The Runaway Princess

  “I’ve been trying to call her,” Leo went on, “but I suppose the vets don’t allow cell phones?”

  Jo made a strangled noise, which I knew was the truth trying to escape from her.

  I couldn’t bear it. I struggled to my feet and stumbled down the stairs, slipping on the worn carpet.

  “Leo!” I said, arriving at the bottom with a lurch. I tried to ignore his manful struggle not to grimace at my lank hair and smeary face.

  It occurred to me—too late—that the bathrobe might make it look less like I’d been camping out at Badger’s basket side and more like I’d been relaxing in an early bath—after escaping a boring night out at the first opportunity.

  Oh. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

  “Is everything all right?” Leo sounded more confused than ever. “We were worried, especially when your phone was off.”

  “Well, the thing was …” I drew a deep breath. I could save this. Leo’s expression was eager and attentive. Jo was silently urging me on.

  “The thing was …” I said again but a depressingly familiar hum of white noise had started to spread through my mind. Words slithered through my brain like sand as I struggled to put the evening’s surreal events in an order that wouldn’t make me look like even more of a flaky liar than I already was. “I, um, bumped into someone in the loos and …”

  At that precise moment, I heard a clatter, followed by a familiar pattering noise and realized that Badger had let himself out of the dog flap and was making his way downstairs to see what the noise was about.

  I watched in mounting horror as he bounced across the entrance hall, careered into Jo’s legs, and came to a halt just in front of Leo, his favorite lunchtime treat dispenser. Whereupon he started wagging his stumpy tail furiously. The very picture of health.

  There was a long pause, then Leo bent down to scratch Badger’s ears. Jo glanced at me, a pleading expression in her eyes, but my mouth had gone dry.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” I gabbled, which, as everybody in the entire world knew, meant, it’s exactly what it looks like. I might as well have written liar across my forehead.

  Leo straightened up, and looked me in the eye, but his own expression had turned unreadable. “Seems absolutely fine now,” he said. “So that’s good.”

  “I’m so sorry, I …”

  “Don’t apologize. You were right to bail. Your disappearing act helped us all through quite a dull second half. As Rolf pointed out, even he’s never been stood up in the middle of a date before.” Leo’s tone was dry but there was a grown-up anger beneath it, and I knew that I’d just dropped him into an entire evening of alpha-male teasing.

  “So,” he said. “Now that I know you got home safely, I should be, ah, getting back to the drinks reception. I’ll be in touch.” And he turned and opened the door to leave.

  I stood there in Jo’s bathrobe, dumb with remorse and self-loathing. I didn’t dare open my mouth in case I said something even more stupid.

  Jo couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Leo, that’s not what—”

  But the heavy door was closing, and as she spoke we both heard a car start in the street outside.

  The evening was over. I shut my eyes, and my runny mascara stung. It was too late. The front door opened again as Jo darted outside, but I didn’t have the energy to stop her.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, but when I opened my eyes, Jo was shaking me, her face right in mine, contorted with the effort of not busting out the Jo de Vere Shiny Boots of Justice.

  “Amy, what the hell is wrong with you? Phone him! He’ll be furious when he knows what Rolf did! And as for that mad Tatiana—you should press charges!”

  My lip wobbled. I hated confrontation. And I wasn’t cut out for this sort of high drama nightlife. Photographers. Mad exes. Evening dress you had to stick on with tape. “You’re the one who said royals were too mad to get mixed up with. Don’t you think this proves your point?”

  “Let me—”

  “Please, Jo.” I drew a shuddering breath. “Let me sleep on it. I don’t think I’m going to do anything right tonight.”

  One of the doorknobs turned, and we both knew at least one of the other residents was earwigging.

  Jo dragged me back into our flat, kicked the door shut behind us, and gripped me by the arms. “Listen to me,” she said fiercely. “None of this was your fault. You’re better than this sort of carry-on. Mr. Right is out there for you, and I am going to help you find him.” She hugged me. “And I will not let you kiss any more frogs, okay? No more royal frogs. Just lovely normal ones.”

