A compliment? Would “an American homosexual” appear beneath my chin in my Scotland Yard mugshot?

“I . . . I do?”

“You look oddly innocent, even cheerful, and yet absurd. You’re not unattractive and you haven’t yet become as large and misshapen as many of your fellow citizens, particularly the politicians. Your hair strikes me as strenuously curated, your skin is acceptable, your dental work remains one of your homeland’s rare virtues, and your feet are inexplicably clean.”

I was barefoot, which made me feel naked. But I wished I’d recorded the queen’s reference to cleanliness, to forward to my mom.

“I’m trying to imagine what my grandson sees in you. Are you some breed of double-jointed sexual prodigy?”

“Yes. Cirque du Soleil. Vegas.”

I was so scared that I’d aimed for a joke, lacking any other option. There was an extended silence, and then the queen approached smiling, but thought better of it. Her disdain remained absolute but my approval rating had shifted some microscopic iota.

“Come closer.”