The Runaway Princess, Page 23

  Jo attempted to close the laptop as I got back with the tea, but I stopped her.

  “No, I need to know what they’re saying.” I took a deep breath. “It’s better to know.”

  “Is it? Half of it’s made up. At least half.”

  “Show me.”

  Jo narrowed her eyes as if she was about to argue.

  “I’m being brave,” I said. “Hurry up before it wears off.”

  She sighed and lifted the screen. As she did, my stomach lurched and I had to hang on to the chair because my knees had turned to water.

  It was worse than I’d thought at a quick glance. They’d put two photographs side by side: one taken at the charity boxing match, of me in my shiny ballgown with half a ton of fake tan covering my freckles and most of my cleavage, but the other was—I blanched—not quite so glam. It was a paparazzi shot of me outside Grace’s flat in my dirty jeans and fleece, loading spades and compost into the back of the van, while trying to stop Badger charging down the street in pursuit of a squirrel. The photographer had managed to catch me mid-yell and Badger mid-bark so we both looked as if we were about to savage a passerby.

  “It’s not your best angle,” said Jo diplomatically. “But who does look their best at ten in the morning?”

  I opened my mouth, but no words came out. What if Leo saw that? What if Mum saw that? Well, that at least was unlikely, given her fear of the interwebs.

  Jo noticed my expression, and hurriedly made the evening photograph much bigger, so it filled the screen. “Look,” she said. “They love your natural beauty, and your amazing triceps—”

  I jostled to get back to the text. “From all the digging I do in my laboring job as a contract gardener.”

  She jostled me back out of the way. “I’ll get them to correct that. You’re a garden designer. You’re a horticultural artist. They’d know that if they’d bothered to check out the website clearly displayed on your van.” Jo sounded indignant. “Lazy! Anyway, they think Leo’s absolutely besotted with you. And he is—just look at the way he’s staring at you there!”

  “Well …” That was the only consolation—they’d chosen a shot in which Leo was standing behind me looking incredibly handsome in his dinner jacket, with his gaze angled proudly toward me as if he couldn’t quite tear his attention away.

  And once I’d got used to the grinding shame of seeing my own wonky grin outlined in very red lipstick, I had to admit that, actually, I didn’t look that different from the other shiny-legged socialites in the background. My hair looked glossy and my dress clung in all the right places. If you didn’t know, you might have thought I was called Tilly or Viola or something.

  Something else stirred underneath all the internal memos to get my brows threaded and stop eating biscuits: I was the official girlfriend of Prince Leo of Nirona.

  Or as the caption put it, “Sorry, girls, but it looks like London-loving millionaire Leo is off the market again … for the time being.”

  “Out of the way,” said Jo, reaching for her mug. “I have a few corrections to make.”

  “What? No! Are you going to tell them you’re my flatmate? Isn’t that the saddest thing possible?”

  Jo sipped her tea. “No, I will be e-mailing them in my pseudonymous capacity as your press agent. There are a few key details that they need to clear up.”

  I started to laugh, then realized she was being absolutely serious.

  *

  I’d be lying if I said there weren’t some incredible upsides to dating a man who not only had a lot of money of his own, but who seemed to have a key to doors I didn’t even know existed.

  Leo asked me if I’d go to another charity ball with him, this time for the Liza Bachmann Foundation for Makeup to Make Up.

  “It’s not as trivial as it sounds,” he said, in a tone that suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d said as much. “They donate makeup to women’s refuges and work with birthmarks and stuff. Mom will be there, and I’m sure she’ll insist on us being photographed, so I can’t possibly ask you to come without buying you a dress. Please let me.”

  “Oh, there’s no need—” I started automatically, but then stopped. I did need a new dress. I’d now worn everything in my wardrobe once, borrowed everything of Jo’s that would fit, and even considered wearing a bizarre number from Jo’s mother Marigold’s wardrobe of ’70s classics.

