The Runaway Princess, Page 30

  “Dad,” I said, with real passion since Mum was out of earshot, “if our Kelly turned up now just because she thought she could have a go at Leo’s brother and get some free stuff, I’d be the first one barring her from the church. Wedding dress or not, I’m not afraid to rugby-tackle her.”

  He laughed, and some of the tension lines disappeared round his forehead. “You get that dog walked before he destroys any more of my borders. We’ll still be here when you get back.”

  I didn’t say anything, and hugged him instead. My dad was the only man I knew who could make someone cry or laugh just with a twitch of his silvery eyebrows, and a well-timed silence.

  *

  While Badger reacquainted himself with lampposts in the park, I tried to calculate which members of my family would accept an invitation to my wedding. There weren’t many; we’d fallen out quite badly with most of them, thanks to Kelly.

  I wanted to give Mum plenty of time to get herself together, so I called by the café on the corner where I’d had a Saturday job during my A levels. Someone had obviously taken it over since then, because now there was a pair of metal tables and chairs outside, plus a stripy awning. I ordered a coffee for me and a bowl of water for Badger, put on my shades, and started flicking through my instructions from Liza.

  “Amy? Amy Wilde?”

  I looked up. A woman about my age with very black hair cut in a bob was hovering over my table.

  “It is, isn’t it!” As she smiled in triumph, the top lip curled back to reveal a pair of rabbity front teeth, and I knew exactly who it was: Jennifer Wainwright.

  I slapped the file shut as a long-forgotten panic gripped my guts. Much in the same way that Jennifer Wainwright had gripped me in the girls’ loos at Rothery Senior School.

  “Hello,” I said, and went to take my shades off, then decided not to.

  “Aw! I knew it was you from your lovely hair!” Jennifer sounded much friendlier than she’d done back in the days when she’d run through various loud descriptions of my hair, starting with “troll head” and ending with “albino pube-fro.” “I hear you’re moving in much more exciting circles these days!”

  “Um …” Why was she being so matey?

  Before I could answer, she reached out and touched my wrist. “Oooh, look at that bracelet! Isn’t that gorgeous?” She looked up sharply. “Was that a present from Leo? Is it from Tiffany’s?”

  “Um, no, Chaumet.”

  Why had I told her that? Was it because it was positively freaky to hear Jennifer Wainwright referring to Leo in that familiar first-name way?

  “Chaumet! Don’t even know who they are! Get you!”

  Then I had to let her admire my diamond bracelet and explain about the daisies being a private joke about my job, and before I knew it, Jennifer was ensconced in the chair opposite. I could feel Badger retreating under my seat.

  “Talk about Prince of Diamonds!” Jennifer leaned forward and patted my arm. “Have you set a date? You and your”—she pulled air quotes as if she were the first person in Yorkshire to know about them—“ ‘international ski champion banker’?”

  “How did you know Leo was—” I began.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not a stalker!” She giggled, and actually, that was even more unsettling. “I work for the Rothery Gazette. I’ve got to keep on top of all the national and international stories, for work.” She mimed air typing. “I follow Liza Bachmann’s Twitter feed. She’s an inspiration.”

  That made sense. After Kelly, Jennifer had taken over as the school’s biggest purveyor of semi-accurate gossip and scurrilous rumor. No one dared not be friends with her for fear of what might leak out. I could imagine her these days on a doorstep, demanding to see the fatal scene of the chip-pan fire, asking if they had home insurance, would this now put them off chips for life, etc.

  “I’ve tried phoning your mum and dad a few times,” she went on chummily, “but they don’t seem to know anything, which is a bit odd, isn’t it? Did your mum give you the message, that I’d rung? She said she’d pass on my number.”

  I stared at Jennifer Wainwright through my shades (expensive Tom Ford ones; a gift from Leo in duty-free when I’d forgotten mine) and tried to work out how I could possibly exit this conversation without bursting into a run. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself in the local paper. But at the back of my mind, a little voice was reminding me that I was wearing a diamond bracelet and was about to marry an actual prince, and Jennifer Wainwright was probably still living with her boyfriend, Kian, and definitely still getting her hair done at Kutting Krew on Lowther Street.