  “Okay,” I said weakly. Only Jo could imagine that kissing any royal frog was anything other than a once-in-a-lifetime experience. My heart broke another inch, as I realized that I’d thoroughly screwed up my one chance.

  Fourteen

  Leo didn’t call on Saturday, despite me staring at the phone alternately willing it to ring and then not to ring because the recurrent flashbacks were making me want to die all over again. On Sunday, Jo confiscated my mobile because she was sick of me staring at it, and then she hid it to let the battery go flat in case I cracked and left some garbled message.

  I made her promise not to phone Rolf and go nuclear on him, but in return I had to swear on her signed photo of Daniel Craig that I would tell Leo the truth, so I could move on.

  “Ring him on Monday and explain,” she urged. “But for God’s sake, think about what you’re going to say so you don’t end up apologizing.”

  When I charged the phone on Monday for work, the only messages were from Ted, telling me he’d found “part of a Roman helmet, or possibly a tin plate” on Wimbledon Common, and from my mum, wanting to know when my train got in for Dad’s birthday party that weekend. Nothing from Leo or Rolf. Or even Tatiana.

  I promised myself that I would phone Leo at midday on Monday, not least because I was supposed to be planting some roses that afternoon—I wasn’t sure if I’d flounced myself out of a contract. My morning job was at Grace Wright’s, and she was out at her Pilates class, which allowed me to rehearse some opening gambits in private. None of my imaginary conversations were very satisfying. Already the whole evening was starting to seem like one of those weird Christmas-afternoon nightmares you get after too much Stilton and sherry trifle and Upstairs Downstairs.

  Grace arrived home at the point I was self-righteously taking Rolf to task for treating all women like extras in his own crap videos. When she saw me, her face lit up with glee.

  I hoped her glee was to do with Richard’s apartment block; if Leo was going to change his mind about employing runaway gardeners, I’d need Richard’s balconies more than ever.

  “Oooh, Amy!” she cooed, her eyes all wide. “Was that you I saw in the paper?”

  “What? No,” I said automatically.

  “I rather think it was! Stay there!” Grace rushed into the flat and came back with a copy of the Daily Mail. I was about to tell her she’d made a mistake when she flicked through and then thrust a party page at me.

  Blimey. It was me. Me and Rolf arriving at the Royal Opera House, albeit in a much smaller photo under the one of Prince Boris and a gallery owner I didn’t know. Rolf’s show-off body language obscured most of my face, but those were unmistakably my hips in Jo’s beautiful—and now ruined—dress.

  “You scrub up very well,” said Grace approvingly. “Where did you get your hair done?”

  “Oh, um, my flatmate did it.” Why was everyone so obsessed with my hair? I wasn’t sure what to make of the swirling mess of emotions churning away inside as I peered at the tiny photo.

  Did I look like that? I looked fierce—not in the fashion/Beyoncé way Jo meant, but literally fierce. Like I was about to deck someone. My hair did look rather good actually, very glossy and curly, but you could see my bra strap through the dress! And was my bosom really that pneumatic? And my hips that … wide?

  “If I didn’t know it was you,” said Grace, “I would total
ly think Rolf was going out with a model. Well, maybe not a model. Maybe an Olympic dressage rider. Or one of those tall blond Amazons you see doing the Americas Cup!”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I think?”

  Grace nodded emphatically. “Mm-hm. Very glowing. Healthy!”

  But there I was in the paper … with a prince. A prince who was known by one name by people like Grace. A horrified excitement crept into me. I wondered if Mum’s next-door neighbor and the bane of her life, Di Overend, had seen it. Di got the Daily Mail and was a bit obsessive about the royal family, on account of once having seen Princess Michael of Kent on holiday in France.

  “Well, fancy that,” Grace said, pleased. “My gardener, dating royalty! Are you going to tell me now that you’re really a countess’s daughter? Like Lady Di slumming it at the kindergarten?”

  “Definitely not,” I said. “And I’m not … dating royalty.”

