The Runaway Princess, Page 29

  When I didn’t respond, Leo stopped eating and looked at me. “What?”

  “That’s not how normal people do business,” I said. “You haven’t even asked to see my accounts.”

  “Don’t need to. It’s a sound proposition. You’ve got me sold on the global importance of bees,” he added playfully.

  Jo’s voice was in my ear, warning me that I was coming across as chippy, but I couldn’t shake the fact that in one day, Sofia had blown more than the original start-up cost of our business on my appearance, not even including the clothes.

  Was I a problem she and Leo had been told to chuck money at? My wonky British teeth were one thing but how were they planning on solving the problem of my shyness? And the small matter of me not being a natural performer, like they were? I was good at what I was good at—or didn’t that matter anymore?

  A tense silence descended over the table. Leo and I hadn’t ever really argued but something had been building up inside me for a while. This was the helicopter and the cricket pitch and everything else, rolled up into one big ball. And it was rolling toward me like something from an Indiana Jones film, sped on its way by my own guilt at enjoying my pamper day quite so much.

  “What?” he said reasonably, unaware of the boulder of doom behind him.

  “My business is my baby,” I said. “Just like you’re proud of having your banking job? I don’t know if I want you to buy it, just like that. You wouldn’t let your dad buy out your fund to give you more time at home.”

  Leo flinched. “Ouch. Sorry. I just wanted to make things easier for you. I’ll organize a PA to handle your admin, take some stress off that way. You’ll need one in Nirona—”

  “That’s not the point!”

  “Isn’t it?” He frowned at me as if he failed to see what on earth my problem was. “So what is?”

  “Stop trying to solve everything with money!” I yelled. “It’s not the same thing as thinking it through!”

  “Amy, you’re being irrational.”

  The atmosphere sharpened, and I floundered, out of my depth. Uncomfortable questions were jostling for position in my head, but I was scared to unleash them, for fear of where they might drag the conversation.

  Leo looked as if he was struggling to speak—or not speak—pressing his lips together coolly. I’d come to recognize that expression lately.

  “I’m just normal, Leo,” I said unhappily. “I’m a completely normal girl. And I’m trying to meet you in the middle, but my middle’s miles away from yours. All you have to do is get the bus occasionally. I have to get my head around seeing us referred to as Leomy on the Internet. I need my job to remind myself who I am.”

  Leo said nothing for a long moment; then he pushed his plate aside and reached for my hands across the table. “Yes, you’re normal,” he said. “But that’s the most amazing thing about you. You’re completely normal, and you have no idea how special you are. Wherever you want to make this middle, fine—that’s where I’m going to be.”

  He smiled, and I smiled weakly back, because my mouth wouldn’t do anything else when Leo smiled at me. He stroked my engagement ring with his thumb, inviting me into the private world that sprang up around us even in a busy restaurant, and I felt the awkwardness inside me melt like dew off the summer leaves.

  “As long as we’re always honest with each other,” he said quietly. “That’s all we can do. Don’t ever hide anything from me, Amy. Even if it’s hard, or you hate it, you have to tell me, so I can help you.”

  “I will,” I said. “You know what a terrible liar I am.”

  The moment passed, but a tiny nugget of awkwardness remained unmelted, like the stone chips that always seemed to end up in my shoes in the rose garden. I hadn’t quite said everything I’d meant to. And, more disturbing than that, I wasn’t sure either of us was being totally honest about the worlds we were promising to share. And the spotlight of the wedding was getting closer by the day.

  Twenty-three

  As the weeks went on, e-mails from Nirona started to come thicker and faster until every morning began with a barrage of communications from Liza’s office that Jo had to help me reply to with proper tact and punctuation.

  For the engagement photo, for the wedding, for the coronation, everything. And the more Liza e-mailed me about helicopters and security for the Nirona blessing, the more determined I was to keep the Yorkshire wedding ceremony as quiet and simple as I possibly could.

  Leo stood by me on that. He had to agree to let Boris’s security people handle the security aspect—I was really looking forward to liaising with the vicar about that—but otherwise, it was down to me.