  “Ooh, are those Tom Fords?” She leaned forward, and for a moment I thought she was going to take them off my face to try them on.

  “Yes,” I said. “Jennifer, please don’t phone my parents—they aren’t involved in any of this.”

  “Aren’t they? Why not? But you won’t mind if I send the photographers round, will you?” she persisted. “So they can take some pics of your childhood home—maybe some of your mum and dad. Maybe ask them how they feel about their little girl stepping up into high society. Although …”

  She paused for effect. “That’s not your childhood home, is it?”

  My insides dropped as if I were on one of those terrifying rides at Alton Towers that try to make you lose your lunch in the first ten seconds.

  “Didn’t you … move? Am I right?”

  She looked at me, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of my face, even behind the huge shades, and I knew she was already making notes. She knew about Kelly, she knew about us selling our house to pay the debts, she knew everything. And she knew I knew.

  And then Leo’s voice swam into my head, talking about letting the press have a little, so they’d leave you alone. He was right. I had to start thinking like a media-savvy operator, not a scared teenager. I could nip this in the bud. I just had to think like Giselle, and tell Jennifer what I wanted her to know. Not what she wanted. And it was only the Rothery Gazette, for crying out loud.

  I mustered up all the coolness I could manage.

  “Okay,” I said lightly. “Why don’t we have a quick chat now, while I’m here, and then you can stop ringing my family? Yes?”

  “Yes.” Jennifer looked triumphant. “Listen, I’ll go and get myself a coffee and something to eat. I could eat a cow through a five-bar-gate. You want a bit of cake? They do a good cheesecake here.”

  “No, thanks,” I said automatically. “I’m off dairy this week.”

  She stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. “You’re what?”

  “Off dairy. Dermatologist’s orders. It’s a bit of a pain but … that’s what you’ve got to do.” I smiled my best princess smile. “When your future mother-in-law’s a top international supermodel, you’ve got to up your game.”

  Jennifer stared at me for a moment, her brain obviously struggling to process the boggling unreality of what she was hearing; then she scooted into the café.

  Yes! I thought, and quickly slapped on some lip gloss in the reflection of the metal table. I might not be a Sofia-level princess, but I was getting there, baby steps at a time.

  Twenty-four

  I don’t know how I managed to get through four weeks of Sofia’s ruthless improvement program but I did, and I have to admit that by the time I was ready to fly out for the engagement photo shoot, I barely recognized myself.

  I had a proper waist for the first time in my life. I’d managed to drag myself through four sessions a week with Sofia’s boot-camp psycho as well as doing extra days for Ted (that credit card bill from Harvey Nichols wasn’t paying itself), and since there was nothing else to eat in the flat apart from what arrived daily in the little white boxes, I had no choice but to stick to the diet.

  Sofia had arranged for double portions to be delivered; I thought she was being generous in letting Jo act as a diet cheerleader, but Jo pointed out that she was probably just making sure there was no extra food hanging around to tempt me.


  “And I’m going to be your bridesmaid,” she added. “It’s even more important for the chief bridesmaid to have a tiny photogenic arse. It’s virtually compulsory these days. My arse could be my launchpad to stardom.”

  On one sobering occasion we nearly came to blows over the last broccoli stem, and I did seriously contemplate Badger’s box of deliciously carby Bonios, but we both lost exactly what Dr. Johnsson had promised we would, and Jo celebrated by walking around the house and garden in her bikini for all of Saturday, something that sent Dickon into spasms of joy through his binoculars.

  My hair was looking shiny too, and my nails were getting better, although Ted thought it was ridiculous that I was now wearing gloves inside gloves.

  “How long are you going to keep this up?” he grumbled as we sowed seeds into the wildflower area at the back of Richard’s Palace View development.

  It had been a scrappy lawn, but after mowing and raking and Ted faffing around with soil tests, it was ready to be turned into a butterfly-friendly meadow of foxgloves, cornflowers, chamomile, and hollyhocks. Coupled with the broad balcony planters I’d designed, filled with thick clusters of lavender and poppies and dahlias, the meadow would turn Palace View into a bee paradise in a few months. I was really excited about it, and in his own way, so was Ted.

