It’s a marathon, near Gran’s place.
Anmer Hall, Saturday night. Kate, Duchess of Cambridge, is lying on the sofa drinking a slimline G&T and browsing ‘Runners’ World’. She has spent the last hour bemoaning the media backlash around her ‘mumsy’ appearance and decided she will run the London Marathon. She doesn’t have a place, but she’s a Duchess so it will be ok.
“Don’t you think it’s a good idea? I’m quite good at running. Beat you up to the Tiger’s Nest monastery in Bhutan.”
William stops rubbing Vanish into the Frubes stain carpet for a second and clenches his jaw. “No darling. You should just lie on the sofa on Sunday and watch from home on the telly. They go past granny’s. Which reminds me, we need to let her know what Charlotte wants for her birthday or we’ll get another cushion cover. Also, haven’t you got some organising to do for that?”
“Mum can do it,” says Kate sulkily. “She does everything better than me anyway.”
“That’s not true,” says William kindly. He likes Carole, who lends him centre-parted wigs from Party Pieces so can practice feeling properly heir-y without judgement in The Mirror.
“Running a marathon IS work. But although I’ll probably do it in under two hours without breaking sweat, I need to do something different so people think, ‘wow. She’s so UN-MUMSY’.
William and his wife think for a bit. In the middle of the silence, George appears from the greenhouse, where he has been feeding Lupo coriander.
“Mummy?”
Kate wrenches her thoughts away from kitten heeled Nikes and looks at her son.
“Yes?”
“When I was a baby, I used to sleep in a tree.”
Kate looks at William worriedly, who shakes his head.
“Did you darling? What sort?”
“Brown.”
A grandfather clock ticks slowly.
“And … was there a bed in the tree?”
George looks pityingly at his mother.
“No. It was a TREE.”
Nanny Maria something-or-other arrives with ‘Shouty Charlotte’ – who is STILL teething – looking distressed. She whispers something in Kate’s ear.
“It’s OK Maria, Wills will take over for a bit.” Kate turns to her husband. “Can you take Charlotte for a walk? Maria says she’s been shouting so hard, she can’t hear George any more and I need her to listen to his coronet practice later because I’m sure as hell not doing it.”
William sighs and pushes thoughts of footling with his Fantasy Football to the back of his mind. He reaches out for his infant daughter. “OK, but can we do something as a family later?”
Kate ponders. She has been ‘doing things as a family’ since they returned from India and Bhutan, including wearing a VERY ‘mumsy’ dress and showing the President of the United States and the rest of planet Earth how George can sit on a rocking horse. She’s actually a bit tired of it all and would rather do something by herself.
“Sorry darling but if I’m going to do the marathon tomorrow, I’d better do a practice run. I’ll just slip out of my dungarees,” she looks mournfully down at the corduroy florals. An idea sprouts.
“I’ve got it. I’ll invent a new ‘sexy sprint’.” She springs up, peels off her dungies to reveal her nursing bra and high waisters. George covers his eyes.
Shoving the sofa – and Lupo, who has been lying on it, quietly having a herb-induced nightmare – aside, she gets down into a starting position.
“Georgie, count me down!”
The toddler screws up his face with concentration. “Five. Four. Five. Seven …”
“Never mind. I’ll do it myself.” She focuses on the picture of Diana looking encouraging over the fireplace, and narrows her eyes. “Three. Two. One.”
George has managed to find a potato gun given to him by David Cameron and fires it. It pops flaccidly. William ruffles his heir.
Masterfully, Kate sprints across the sitting room floor with a bizarre mix of raw motherhood, grace and speed. William, Maria and George clap dutifully as she reaches the mantelpiece and collapses.
“What do you think? Will the paps like it?” she gasps, when she’s regained her breath. “I can see the headlines now: something like: ‘We Like Your Grace, Miss Marathon!’
“Yes, very good, poppet,” William nods admiringly. “It’s VERY sexy.”
“Thanks,” she says, blushing. “I might be the most famous person alive …” William glances at the picture of his mother and before he can contradict, she continues swiftly, “… but I’ve always wanted to win something.”
“Well darling,” William sighs patiently, “there are a lot of other runners in the competition. It’s a marathon, not a race and you’re pretty royally new to the scene. But with your quirky new jog, you just might.”