  *

  I found it easier to deal with Mum’s nerves face-to-face, so one weekend I took Badger up on the train with my file of notes, to try to pin down some details. Leo had given me four dates in November and December that would work for him and most of the rest of the family, so now all I had to do was go and see Reverend Barnaby about where to hide four SAS-trained sniper bodyguards in the Lady Chapel.

  I didn’t dare give Mum the whole picture for fear of her going into complete panic meltdown, so I’d earmarked isolated chunks, like the cake or the flowers. I didn’t tell her, for instance, that Liza had already turned down three six-figure offers from magazines to cover the ceremony, or that Zoë Weiss had sent me a huge bunch of all-white flowers with a note in her microscopic handwriting asking if I’d be requiring her couture services for bridesmaids’ dresses. (Jo squirreled that away for her “memory box.”)

  I knew Mum was baking away some stress when I arrived, because the scent of vanilla was strong from five doors down the street; and lo and behold, when Dad opened the door, he had flour on his mustache, and there were already four racks of sponge drops cooling in the hall. I had to pick Badger up before he inhaled the lot in one pass.

  After some warning looks, Dad and I shuffled down the cramped hallway to the kitchen, where Mum was swirling frosting roses onto a tower of ivory cupcakes. When she saw me, her face lit up.

  “What do you think?” she asked, gesturing at their delicate snowy magnificence.

  “They’re better than anything I’ve seen in any shop in London,” I replied, because they were.

  Mum’s cheeks dimpled and turned pink. At home she was as cheerful as you like; it was just outside the house that she turned into a nervous, anxious wreck.

  “Have a cup of tea, love.” Dad pressed a plate of scones into my hand. There was a lot of cake to get through on the table. “How’s it all going? I hear you were in the magazines again, at some premiere.” He gave it the full French pronunciation.

  I’d made a conscious decision to be as matter-of-fact about these things as possible. It seemed to work for Leo. “Yes, Leo took me and Jo—it was for charity. We went to the drinks reception first in the Savoy, and Jo won a whole pod to herself on the London Eye in the prize draw. She says we can have it for my hen night, if you want?”

  Mum looked starstruck. “Did you see anyone famous?”

  “Um, Nicole Kidman and Dame Judi Dench. And Elton John. And that one you like from Coronation Street.”

  She looked as if she was about to keel over with delight into her Kenwood Chef mixer. “Ken Barlow!”

  “Him.”

  “Eat up, love,” said Dad through a mouthful of scone. “You look like you could do with a good meal. Are you feeling all right? You’re all pinched round the nose.”

  “It’s pre-wedding nerves.” Mum patted my arm and frowned at the unexpected bone she encountered. “Oh, Amy. You’ve got to keep your strength up.”

  I stared sadly at the scone. According to my diet, I wasn’t supposed to be eating white flour. Let alone white flour mixed with rich Yorkshire butter, plump sultanas, freshly laid eggs, homemade strawberry jam, primrose-yellow clotted Devon cream …

  “We’ve had a few people ring us up,” Mum went on, brushing flour off her pinny. “You know, wanting to know about your wedding. Said they were frie
nds of yours from school, wanting your new address—”

  “I told your mother to say she’d have to check with you.” Dad’s bank managerial security settings had evidently been activated. “I reckoned if you wanted to be in touch, you would be. And so many folk have been phoning up—well, I don’t recall you having that many friends, to be frank, love.”

  I smiled weakly. He had a point.

  Kelly had been the popular one. She’d been the friend-of-everybody-girl in her gang, whereas what little popularity I had was mainly down to being Kelly’s sister—and that wore off fast once she’d left. I had two more years to do at school after her court case, and I spent most of that hiding from the whispers in the library. I certainly didn’t go round collecting addresses on Leavers’ Day.

  “Mum, don’t tell anyone anything. They’re probably journalists,” I said. “I don’t really speak to anyone from school.”

  “That’s what I said.” Dad looked pleased and cut himself another slice of cake. “I’ve got my old football whistle next to the phone for next time.”