  I pulled off my gloves and wiped my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand. “Well, the photo shoot’s next weekend. I suppose … I’ll be keeping it up till after the wedding.”

  “And then?” Ted gave me a clear look.

  “It’s about making grooming a way of life,” I blustered. “I’m getting used to it. And it won’t be so hard to maintain, once I’m on top of it. It’ll be a routine. Like mowing the lawn once it’s all been … sown.”

  “So are you signed up for these facial acid baths forever?” he inquired, with the sensitivity that had driven two girls out of our college house share. “What happens after that? Will you have to have Botox? Is it in the job description—must have no wrinkles? Do you get a warning if you can’t fit into your royal ensembles?”

  “They’re not acid baths, it’s a glycolic peel,” I said automatically. “And … and …”

  An endless line of white fat-free food boxes floated before my eyes, and I felt a strong inclination to change the subject. “Why have we got ‘Chelsea House Visits’ in the diary for this afternoon?”

  Ted stopped digging and took a long swig from his water bottle. “Jo’s Callie Whatsit recommended two more friends who want you to design a roof garden.” He paused and looked at me meaningfully. “I booked them in for you while you were having your eyebrows done.”

  “Oh. Good. Thanks.” I’d been trying to keep up with the admin, but I was having to block out time for extra beauty treatments, and the work was backing up.

  “Jo says one of them is the editor of a lifestyle magazine,” he added.

  “Really?” Now that could be very useful. “Are we giving Jo and Callie Hamilton commission for new clients?”

  “Over my dead body.” Ted chucked the empty bottle into his bag and belched freely. “She said Callie more or less forced the numbers into her hand—she’s got Jo doing their loft conversions too. Does she fancy Jo, this Callie woman? She’s taking a big interest in her.”

  I wasn’t sure whether Ted would prefer Callie over Rolf as a potential love rival for Jo’s affections. I didn’t like to tell him—though he probably knew—that Jo and Rolf were now teetering on the edge of an actual relationship, going by the amount of times she “missed the last bus” and had to stay over in Rolf Towers.

  “She is a bit Single White Female.” I opened another packet of wildflower seed mix: linaria and bugloss and verbena for butterflies. “I think she’s lonely. Jo says her boyfriend’s never at home, and she keeps pretending he’s away on business but it’s pretty obvious he’s married.”

  “How obvious?” Ted looked baffled. “He’s paying for her flat, surely that means …”

  It was nice hanging round with Ted. He made me feel streetwise.

  “He only ever sees her midweek? He lets her do endless building work to the flat so he can’t sleep there? She treats her project manager like some kind of guru because she’s got no mates of her own?”

  Ted’s expression curdled. “I am so glad to be single,” he said.

  “Good job.” I put my gloves back on and started scattering the seeds across the raked earth. “The only wild-oat-sowing you’re doing is round the back of Richard Chalmers’s posh flats.”

  “Oi,” said Ted. “I could sack you.”

  “No, you couldn’t, this business is half mine,” I reminded him. “And who’s got the Westminster parking permit for the van?”

  Ted started to say Jo, then changed his mind.

  *

  I flew out to Nirona with Leo that weekend; I felt as if I’d been completely resurfaced from the toes up, while he had merely had his hair cut.

  Liza had decided that the engagement photo shoot should take place in the state ballroom, where the Crown Princess Ball would be held several days before the coronation.

  It was a majestic room, with high painted ceilings, full-length windows overlooking the most formal gardens, and elaborate gold sconces along each wall holding tapering ivory candles. When Leo and I walked in, racks of clothes were already waiting in one corner, along with banks of lights, reflectors, a makeup station, and a small army of photographers, stylists, assistants, and palace staff in purple uniforms. Two staff members in dark glasses flanked a table where several morocco boxes were discreetly arranged; they contained some of the state jewelry that I was supposed to wear in the portrait. Quite honestly, I don’t think even Queen Elizabeth had diamonds the size of these. Rudolfo must have been some card player.

