The Runaway Princess, Page 20

  “So?” Dad repeated. “Have you got a boyfriend who calls himself a prince or not?”

  They were both staring at me. Mum had the teapot poised, as if my next answer would release the flow of tea. Instead of looking thrilled and excited, they both looked worried.

  “Um, yes,” I said. “I have. His name is Leo. I was going to tell you today, actually.”

  “And he’s a prince?”

  Well. This was blowing Kelly’s nonappearance off the agenda.

  “Yes,” I said. “He is a prince.”

  Mum’s bosom heaved up and down anxiously. “Are you sure, love?”

  “What do you mean, am I sure?”

  “We’ve seen it on television,” Dad informed me. “These con men who claim to be Arab princes and take advantage of much cleverer folk than you. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Amy. Did he say where he was a prince of? Di Overend couldn’t remember.”

  My face went hot. “It’s a principality called Nirona. It’s an island off the coast of Italy. Very famous for lemons and celebrity honeymoons.”

  Mum seemed more impressed by that. “Ooh, now, didn’t Betty and Ike Thwaites stop off there on their anniversary cruise?”

  “Probably,” I said. “There’s a marina. It’s very exclusive. People who can’t get a berth on Nirona have to go to Monaco instead.”

  Dad put down his cake and spoke his mind. “He hasn’t asked you for any money, has he?”

  “Dad!”

  “Stan!”

  “Well, we all know how easy it is to be led astray by folk who seem to have lots of cash.”

  Mum, Dad, and I flinched at exactly the same instant.

  I thought about showing them my diamond daisy chain, but decided that Dad would have it off me and down to the local jeweler for carbon testing before I could say Cartier. And I didn’t have to defend Leo to them.

  “He’s not like that,” I said hotly. “He’s got a job in the City, he earns his own salary even though he doesn’t have to. He didn’t even tell me he was a prince for ages, because he didn’t want me to judge him!”

  “Didn’t tell you for ages,” said Dad, all but tapping his chin with a finger. “Hmm.”

  “I’m sure Amy wouldn’t have got that wrong,” said Mum. She helped herself to another fairy cake, delicately peeling off the starry paper wrapper. “Would you?” The cake vanished into her pink mouth in one bite.

  “Of course I haven’t got it wrong.”

  “And how long have you been seeing him?”

  “Since just after New Year’s.”

  “But it’s only the end of February now!” Mum looked shocked. “That’s no time!”

  “It’s long enough for me to know that …”

  I had to raise my voice because the lunchtime train was going past the back window. We had to wait until it stopped. I wondered how they put up with it; our old cottage had been so quiet you could hear birdsong during the day, if Kelly wasn’t singing or having an argument with someone on the downstairs phone.

  “Long enough for me to know he’s a nice guy,” I finished, and took a slice of cake. I put it all in my mouth so I wouldn’t have to answer any questions for a few seconds.

  Mum and Dad exchanged glances.

  “Di said she barely recognized you in the photos,” said Mum. “She said you looked like a right glamour-puss.”

  That cheered me up a bit. “Good. I was picking false eyelashes off for days,” I said crumbily.

  I was explaining the outlandish concept of false eyelashes to my dad when Badger’s ears pricked up and he scuttled toward the front door. Ten seconds later, there was a knock. Three loud knocks.

  My heart broke at the hopeful expression that transformed Mum’s face. She hoped it was Kelly. It was so obvious.

  It would also be typical of Kelly to crash my special moment too, I thought waspishly.

  Dad leaped to his feet. “I’ll go,” he said.

  “It’s probably Di Overend,” I said to Mum as her eyes followed him down the hall, “come to show us that copy of Hello! Was it really a nice photo of me?”

  “Apparently so. But you take a lovely photo, Amy. You always have done.” Mum smiled and offered me the scones. “Go on, have another. It’s your dad’s jam!”

  Our ears were straining to catch the conversation in the hall, but it didn’t sound like Di. I heard Dad say, “Come on through” in an overly polite tone that gave me a horrible flashback to when the police had first come round looking for Kelly, and then, all at once it was my worst nightmare.

