Following dinner at the palace, we made a great show of retreating to our separate bedrooms. But after five minutes of contemplating Edgar’s shoulders, I brushed my teeth again, did a few push-ups, gave myself a smoldering I-could-be-a-model-if-all-the-real-models-died look in the mirror, and stepped out into the hall, coming scarily face-to-face with Queen Catherine, who was wearing a flannel robe and carrying a small plate with what looked like a brownie. Was she shadowing me? Didn’t she ever sleep? Most monarchs would have staff members bring them late-night delicacies, but Catherine liked to do things herself.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

“Um, I was looking for . . . an extra pillow?”

“You are seeking my grandson’s bedroom in hopes of a torrid sexual encounter.”

“And that.”

“I’m not a prude. I’ve enjoyed a robust physical life. But there’s far more to a successful relationship than merely, what is that phrase you younger people use? Hooking on?”

“Hooking up.”

“Which sounds like some uninviting form of knitting or crochet. Yes, lovemaking has its appeal, but it’s far from the entire equation. And from what has been reported, your attendance at a rugby match earlier today resulted in a squalid and extended display of sexual excess.”

“It was a hug!”

“One too many. So you shall return to your solitary chamber and review your priorities, along with enumerating the higher pursuits which you and Edgar might share.”

“We went to a museum!”

“Congratulations. Were you awarded a doctorate?”

“You’re just going to stand here, aren’t you? To make sure Edgar and I don’t have sex.”

I feinted to the left, but the queen deftly countered. I tried to duck under her elbow and nearly lost an eye.

“You’re not going anywhere, strumpet,” she gloated.

Strumpet? Now I was a strumpet? Was she strumpet-shaming me? And doesn’t “strumpet” sound more like a French dessert or some bold-new-taste American corn chip?

“Well, I am tired,” I admitted, innocently. “So maybe I’ll just turn in.”

“A wise decision.”

“Good night, Your Majesty. Sleep well.”

“And you. What was your name again?”

“Carter.”

“Martin.”

I closed the door and counted to fifty, slowly. I inched the door open and was confronted with an uncompromising royal eyeball. I’d become the last cheerleader left alive in a horror movie.

I shut the door and FaceTimed with Abby, who was lounging by her honeymoon resort’s infinity pool.

“So she’s like the hall monitor?” Abby asked, laughing.

“It’s not funny! I’m her prisoner!”

“But you and Edgar still like each other?”

“We do. Today was—major. Remember when he came out and you made me that mood board of all the famous gay people?”

“And I ranked them,” she recalled. “By who I thought you should hang out with, like Neil Patrick Harris and Rosie O’Donnell. But we still weren’t sure about SpongeBob.”