  “It’d be a favor to Mom, actually, if you went to Zoë and got something,” said Leo. “She’s best friends with Zoë Weiss, the dress designer—I don’t know if you know of her?”

  I nodded. I had not heard of Zoë Weiss. For all I knew, she was Edel Weiss’s sister. “Mm-hm.”

  Leo didn’t respond, and I looked across the bench. A half smile was twitching his lips. “Do you know who Zoë Weiss is?”

  I contemplated lying, then shook my head. I’d dropped my long-term habit of pretending to know stuff I didn’t with Leo; he read me like a book. And besides, I liked the way that we could be honest with each other.

  “No,” I admitted. “So she’s a fashion designer?”

  “Yup. She is. Anyway, she’s in London this week, so if you go to her suite at the Ritz, she’ll sort you out with a dress for the ball, and Mom will be thrilled that she’s got her some press coverage. Everyone’s a winner.”

  He took a bite of his Subway sandwich, then winked at me over it. He reminded me of his grandfather when he did that. Of the three generations of Wolfsburgs I’d met, it was hard to decide who was the most charming.

  *

  What Leo didn’t tell me—but what Jo did, in a loud, disbelieving voice, shortly after my appointment—was that Zoë Weiss had dressed three of the nominees at the last Oscars and was in London to open her new flagship store on Sloane Street, opposite Gucci. It was probably a good job Leo hadn’t filled me in on that, because I would have been too freaked out to remove so much as a shoe in front of her.

  Zoë was a tiny pepper pot of a lady, with tiny feet in leopard-skin ballet pumps, and she flitted around me with a tape measure in one hand and a series of espressos in the other. She didn’t seem to mind my hips or my strange gardening-inflicted muscles, but draped material over me with quick, precise movements, occasionally bestowing a compliment on my “angel hair” or my “great calf.” I stared at my reflection in amazement while she hummed and sketched and barked instructions at her assistant.

  “Ah! Blushing! I love it!” She spun round to her assistant. “No colors that clash with that blush.”

  The assistant snapped me again on her iPhone, then held up some swatches while Zoë went, “No, no, no, no, maybe, yes.”

  I made yet another mental note to start Googling properly before every appointment involving Leo or any member of his family. No wonder all these people had assistants; they were there for research.

  “We’re done,” she said, and touched my cheek. “I love dressing girls when they’re not sample size. So much more of a creative challenge for a designer. I am going to make you look stunning, my darling.”

  “Um, thank you,” I said.

  It wasn’t easy to work out what was a compliment and what wasn’t these days; but thanks to my compliment coach, I was getting better at accepting them.

  The ballgown that subsequently arrived by courier in a huge tissue-lined box redefined the term evening wear forever in our flat.

  I knew what was coming—I’d had two fittings—but Jo didn’t. When she zipped me into it in front of her cheval mirror and stepped back to see the result, she burst into tears.

  “I’m never going to be able to shop on the high street again,” she croaked. “It’s like eating McDonald’s after going to Gordon Ramsay. This is what real dresses should taste like.”

  Zoë had chosen the exact shade of rich navy-blue satin that made my hair gleam like gold and my bosom (I totally had a bosom in this dress) seem soft and creamy. She’d nipped the bodice in at my waist and balanced the sleeves exactly at the sweetest part of my shoulders, so they looked
as if they might fall off at any moment, while the skirt swirled around me, flattening my stomach and lengthening my legs so I looked even taller than I was. It was classic but not old-fashioned, modern but not on-trend—it was me, but through a glamorous Nirona filter.

  I wore my diamond daisy-chain bracelet, and Leo had sent a box round from Chamuet with a matching necklace in it. He must have had it made specially for me, because there was a handwritten note inside: “For a girl who could make a daisy chain look like diamonds. All my love, L.”

  Jo did my makeup, although she had to keep stopping to blow her nose (“with emotion—don’t want to get snot on your frock”) and curled my hair with her tongs. By the time Billy arrived, with Leo in the back of the Range Rover, I knew I looked like a princess. But the difference was, for the first time ever, I actually felt like one.