  As I said it, it finally sank in properly. That had been my one and only official date with Leo; he wasn’t going to risk that happening again. I didn’t care about the royalty thing, but the thought of it being the end of the road with Leo … He was the only man I’d met in London whom I’d woken up each morning hoping to see. The breath stuck in my throat.

  “You can tell me,” said Grace, nudging me with her skinny hip. “I’m very discreet. I know all sorts about some of Richard’s tenants. Is Ted your police protection officer? I’ve always thought he looked rather special forces, if you know what I mean!”

  My phone rang in my rucksack, and Grace squeaked with excitement.

  “That’ll probably be my mum,” I said. “Calling to see if I’ve remembered to book a train ticket for my dad’s birthday.”

  I went over to the far corner of the balcony to answer, but it wasn’t Mum; it was a withheld number. My heartbeat quickened as I picked up the call.

  “Amy, it’s Leo. Wolfsburg,” he said, before I could speak.

  I removed myself to the very edge of the balcony so Grace couldn’t see my stricken face. Leo sounded so adult, and cool. The chatty intimacy I’d got used to in his phone calls had gone. And he’d used his surname. As if I’d mistake him for anyone else.

  I reminded myself to count to five before saying anything. No elaborate excuses. No rushing into new sentences before finishing the last. Just let him lead the conversation. Remember, you were about to call him.

  “Hello, Leo,” I said calmly—one, two, three—but the apology burst through. “Leo, I need to talk to you about Friday night. Something happened that I should have been up-front about—”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” said Leo stiffly. “I should have briefed you properly about what the evening would entail. I don’t like these sorts of things much myself. I didn’t realize there would be quite so much Andrew Lloyd Webber, for a start …”

  “No!” I said. “No! That was fine. I liked that bit. I recognized some songs. It wasn’t that, it was—”

  But Leo seemed determined to get through his list of apologies. Even though his formality was killing me, hearing his voice was giving me shivers. “It was absolutely out of line for Rolf to ask you to lie to his girlfriend, given your friendship with Jo, but I understand from him that it was some sort of cretinous attempt to make Jo aware of his stream of female company, if you can believe that.” Leo’s voice dripped with disdain. “Apparently it got somewhat out of hand. I told him he owed you an apology as well as her, so if you start getting deliveries of knickers—”

  “No! Stop!”

  I was churning inside. Clearly Rolf hadn’t told him the whole story of what had happened. Maybe Tatiana hadn’t even made it to the box. Maybe security had bundled her out.

  At the other end of the balcony, Grace gave me a yoo-hoo wave.

  I turned away and closed my eyes. Now. Do it now. Tell him. So what if he’s a prince? He’s also a decent bloke who just happens to have a complete idiot for a brother, and he’ll understand that when her thong is out on show, a self-respecting girl doesn’t have a choice but to do a runner.

  I dropped my voice. “Leo, I need to talk to you. In person. And you’d better tell Rolf to get his apology engine started.”

  *

  I met him in the small public garden outside Markham Place, just off the King’s Road. Grace very kindly allowed me to freshen up as best I could in one of her three bathrooms, but I still looked like someone who’d done a morning’s gardening.

  If Leo noticed the difference between my gala hair and my normal corkscrews, he didn’t make any comment. His expression was guarded, and he kissed my cheek so politely it was like a reverse show of affection. I noticed he was unusually scratchy around the jaw, as if he hadn’t shaved.

  “You got here quickly,” I said politely as we sat down. “How fast did Billy drive you from Canary Wharf?”

  Leo drew a deep breath and rubbed his face ruefully. “If you must know, I’ve been working from home today.”

  “Oh.”

  An awkward silence developed, so I leaped straight in, before the niggling voices had time to put me off.

