The Runaway Princess, Page 39

“Would you believe me if I told you that, honestly, no one will care? Worse stuff goes on all the time.”

  I looked Jo in the eye, and wished I could make her understand what small village life was like. Static and judgmental and suffocating. “I know that. But my mum and dad will care. They’ll care very much when it all gets raked over again back home.”

  She gazed at me very sadly, then rubbed her hands together. “Then we need to find Kelly ourselves. I need details, birth date, description—anything you can think of. Have you got a photo? Does she look like you?”

  I shook my head. “No. You wouldn’t take us for sisters, she looks more like my gran. Hang on. I’ve got an album.”

  I went into my room, pulling open the divan drawer underneath my bed. Right at the back was my box of valuables, including my own collection of photos that had escaped Mum’s cull. I picked out the slim album and went back to the sitting room to give it to Jo.

  “Here,” I said. “She’s not a criminal. She’s just daft. You can tell by looking at her.”

  I opened it to a photograph of me and Kelly on prize-giving day at school; Mum had wrestled my hair into plaits and Kelly was sporting her ill-advised perm, which ironically gave her frizz just like mine. She was also sporting a red, swollen forehead and penciled-on eyebrows, caused by her “wondering” if her leg wax would also work on her brows, the night before the ceremony. The end result was half Frankenstein’s monster and half Bette Davis, yet she still looked like the sort of girl who could start a party in a damp tent. She was mugging for the camera as if auditioning for some reality television show; I was looking embarrassed. I was fourteen years old.

  Anger and sadness and something else, something more painful, swilled around inside me as Jo turned the page to a shot of the four of us on a beach with our old dog, Jolly Roger. There had been a time when we’d been a really happy nuclear family. Deep down (a long way down right now), I missed feckless, selfish Kelly exactly as much as I was glad she’d effed off out of our lives.

  “Dear God,” said Jo, and I knew she was winding up for one of her killer character assassinations.

  “I know. But she’s still my sister,” I said. “So go easy on the eyebrow thing. They’re my genes too.”

  Jo stared at the photographs for a long time, and then looked at me. “So let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you’ve given up the man you love and a lifetime of white-tie balls, and all because you want to stop the National Enquirer finding your sister and shaming your mum?”

  “Yes.” I paused. “Well, that and the constant earache from Sofia about Leo inheriting instead of her. And having to leave the business I’ve built up here. And having to be on a bloody diet all the time.”

  Jo pushed the chocolates toward me again, and I took three, because for the first time in weeks there was no reason not to.

  “And if we could find Kelly first?” she asked. “What would you do?”

  I considered that through a mouthful of rose cream. “I suppose,” I said slowly, “I’d make her go home and apologize to Mum and Dad. Then something good might have come out of this.”

  “And if you did that? You’d think about making up with Leo?” Jo seemed hopeful, but I wasn’t.

  I didn’t want to answer her.

  She waited a long time, then said, with a straight face, “If there’s one thing my ludicrous family has taught me, it’s never ever ignore your heart. It’s so much wiser than your head in the long run.”

  There were times when I thought Jo’s family should run their own fancy embroidered pillow shop.

  *

  Jo made more tea and listened to Leo’s frantic messages—I couldn’t bear to hear his voice—then summarized them in a way that I could stand.

  He was bewildered. Everyone was asking questions. What had he done wrong? He loved me. Whatever it was, we could fix it.

  She stood over me while I texted him to say that I needed time to think about the enormity of what I was taking on, and that I hadn’t realized until the ball the true extent of the job that meant so much to him. I also had to consider the impact on my family, since my parents were in a state of shock.

  Within the hour, I got an e-mail from Leo’s office address, with Giselle and the press center copied in. It contained an attached press release from Prince Leopold, stating that Miss Amy Wilde had had, with deep regret, to withdraw from the state coronation of Crown Prince Boris of Nirona and Svetland on Saturday, due to a family illness. No further details were supplied as it was a private matter.