  I don’t know who looked more shocked, me, Mum, or Dad. I could see the three of us in the mirror over the fireplace, slack-jawed. It wasn’t a good look for any of us.

  Leo, though, looked perfectly relaxed in his jeans and cashmere hoodie under a peacoat. He looked more like a Hollywood actor than a prince. Although that didn’t make him look any less incongruous in my parents’ conservatory.

  “I hope you don’t mind me dropping in,” he said with his most charming smile. “I tried to call Amy, but her phone was off. Oh, is that Battenberg cake? That’s my absolute favorite.”

  I think that was the point where Mum fell in love with him.

  *

  Once I’d got over my initial shock at Leo’s unannounced arrival (and that took a couple of cups of tea), I had time to marvel at how thoughtfully he won over both my parents.

  He chatted to Dad about the rose garden, and laughed at his jokes—most of which were about me (thanks, Dad). He ate Mum’s cake. Not just the Battenberg, but a bit of everything. And then he asked for some to take home. Actually, maybe that was the moment Mum tipped over from love into outright adoration.

  The tin lid was put on everything when Di Overend did knock on the front door and ask if we knew what was going on with the helicopter parked on the cricket pitch at the other end of our road.

  “I thought Pam might have been taken badly.” She was craning her neck to see if we had guests. “Or maybe you were on one of those reality shows where they reunite you with a long-lost relative,” she added darkly.

  “None of the above, Mrs. Overend,” I said, closing the door. “We don’t know anything about the helicopter.”

  “I saw you in Hello!” she shouted through the letter box. “It’s amazing what they can do with Photoshop these days, isn’t it?”

  But while I was really happy that Leo and my parents were forming their own mutual appreciation society in the conservatory, I was struggling with some shabby feelings I wasn’t proud of.

  I was suddenly conscious of how small the house was, crammed with all our things from the old cottage. The horse brasses that had looked so right on the half-timbers of the cottage looked tacky here, and you could barely walk down the hall without knocking Mum’s china ornaments off the shelves.

  As Leo relaxed on the creaky wicker chair from the old music room where the piano had been, I wanted to explain why my gentle dad and lovely mum were living in these crowded, ugly rooms, why they’d quietly sacrificed all the things they loved and moved to this place where they didn’t know anyone.

  But I didn’t want to think about that, and I definitely didn’t want to tell him about Kelly, so it curdled into a churlish irritation that he’d sprung this on me—a romantic millionaire’s gesture that made me feel defensive, not swept off my feet.

  I spent longer than I needed to washing up the teacups. I was so long that Leo came to find me, giving me a sudden panic

  that he’d want to use the loo, which was full of old copies of Private Eye; I’d had no idea till I moved to London that reading matter in the loo was only just worse than keeping a pig in the backyard.

  “There you are,” he said, slipping his arms round my waist. “Come through and talk—your mum’s telling a hilarious story about how you won your first vegetable competition with a squash nearly as big as you.”

  “Not the marrow story,” I groaned.

  “I’ve just been promised the story about you and the s
wing.” He jiggled his eyebrows. “But apparently you have to be there for that.”

  I moved away and grabbed a tea towel.

  “What’s up? Don’t you think I’m ready to hear the swing story?”

  I turned round and dropped my voice so my parents wouldn’t hear. “How did you get my address?” I hissed.

  “Jo gave it to me.” Leo seemed surprised at my wild eyes. “Why? Is it a state secret? Are you in a witness protection program?”

  “No, I just think my parents would have liked some time to … prepare.” I rolled my eyes at the stacks of seed trays on the stairs and the piles of newspaper ready to go to the allotment.

  “Why? I don’t need a red carpet,” said Leo.

  “They might like to roll one out, though,” I snapped back. “Round here you’re not supposed to drop in on folk without written warning.”

  I wished I hadn’t said that. I sounded like a right pious snob. I’d only let it slip because I was cross with myself.