  Mum was still fussing with the teapot. “Di Overend was round too, wanting to know if you’d set a date. She’s booking her cruise in advance and she wanted to be sure she didn’t miss it.”

  Di Overend had a nerve. She clearly had no idea that fourteen fairly senior European royals had been cut that morning from Liza’s guest list, on grounds of space.

  I adjusted my face to Tact Setting: High. “Did you tell Di it was going to be a very, very small wedding?”

  “Of course I did. She said, good, much more exclusive for those who do come. She’s already got a hat. She says you ought to specify a maximum hat size so you don’t get monstrosities like Princess Beatrice’s blocking the view for everyone.”

  I blanched. That was all I needed, Di Overend shoving Princess Charlene of Monaco out of the way to get a better view.

  I got out my planner. “I need to talk to you about the date. Boris’s coronation is set for the beginning of October in the cathedral, and Liza thinks if we can do the blessing there before Christmas, it’ll mean the cathedral will still be decorated for the public to enjoy over the—what?”

  Mum and Dad were both staring at me, scones halfway to their mouths.

  “What?” I frowned, then looked down at my papers. The words coronation and cathedral and the public looked pretty normal in the context of Liza’s e-mails, but hearing them in my parents’ kitchen did make them sound a bit … different.

  “It’s okay,” I said hurriedly. “You won’t have to do a thing about that. Liza’s got a team of event planners on the case. I’m in charge of everything here, and it’s going to be small and simple. I just need to give her the date.”

  “Never mind about small and simple. You must have the wedding you want, love.” Dad coughed and looked embarrassed. “We’ve a bit put by, so don’t think you’ve to scrimp on the necessities.”

  I went red. “Dad, that’s not why it’s going to be small. I want a quiet service in St. Cuthbert’s, where it’s just about me and Leo, and our families. Before we have to go through it all again in front of—”

  I nearly said “millions of people,” but then I saw Mum’s aghast expression and realized—DUR!—that she’d have to be there too. I was effectively describing her ultimate phobia: not only going out in public, but being just left of the center of attention as the mother of the bride. Oh, and having to stand next to Liza Bachmann while she did it.

  “Don’t think about that,” I said, slapping the file shut. “Just think about who you want to invite, and bear in mind that there’s only room for about forty people in the church. And fifteen of them will be from Leo’s family.”

  “And what about afterward? We can’t have the reception here.” Mum looked panicky. “We’ve only one lavatory! And where would everyone sit?”

  Dad tried to look jovial. “Leo’s mum’s a model, isn’t she? She won’t take up much space. And there’s always the yard—I can get the barbecue set up.”

  I laughed, but none of us said what we were thinking: that even by royal standards, our Hadley Green house would have been ideal for an intimate reception, with the long velvety lawn stretching down to the stream and Dad’s flowers blooming, no matter what time of year …

  I leaped in before anyone could mention it. “I thought the church hall would be the best place to have the reception. It’s so pretty—do you remember when Leigh Sullivan had her Christmas wedding, and the Gardeners’ Club covered all the beams in holly and ivy and put candles all round the walls? It looked amazing.”

  “We can stand you the Stanley Arms,” insisted Dad. “Never let it be said that you didn’t get a sit-down reception with chicken or beef.”

  “I’d rather have the church hall,” I insisted. “It’s a Listed Building—Leo loves the history! And it’s where I always wanted to have my reception when I was little. Do you remember? How I’d got it all planned, with me as Snow White and Kelly as Rose Red?”

  As soon as I’d said it, I wished I could rewind and get the words back.

  Mum’s lip quivered, and I knew she was fighting not to say something. I could almost see the words banging their tiny fists against her lips in an effort to get out.

  Dad glanced across and noticed too. He swiftly offered me the plate of scones. “Come on, love, can we not tempt you to a scone? Baked this morning. Strawberries from the backyard too. Jam’s a touch sharp this year but I’m thinking of blending in some Elsantas with the—”

  “IjustwishKellywasheretobeyourbridesmaid!” Mum burst out, and put a hand over her mouth. Her rings were digging into her plump pink hands.