  He then texted me to say that he would be in touch in a week’s time, and that he hoped very much that he’d be able to return the gifts I’d left behind.

  My heart broke at that, and I gave up and spent the rest of the day crying, and in the brief pauses when I wasn’t crying, shoving Charbonnel et Walker chocolates into my mouth.

  *

  I don’t remember much about the next few days because they blurred into one soggy mass of achy misery. It felt like I had the flu, not a broken heart.

  I spent hours on the phone to my parents, but I couldn’t leave the house because by now the story of the gardening princess’s mysterious bunk from the coronation had reached the rumor mill, and there was a gaggle of photographers lounging outside, leaving Starbucks cups everywhere. Mrs. Mainwaring had taken to wearing her best clothes every time she went in and out; since they weren’t getting any shots of me, the press pack amused themselves by snapping away at her. Her bridge club had never had so much attention. It was like a geriatric version of Britain’s Next Top Model out there most days.

  The photographers also staked out Ted for a while, until he threatened to get his rugby club round to clear them off. Grace’s balcony got another airing in the press, captioned with her name spelled wrong. To my horror, they even pitched up on my parents’ doorstep, until Jo arranged for Mum and Dad to be taken to a hotel in the Lake District for a few days until the fuss calmed down. I wanted to go and see them, but I didn’t want to create more opportunities for prurient comments, and that made me feel even worse.

  There was also the small matter of the fifty thousand pounds that materialized in Dad’s bank account. It seemed to make everything worse, as far as he was concerned.

  “It’s from the newspaper,” he said. “Is it a bribe? Because we haven’t sold them anything. Love, it’s not what you think. I didn’t want to bother you when you’ve clearly got enough on your plate, but I had to tell you. Your mother’s worried sick.”

  “It’s compensation, Dad,” I explained. “For that photo of Mum outside the wedding shop. Leo’s lawyers have put the frighteners on the paper—they were threatening to sue on your behalf.”

  “I don’t want their money!” Dad’s honest disgust couldn’t have been clearer if he’d been in the room. “As if any amount of cash could make up for the humiliation your mother’s been through! I’d rather have an apology for upsetting a fine, decent woman for no reason whatsoever, and that costs nothing.”

  He was right. Of course he was right. I thought guiltily of Mum’s expensive dress, and how I’d thrown money at the airline tickets to get away from Nirona. And I didn’t feel any better.

  *

  On Thursday morning, Jo had gone out as normal—normal was now down the fire escape, over next door’s garden wall, and out via their alley—and I had settled down to another day of daytime telly, toast, and not looking on YoungHot&Royal to check up on their current analysis of the “unfolding runaway-bride drama in Nirona.”

  Our phone was still unplugged unless we wanted to make a call ourselves, and I’d let my mobile go flat, so the knock on the door nearly made me jump out of my skin.

  I peered through the security peephole. It was Dickon. His nose looked freakishly huge from that angle.

  “I’m not in the mood,” I said. “And neither’s Badger.”

  “No, I’ve got a message for you, from Jo.”

  I opened the door a fraction. I was still in my toas
t-crumbed pajamas, and I didn’t want to give him ideas.

  “She wants you to meet Ted in the delivery bay behind Peter Jones in one hour.” He was reading from a hastily scribbled note. “You have to climb out over the—”

  “Yes, yes, I know, the fire escape, next door’s garden.”

  “And you’ve got to get dressed. Don’t look at me like that, it’s what she said.” He showed me the notes he’d scribbled down. “She’s pretty bossy, isn’t she?”

  “It’s her job.”

  I started to close the door, but Dickon shoved his foot in the crack. Bold, since he was wearing velvet carpet slippers. “Amy?”

  “Dickon?” I braced myself for the inquiry.

  “I just wanted you to know …” He looked at me, and for the first time I realized what nice eyes Dickon had. Kind eyes. Bloodshot, but kind. “Some of those snappers asked me and Mrs. Mainwaring if we’d give them inside info on you and Jo. You know, any stories we had. Photos.”