  Leo shoved his hands into his blond hair. “I thought it’d be a nice surprise, me coming to pick you up for this concert—it wasn’t meant to be a big ‘meet the parents’ production, just—”

  “Leo, it’s a big deal for my parents.” I twisted the tea towel between my fingers. “It would be a big deal even if you weren’t who you are.”

  “You told them about the whole … prince thing?”

  I boggled at him. “Flying visits in Rothery don’t generally involve an actual helicopter.”

  “Well, they seem fine about it to me.” Leo fixed me with one of his piercing looks. Sometimes he let me get away with a bit of self-deprecation, but this wasn’t one of those times. “It’s only you who’s in a state of nervous tension. I hope this isn’t some kind of weird inverse snobbery at work?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said hotly. Although the kitchen did suddenly feel quite small with both me and Leo in it. And Badger’s paw prints all over the lino. And Dad’s wellies by the door.

  “Listen.” Leo pulled me closer so our noses were touching, and whispered in my ear, “I don’t like people judging me on the basis of where I live, so I don’t judge anyone on theirs. And since you obviously can’t see it, this place is fascinating. Your dad’s been showing me his old posters for the village sports.”

  “It’s not as nice as our old house,” I started to say.

  “Then that must have been even more fascinating. Look. We’ve got three more plates of cake to eat, and two more really embarrassing stories to hear, and then I’m taking you back to London in my helicopter, if that’s all right? Or would you rather get the train?”

  “Ooh, I heard that!” Mum was at the kitchen door, beaming all over her round face as if she were at the best party ever. “Room for a small one?”

  That was the first joke I’d heard her crack in months and months, and for that I was more grateful to Leo than he knew.

  Sixteen

  Leo invited me to stay with him in his palace in the same relaxed way that he brought up most things that, even after several weeks of official dating, I still couldn’t say aloud without pulling a satirical face. Things like “an informal ball” or “your mother, the supermodel.”

  March had breathed some welcome spring warmth into the London air, and as my work diary ticked over into April I could smell the summer coming in the fresh leaves. Leo and I were sitting in the rose garden eating lunch—homemade egg and cress sandwiches and coffee, as it was my turn and funds were low. Now that all the roses were planted, uncurling their roots into the soft earth and preparing for the summer’s exertions, Leo was musing aloud about what might be missing from the display.

  “It needs something else,” he said. “Something … central.”

  “What? Are my meticulously sourced and historically accurate rosebushes not enough?” I half-turned to him on the bench, and he leaned back and slipped an arm round my shoulders, kissing me on the temple as he pretended to inspect the view with a critical eye.

  I loved these picnics with Leo. I didn’t know how long it took him to get from the City to Kensington at lunchtime, or what he told his PA he was doing in his long lunch break, but at least twice a week he met me in the garden with a takeout bag from Pret or M&S, and we just sat and talked. And talked and talked. He explained how his job worked, as a fund manager for a large charitable-investment portfolio, and I rambled on about wildflowers and how even the commonest meadow-mix daisies and poppies kept the bees going and the ecosystem ticking over.

  The food was ordinary, but the setting wasn’t: it was like having a table for two in the most beautiful garden restaurant in London, especially now that the yellow daffodils and crimson tulips that had sent pops of color in every direction were giving way to frothy blossom in the cherry trees, like clouds of delicately scented champagne over our heads.

  “I think it needs a birdbath,” he said, regarding the central bed thoughtfully. “Or a fountain. Something tall, in the middle.”

  “There’s nothing about that on the plans!” I reached into my bag for the copy of the original plans, but Leo put a hand on my arm.

  “I know.” He smiled mysteriously. “I just wanted to put our own mark on it. Something old and new. I thought you could come and choose something from the gardens at home.”

  “From the …” I had to brace myself to say it. “Palace gardens?”

  “Yup. They won’t miss a small one. I asked Granddad, and he said I could ship anything that wasn’t cemented in.”

  That would be Leo’s grandfather, the Sovereign Prince Wilhelm. Another thing I found quite hard to say with a casual expression.