  “Leo, I shouldn’t have made up that story about Badger, but I didn’t bail out of the gala because I was bored,” I said, all in a rush. “I left because some psycho girlfriend of Rolf’s mistook me for his new girlfriend and emptied a vase of flowers over me. I didn’t know what to do, my whole outfit was wrecked, and I mean, no one’s ever even thrown a drink over me before. I didn’t want you to see me looking like that, and I didn’t want to make a scene with Rolf in front of everyone, and I knew the place was swarming with paparazzi and I thought I’d show you all up if—”

  Leo had been staring fixedly at his hands, but now he turned to me, his brow furrowing as the words spilled out. “Wait, what? Tatiana?”

  “Was that who it was? The girl he was texting on the way over? I guess it wasn’t technically Rolf’s fault either, but I realize I shouldn’t have left without explaining. I’m so sorry if I offended your father, I know it was rude, but …”

  “That is not the story I got.” Leo put his head in his hands, and when he looked up, he shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “Well, you could start by getting Rolf to replace Jo’s dress.” I suggested. “Whatever they put in the flower food has destroyed the silk.”

  “Of course. Of course. But what about you? How did you get home? Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you just come back to the box?”

  “I wasn’t sure what the royal protocol was about re-entering the presence of royalty in a see-through dress.”

  “Forget that!” Leo actually looked annoyed. “What’s protocol got to do with anything? This is about someone assaulting you, and your evening being ruined—and my evening—because of—” He scrabbled in his jacket for his phone. “I’m going to have it out with Rolf. He’s lucky you’re not suing him.”

  “It’s fine,” I started to say, but Leo wouldn’t let me shrug it off.

  “It’s not fine. Really, it’s not fine. I only agreed to go because I wanted to take you, and I thought you’d enjoy it, and, by the way, you’d still have looked beautiful even if you were drenched in pond water.” Leo paused, so I’d look up, and when I did, his intense gaze was fixed on my face. “When I saw you from the door, the only person there taking the time to smell those amazing flowers instead of networking, I kicked myself for not canceling my meeting and getting an extra hour in the limo over with you.”

  I melted inside at the way his eyes flashed when he said that. I’d never met a man who made compliments sound as sincere as Leo.

  He rubbed his chin again, but this time he looked grim, as if he were already having the conversation with Rolf. Then he turned to me and took my hands in his; they were a lot warmer than

  mine.

  “Is there any way you’d agree to see me again, to let me make this up to you?” he asked. “Anywhere. You name it.”

  “Jo did warn me this sort
of thing tended to happen a lot with royalty,” I said, only half-joking. “I’m not sure I’m up to fighting off furious would-be princesses every time we go out. I don’t photograph well either.”

  “It won’t happen again,” he urged. “Let me prove it. You choose. New York? Paris?”

  “What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. “New York? For dinner?”

  “Too far? Okay, then. Bowling? Cocktails? What was that dance class you said you and Jo do? Zumba? Can guys come along?”

  “God, no!” I clapped my hands to my mouth. “No one sees me Zumba and lives to tell the tale.”

  Although now he mentioned Jo, something did occur to me. I shot him a sidelong look. “Honestly anywhere?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Well, Jo’s doing a one-woman production of Chicago next week. It’s off-off-off-West End.”

  Leo frowned, trying to place where that might be. “Islington?”

  “No, it’s in a room above a pub in Battersea. Not even the main room. If you come with me, you might just double the audience. But it would be doing me a favor, and it would make Jo very happy. She’s given me a script with CLAP NOW and SHRIEK NOW marked on it.”

  “I’m an excellent clapper,” said Leo. “We had a clapping trainer when we were little, to make sure everyone could hear us applauding at public events.”

  “Seriously?”

  “ ’Fraid so. Also a walking coach and a small-talk coach, so we’d always have something to say to people. Mom’s idea. Not that useful at home, but it’s come in handy at English house parties. Once you’ve done the weather and how bad the soccer team is, you’re really fighting for air with some people.”

  “Well, I’ve seen the script for this thing. There’s a reason she’s told me when to clap.”

  Leo shrugged. “You’re obviously not familiar with the Royal Nironan Theater Company. They’re obliged to perform one play a year in Esperanto. We’re obliged to attend.”