  My heart sank. “You didn’t give them photos of the heaven and hell party?”

  Maybe Dad would lend me some of that money to buy them back.

  Dickon looked horrified. “No! No, we didn’t. We told them to sod off.” He frowned. “I’m really sorry this is happening. Let me know if Badger ever needs a walk, yeah?”

  I felt an uncontrollable urge to cry. Now even Dickon felt sorry for me. “Thank you.”

  He wagged a finger. “Now, give me the dog, get dressed, and get out. I can’t take another phone call like that.”

  Thirty-three

  I got a taxi to Sloane Square rather than walking, on the assumption that the cabbie would spend the entire journey ranting about how shocking the traffic was south of the river and wouldn’t notice if Madonna herself got in the back of his cab, and I was right.

  My van was parked in the loading bay, blending in with the scenery, and I jumped in before anyone noticed. Ted slammed the engine into gear as if he were starring in a gangster film and roared off down Sloane Avenue, a dramatic gesture only slightly spoiled by his getting stuck behind a bus for most of the way and having to stay in second gear.

  “Where are we going?” I demanded. “And can you take more care with the gears, please?”

  “Can’t say. And I am taking care.”

  I looked across at him. He was wearing shades and a polo-neck. Ted never wore anything smart for work.

  “Are you dressed up?” I asked him.

  “No, I’ve run out of clean clothes.”

  I didn’t believe that. It had to have something to do with Jo.

  “Are we meeting Jo?” I narrowed my eyes.

  Ted looked foxed. “How did you know?”

  “I can smell aftershave.” I turned round to inspect the back of the van. “And you’ve cleaned the van out. Look, no mud! Or seed catalogues. It’s spotless.”

  “Well, I haven’t been able to work, have I, what with your newfound notoriety. Can’t go anywhere without someone asking if you’ve lost a glass slipper.”

  We drove in silence for a couple of blocks, and then I said, “Ted, you know, our business is really important to me. It’s one of the reasons I decided I couldn’t—”

  “If this is about your relationship crisis, I don’t need to know,” he said quickly, warding off the confession with a palm. “I’m not Jo. No daytime television carry-on, please.”

  “Fine.” I sank back.

  A couple of blocks later, he said, “I know. I mean, I know how much you care about the business. For what it’s worth …” He coughed. “It wouldn’t be much without you. I’d still be on lawns. Not getting letters from the conservation charities.”

  “Thanks.” In my permanently overemotional state, I didn’t dare say more for fear of setting off the tears again.

  He grunted, and we drove round Hyde Park Corner, down Park Lane, and through town, until I realized we’d gone past Lord’s Cricket Ground and were heading out toward the M1.

  “Don’t ask,” said Ted before I could, and put on his Robert Palmer CD.

  *

  After an hour of having to endure Ted whistling guitar solos through his teeth, we finally turned into Toddington Services on the M1. Ted drove round the car park, missing lots of perfectly good spaces, before swerving into the area designated for caravans and pulling up next to a brand-new Porsche Cayenne with blacked-out windows.

  My heart leaped into my mouth. Was it Leo? Or had Liza come to get me? I was amazed she hadn’t tried to call, but maybe she thought kidnapping me was the easiest option.

  I turned to give Ted a piece of my mind, but he was out of the van already. I jumped out after him, on red alert for any burly security guards, but he opened the back door of the Porsche and more or less shoved me inside, then climbed into the front passenger seat.

  “Hello!” said Jo from the driver’s seat. She too was wearing shades and a polo-neck. Great. I’d been kidnapped by a pair of French jazz musicians. “Sorry to be so cloak-and-dagger, but it’s exciting, isn’t it?”

  I barely heard her. I was too busy staring at the person on the backseat next to me: a woman who looked very, very like my sister, Kelly.

  Kelly, if she’d found a hairdresser even more expensive than the one Sofia had marched me to. Kelly, if she’d had her teeth done. Kelly, if she’d taken the pale Yorkshire skin she’d been born with and flown it off on two Caribbean holidays a year since 2002, with a ski tan top-up in between. The round cow-eyes, the pointy nose, the sly mouth—exactly the same, but with a grown-up edge.