  *

  The evening went by too fast, in a whirl of champagne flutes, delicious nibbles that I didn’t eat in case I spilled them on my dress, and turns around the dance floor with Boris and Leo. They both danced so well it didn’t seem to matter that I hadn’t a clue what I was doing. I had to take a photo call with Liza, but she nudged me into position each time (she actually kicked the back of my knee to make me stand better at one point) and no one asked me anything directly, so I didn’t have to worry about getting an attack of Party Paralysis. I just smiled, dazed, and tried to remember each moment as it flashed past.

  At midnight, Leo indicated that he wanted to leave, and we sneaked out through a side door, where only one or two photographers caught us. It felt weird when they shouted my name, as well as Leo’s, and I had to stop myself from glancing backward—I knew I’d look tipsy in the photos. It had started to drizzle, but Billy was waiting close by, and Leo helped me into the backseat of the Range Rover, scooping my dress up with a practiced flick and tucking me inside before I had time to get my shoes wet.

  I leaned my head happily against his shoulder as we set off home. I was quite drunk on the champagne, and the warmth of the car was making me both pleasantly sleepy and somewhat amorous.

  “Do you mind if we make a bit of a detour?” asked Leo. The windscreen wipers sloshed comfortingly in the background as Billy negotiated the late-night traffic. “There’s something I need to show you.”

  I snuggled into Leo’s jacket. I loved the smell of his dinner jacket—the hot wool mingled with his distinctive cologne. I made a mental note never to tell anyone at home that. It was right up there with “Caviar is surprisingly versatile as a storage cupboard staple.”

  “Well, that depends what it is you’ve got to show me,” I mumbled, thinking of how warm his house was. Particularly his enormous oak sleigh bed, shipped over from the palace. I was quite keen to get back there. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s pouring down.”

  “I think you’ll think it’s worth it.”

  “If it’s Nelson’s Column by night, I’ve seen it. As the actress said to the bishop.”

  Leo nuzzled the top of my head. “It’s not Nelson’s Column by night.”

  He leaned forward and said something to Billy, then pulled me closer. I watched the yellow streetlights blur past, mingling with the orange taxi signs and red brake lights, like a messy border of wallflowers in the night sky.

  Billy seemed to be driving us home. We passed the golden Albert Memorial, and the shopfronts of Kensington High Street, and—we were going home. This wasn’t a detour at all.

  The car stopped in Trinity Square and Leo jumped out. He grabbed an umbrella from the backseat, opened it, and held it up with a wide smile.

  It was chilly now, as well as wet. And I only had a cobweb of a shawl with me.

  Billy turned round and saw my unenthusiastic expression. “If you’d prefer a coat, miss, I keep a spare one in the boot.”

  I got out of the car rather reluctantly, I have to admit. Billy’s raincoat was about twelve sizes too big for me and didn’t do much for the couture evening look.

  Leo reached out a hand. His eyes were bright. “Come on. I need to show you the garden!”

  “The garden? Why do I want to see the garden? I know what’s in the garden.”

  “Stop moaning and come with me.” Leo grabbed my hand in his and pulled me gently through the iron gate.

  The leafy trees held off the worst of the rain as we crunched down the gravel path, which was illuminated with tiny spotlights—I couldn’t remember whether they’d been there the first night we’d come—and there were fairy lights in the trees too.

  “There,” he said proudly. “What do you think?”

  I drew a deep breath.

  The Adelaide fountain from the English garden stood in the middle of my roses, shooting plumes of water into the air, and water-lily lights picked out each crystal splash. The dancing figure on the lip raised her throat to the London sky, even prettier by night-lights than she’d been in the Mediterranean sun.

  She looked as if she’d been waiting to come here all her life.

  “Leo,” I breathed. “It looks … magical.”

  “You think it works?”

  “It makes the garden complete.” My eyes filled with tears, and I stopped trying to remember everything and surrendered to the powerful surge of emotion sweeping through me. As with so many things that happened around Leo, I couldn’t quite believe that something so romantic could be real, here, happening to me.

