“Listen to this,” said James, from the front seat, checking his phone. “It’s from a squalid, wholly objectionable gossip website which I’m addicted to. And they’re taking a poll. Is Carter Ogden A) A gold-digging nonentity, B) An amateur porn star, or C) A Soviet agent. How shall I vote? Oh, wait, there’s an additional choice, D) An Associate Event Albatross.”

I’d been veering away from these sites and royalty-oriented YouTube channels and the TMZ-style cable shows that I’d once mainlined. But Adam and Louise had sent me the GIFs of King Kong, with my head, clambering up Big Ben with Edgar in my paw; Edgar’s and my heads transposed onto a Dancing with the Stars tango; and Drag Race contestants blessedly supporting us by saying things like “Hate the hate, not the boys.” My mom has always told me, “Don’t feed the trolls,” but when an exceptionally nasty, bigoted tweet got the better of her, she’d log on with, “Carter Ogden is a terrific man and why don’t you just fuck off right back to your Klan rally, shithead.”

Like everyone else, I’d always guessed that celebrity dish never drew blood and that the stars, wannabes and bottom-feeders hoarded the clicks, because while all publicity isn’t really good publicity, at least it’s free publicity. But now that I was playing for the other team, even as just a water boy, it was hard not to get defensive and to keep my hand from wandering to the keyboard, despite the fact that any kinder comment (“I think Edgar and Carter are hot, even if I’m the only one!”) was invariably met by a raging flood of anti-LGBTQ, anti-Semitic, anti-royal family sewage.

“Here’s how to deal with the Internet,” Edgar explained. “Never read anything more than once. Don’t fall down a comments k-hole and waste your afternoon. And remember that while nothing really goes away, something always lands a few seconds later to replace it. So when somebody says I’m getting chubby, or that I’m dealing crystal meth, or that I’m, and these are my favourites, ‘rubbing my gayness in the world’s faces’ or ‘shoving it down everyone’s throats,’ I pray that Kim Kardashian will have another baby or another divorce, or introduce another buttock-firming miracle cream, or appear nude atop a Ferris wheel, to take the heat off of me.”

Fair enough, but the real reason I might return to monitoring the online mood was to chart a course toward pleasing Queen Catherine and making Edgar proud of me. The pendulum might be swinging, because my mom just sent me someone’s tweet reading “Carter is cute in a nonthreatening, prom-date-placeholder, basic gay way.” I’m getting there!

“Today,” said Edgar as the car approached the stadium, “will also be our first official appearance together, so I should prepare you.”