  “Did I tell you he used to live here, in the fifties?” Leo went on, jerking his head backward to his own house. “Keeps trying to tell me about all the various hijinks he got up to in my house.” He held up his hands, as if trying to keep back some particularly hair-curling specters from the past. “Some of it makes Rolf look like he isn’t even trying.”

  I bit into my sandwich with a smile. “I think it’s fine to have scandalous grandparents. What sort of thing did he get up to?”

  “Oh, the usual—wine, women, song. Racehorses. Film stars. Escapades with various naughty duchesses.”

  That was not the usual in my family. They were more wine, women, and whippets.

  “What sorts of escapades?” I asked, letting my imagination wander. “Are we talking undone bow ties and white gloves discarded over the grand piano?”

  “Ha! Exactly. According to Granddad, there are a couple of very famous movie party scenes that were directly based on parties he threw in the palace. Ask him about them—he’d love to tell you.”

  “I will,” I said, boggling inwardly at the thought. If Boris was Rolf to the power ten, what would his father be like?

  “It was really because of Granddad that Nirona was so fashionable in the fifties,” Leo went on, as if he were discussing the founding of the local Neighborhood Watch. “Granny had a few Hollywood actress friends, and he let them film on the island for very advantageous rates, then quickly built some ritzy hotels for them all to stay in and hustled them down to the casino to blow their fees. No one really knew where the island was, so the press couldn’t interfere with the merrymaking, and before you know it, Bob Hope’s your uncle. And Bob Mitchum. And Bob Redford.”

  “Wow.”

  “Well, sort of wow. It all got a bit hot in the eighties when helicopters and telephoto lenses came in—that’s why Uncle Pavlos has been building his reputation as a very, very responsible and reliable pair of hands. Poor sod. He likes being photographed about as much as you do.”

  “Well, I think that’s totally understandable.”

  Jo and I had already had our paparazzi photos posted on YoungHot&Royal.com, and neither of us came out of it well (although I had found out that Jo was actually the Honorable Josephine Frenais de Vere, something she’d kept very quiet until now).

  Leo finished his sandwich and looked at the lunch box. “These sandwic
hes are very more-ish,” he said. “Can I have another?”

  “Yes,” I said absently, still processing all the glamour dismissed in a few sentences. “It’s Mum’s secret recipe. A touch of English mustard.”

  “Oh, your mother. Did she tell you she’d sent me my own box of Battenberg? She should have her own cooking show.” He bit into the sandwich with relish. “So, how about it? Are you doing anything this weekend?”

  “You want to go back to Rothery for more cake?”

  “No, I mean back to mine. Unless you’ve got plans?”

  I swiveled on the bench and gazed at Leo, the prince in a suit and overcoat, eating an egg sandwich with his eyebrows raised in question as if I seriously might have something better to do than be flown to a castle to choose a priceless piece of antiquity to go in a garden.

  Since the visit to my parents, he’d been even more careful to ask before he sprang surprises on me. It had niggled me since, I have to be honest; I didn’t know that it wasn’t a case of throwing money at a problem but forgetting there were people involved, but I’d pushed it aside, because I was fairly sure being annoyed at someone whisking you away in a helicopter to go to a sellout gig fell under the heading of “inverse snobbery.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not doing anything this weekend.”

  “Great,” said Leo with a cheerful grin. “I’ll book the plane.”

  *

  You know the usual minibreak panic you get the first time your new boyfriend takes you to Paris or New York or somewhere for the weekend:

  What do I take?

  How can I prevent him from seeing my passport photo?

  Should I take sexy pajamas?

  Is there such a thing as sexy pajamas?

  How can I engineer that moment you always get in films where the girl slips on his oversize white shirt and slinks around the bed looking kittenish?

  Etc.

  Now multiply it by a factor of Meeting the Parents, then by another factor of Staying in a Castle, and then multiply all that by a factor of royalty, and you have a rough idea of the nervous hysteria I was suffering by the time I was in the car on the way to the airport on Saturday morning.