  I felt his strong arms wrap around me from behind, very real, very solid, and I leaned into his body, letting my tired eyes close with happiness.

  He pulled me close and whispered down into my hair. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing this garden to life.”

  “It was alive already,” I protested. “I just replanted this part.”

  “No.” Leo nuzzled into my neck. “No, you’ve given it something else. You’ve given it a soul. Those roses you chose, their fragrances and names and history—that’s more than just sticking plants in soil. That’s creating a story that’ll continue year after year. And you’ve done the same with me. You’ve planted things in my life that I can see growing every day.”

  “What? That sounds terrible—”

  “No, really.” Leo turned me round very slowly and held me at arm’s length so he could look into my eyes. His blue eyes were serious, but something in his expression made me tingle with anticipation.

  I opened my mouth to say something to fill the awkward pause, but he stopped me.

  “Amy. Before I met you, I worked, I played squash, and I bailed Rolf out of situations. Those were the highlights. After I met you … well, I can’t even remember what it was like before. I don’t ever want to live like that again.”

  My heart hammered against the bones of my corset.

  “I know it’s all happened very fast,” he went on, “and I don’t want you to think I’m being weird, but I feel as if we were only waiting to meet each other.” Leo paused and held my gaze. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” I said, and decided to take a leap of faith. I closed my eyes, so that if I ended up talking rubbish I wouldn’t have to see the look on his face. “I do. We’re not exactly the same, but we fit together. You feel right. You smell right. When I’m with you, it’s like I’m at home, even here in London, where I never thought I’d properly be happy. I don’t know what it is, but I could talk to you forever and never run out of things to say. And I could never get tired of looking at you. Ever.”

  I drew a breath and opened one eye cautiously, and saw Leo smiling at me. A slow, relieved smile that made my insides turn to water. Splashy, moonlit fountain water.

  “Plus, I can’t believe that someone I fancy so much can possibly feel the same way about me,” I blurted out.

  Leo pulled me close. “I have felt exactly the same from the very first moment I saw you,” he murmured, his lips a breath away from mine.

  He kissed me, gently at first, then hotter and harder, and my hands were starting to explore the fine cotton of his evening shirt when he pulled
away and looked me straight in the eye.

  “Amy. I think … we should drink a toast to the fountain.”

  That wasn’t what I was expecting him to say.

  “What?” I said, a bit ungraciously, since I felt as if my whole body was now throbbing with lust. He’d felt pretty lusty too a second ago.

  “If you have a look in the water, you’ll find something I left there earlier. Come with me.”

  Leo took my hand and led me right up to the fountain, where he passed me the umbrella, then rolled up his sleeve and fished about in the water until he found a silver ribbon. “Pull that.”

  I pulled it, but it was attached to something heavy, which clanked against the stone basin with a familiar sound. I reached in and pulled out a chilled bottle of Krug champagne, and Leo reached up into the upper bowl of the fountain and produced two flutes. With a couple of practiced motions, he unfoiled the bottle and filled my glass.

  “There. To the garden of love, and all who garden in it. From the roses in the beds to the daisies in the grass.”

  I took a sip of champagne and felt the bubbles on my tongue. It was amazing how quickly I’d started to enjoy champagne. I’d drunk more in the four months I’d been dating Leo than my parents had probably consumed in a lifetime of weddings and christenings and office functions.

  Leo was watching me drink, and I felt rather self-conscious.

  “Am I supposed to say a few words too?” I asked. “I’d have prepared a speech if you’d given me notice.”

  He frowned. “You probably ought to do something. Why don’t you throw the first coin in the fountain, for luck?”

  “Okay.” I put my glass down on the edge and started to root around in my evening bag. I was a bit cack-handed, I have to confess—this wasn’t my first glass of the night.

  “No, here.” Leo produced a two-pound coin from his pocket with suspicious speed. “Make a wish and toss it in.”