  “Don’t panic,” Leo whispered as I hesitated at the double doors, seeing the bustle of activity inside. “We did this for their wedding anniversary picture last year, and it honestly takes an hour.”

  “An hour?”

  “Yup. And that was with Sofia demanding two changes of outfit. You’ll be fine.”

  I smiled up at him, but my stomach was rumbling with both nerves and hunger.

  The hairdresser whisked me away to put my hair into rollers while the makeup artist wiped my face and started working on it with a huge palette of concealers and shaders. It took her an age to do my foundation—which made me wonder just how effective my weekly facials actually were—and when she got out a packet of false eyelashes, I knew this wasn’t going to be a ten-minute job.

  She wouldn’t let me look at myself, but every so often Liza would shimmy up and gush, “Wow, honey! You look fabulous!” and then mutter something to the makeup artist, who would get the big palette out again and respackle my face.

  After an eternity the rollers came out, the powder went on, and I was allowed to see myself in a hand mirror.

  When I say I didn’t recognize my own face, I don’t mean that in a vain way. I mean the blond woman staring back at me was a whole league more beautiful than I ever thought I could be. A tiara of silver cobwebs studded with tiny pearls and diamonds sat in my shining updo, and my flawless skin looked peachy smooth. I would have cried if I wasn’t so scared of dislodging the sixty-five individual lashes making up my doelike eyes.

  “Now for the clothes!” Liza bustled up with the first selection, and that’s where things started to come off the rails a bit.

  Nothing fitted. I mean, nothing. I’d lost about eight pounds on the white-box diet, but my bones were those of a healthy English gardener, not a model, and all the clothes were designer sample sizes.

  “Who called these in?” demanded Liza furiously, when yet another straining Issa dress refused to zip past my ribs. “Nina? Which stylist was in charge of the wardrobe?”

  Nina looked up from her BlackBerry. Unlike the rest of the shoot team, she didn’t seem scared of Liza. “Sofia. She said she’d take care of Amy’s clothes while she was calling in her own for that interview she’s
doing about the book.”

  “Well, she must have got the wrong size because nothing fits. These are all fine for Sofia but far too small for Amy. They’re making her look huge.”

  I cringed, but felt annoyed at the same time. Sofia knew what size I was. She’d been checking out the scale when Dr. Johnsson got out his sadistic fat calipers. She’d even made that “really?” face that calipers went up that far.

  Everyone was looking at me now but pretending not to, and that made it a million times worse.

  “Do you want me to get some more sent over from the mainland?” Nina chirped. “It’ll take a few hours to get them from Milan.”

  “No.” Liza rubbed her hands together. “No. We’ll just have to cover up the gaps. Where are the cardigans? Cardigans! Now! And some big pins!”

  “Sorry,” I muttered. I suddenly had a painful insight into how Mum felt when she walked down the high street—the makeup artist was staring at me as if she’d never seen a zip that wouldn’t do up before. “I’ve been following the diet and the exercise and—”

  “It’s not your fault!” trilled Liza unconvincingly. “We’ll know for next time!”

  “She could wear her own clothes,” suggested Leo. “They look good to me.”

  He’d been waiting patiently while we prepared behind one of the screens, but now he’d reappeared with some jewelry boxes, wearing a perfect dark gray suit. Things always seemed a bit more normal when Leo stepped in, even here.

  “This is the formal photograph,” Liza pointed out. “For the stamps, and then the gallery.”

  “Do we have to start with that one? It’s not the one I’d like released to the press.”

  “What? Of course it’s the one.”

  “It’s not what Amy and I are about. I’d like our engagement photo to be taken in the gardens, in normal clothes, just me and her.”

  Liza looked annoyed. “Do you think I’ve had the ballroom professionally lit for fun? Leo, it’s just not how—”

  “Mom.” He pulled off his tie and undid his top button, revealing a flash of tanned neck. “I’m not that keen on this suit myself. I wear enough suits at work. It’s not who I am when I’m here.”