  The words, once out, hung like toxic gas and filled the space around us.

  “She would have loved all this so much,” Mum wailed. “Choosing the dresses and talking about the flowers and helping you with everything!”

  I swallowed. I’d known this was going to be difficult. It was awkward enough negotiating the Kelly obstacle course at the best of times, but Mum was moving the goalposts here. Her imaginary Kelly might be eager to help with the table favors, but the Kelly I remembered would almost certainly have upstaged me by dyeing her hair black the night before or shortening her dress by about two feet.

  “I always wanted her to be my bridesmaid too,” I said carefully, “but I’m not sure she’d have found it easy to keep quiet about some of the details. I mean, it’s all very high security—”

  “Are you saying she wouldn’t have been good enough?” Mum demanded.

  Dad and I exchanged weary glances.

  “No, Pamela,” said Dad. “Amy’s saying that copping off with the best man and telling the groom about the bride’s hen night shenanigans won’t go down so well if half the crowned heads of Europe are at the reception.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, Stan! Debbie’s wedding was ten years ago! Are you ever going to let it go?”

  I wanted to point out that none of us had had more than a birthday card from Kelly in the last ten years, so God only knew in what outlandish ways she’d been wrecking weddings in the meantime, but I kept my mouth shut.

  Dad turned to me, appealing for me to pour oil on troubled waters, as only I could. “If Kelly wants to be at Amy’s wedding, I’m sure she’d be very welcome, won’t she, love?”

  They both looked at me, their honest faces full of hope that at least I could be relied upon to do the decent thing. I’d seen that look so many times over the years it didn’t need any explanation. Amy, our reliable sensible daughter. Amy, who will not let us down.

  I wanted to say Kelly would be welcome, I really did.

  But even though it was purely theoretical, my brain was still saying no. NO. NO. NO.

  “Of course,” I lied.

  *

  Mum insisted on doing the washing up herself—family code for “I need to pull myself together”—so Dad and I took our tea into the yard.

  He was keen to show me his latest hive he’d got from a beekeeper up in S
carborough, and we had a good natter about my latest kitchen garden in Fulham and how Ted and I were getting on with sourcing a London-based beekeeper to help us with honey collection. It was almost like old times, and we’d have been there for hours if Badger hadn’t reminded me that part of the sitting-on-the-train deal was that he got to go for a good sniff round his old haunts.

  “I won’t come with you,” Dad said, eyeing Badger, who eyed him beadily back. “Best to keep an eye on your mum.”

  He grimaced in his sad-sweet fashion, and I knew what he was trying to say.

  “Is she … is she going to be okay with this?” I glanced at the kitchen window. “I’ve tried to make it as easy as I can for her, with the church and the small do. She doesn’t have to come to the big blessing circus in Nirona if she doesn’t want to—I’m sure we can think of a way round it.”

  “I know.” Dad looked down at his hands, rough where he’d been digging. “She wants to be there, Amy. She’s so proud of you, we both are. And she really likes Leo. He’s a sound chap.”

  That was the ultimate Dad accolade: the badge of sound chap-ness. Leo had won more Brownie points than I’d thought possible by sending Mum a whole crate of lemons grown in the family’s citrus orchards, after she’d mentioned that she’d read about them in a recipe book. He’d got even more points from Dad for sending them first class and with all the duty and what-have-you paid, plus some seeds for him to try them out himself.

  For a second, I thought about telling my dad what Leo had said about investing in my business so I could spend more time in Nirona with him, to see if Dad would say I’d been daft to turn it down. But then I didn’t. I didn’t know which answer I wanted to hear.

  “Kelly hasn’t been in touch at all?” I said instead. I’d wondered if maybe she’d Googled me, and been stunned to see me in my new incarnation as half of Leomy. If she had, it hadn’t prompted any contact.

  He shook his head. “I’d never say it to your mum, love, but maybe it’s for the best. I wouldn’t want your mother to think she’d only bothered to get in touch again because … well. You know what I mean.”