  It was Kelly.

  I’d often wondered how I’d feel if I ever saw my sister again, but I’d never guessed that my initial overriding feeling would be of intense irritation that she looked so bloody well.

  She ought to be in tears, I thought irrationally. With bad skin and black roots and a hangdog expression. Instead of which, she looked snootily furious. When I blundered into the backseat, though, that soon changed to shock.

  We said nothing. We just stared at each other. Then, because clearly someone had to say something, I looked at Jo and said, “Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

  Jo nodded at Kelly. “Why don’t you ask Callie? I mean, Kelly. Sorry. That’s going to take some getting used to.”

  “What?” I stared at my big sister. “You’re Callie Hamilton? You’re Jo’s nightmare client? Since when have you … ?” It was too much to take in. I couldn’t even start.

  “There’s no law to say you can’t change your name,” huffed Kelly. Her new accent matched her new look; if I’d heard her ordering sushi in Nobu, I’d never have guessed she was from Hadley Green. “And the surname’s mine, I got married. And divorced. Vis-à-vis the name, I fancied a fresh start.”

  “You got married?” This got worse. “And you didn’t tell Mum and Dad?”

  A shadow passed across Kelly’s pretty face. “Well, I was going to. It was very spur-of-the-moment, me and Greg, we did it in Vegas, but to be fair, by the time we got back from the honeymoon we’d realized we loved each other but we couldn’t live with each other, so there didn’t seem any point in telling Mum. He was very generous regarding alimony, though.”

  That was so Kelly. That was Kelly all over.

  Her face brightened again. “But when me and Harry get married, when his divorce comes through, then I’m definitely telling Mum and Dad. I want you all to be there for that. I’ve been telling Jo, I’ve got it all planned—I reckon we can get Westminster Abbey! Well, one of the side chapels …”

  Behind her, Jo drew small circles around her left ear and rolled her eyes. As previously discussed at great length over our kitchen table, Harry the slippery financier/fiancé was about as likely to get divorced as I was to swim the Channel—i.e., possible but extremely unlikely, due to lack of enthusiasm.

  She leaned forward, with the “aw, bless” intimacy she’d always been so good at. “You know what? Can I tell you something, hon? You haven’t changed a bit,” she said.

  “Neither
have you,” I said icily.

  Kelly looked disappointed.

  “I recognized her at once from your photo album,” Jo explained from the front seat. “That photo of her with no eyebrows sealed it—it was one of the first things I noticed about Callie. Her weird skimpy eyebrows.”

  “Thanks,” sniffed Kelly.

  “No offense,” said Jo, “but you can always tell an eye pencil.”

  “So, can we get a move on?” Ted demanded. “Are you done? Can I go?”

  “Yes. Thanks, Ted, you’ve been a real star.” Jo leaned over and gave him a big kiss on the cheek, which made him flush. “I’ll give you a ring when we get to where we’re meeting Pam and Stan—”

  “Hang on, hang on.” Kelly suddenly sounded much more Rothery than before. “You’re not driving this up to Yorkshire, lady.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because …” She looked annoyed with herself. “Because Harry doesn’t know I’ve got the Cayenne today. He’ll check the mileage.”

  Jo wrinkled her brow. “He’ll what?”

  “It’s on a mileage package thing.” Kelly waved her hand airily.

  “Fine, let’s go in the van,” I said. “The longer we stay here, the more we look like we’re up to no good.”

  My words hung in the air, but I wasn’t going to apologize. A weird recklessness had overwhelmed me—it wasn’t as if my life could get any more surreal. I thought Kelly flinched, but it might just have been the sudden October chill as I yanked open the car door and got out.

  Ted refused to drive Kelly’s Porsche back to London in case Harry had reported it stolen. Jo refused to drive the van with Ted giving her passive driving instruction from the passenger seat. So I ended up in the back of the van with Kelly, with Ted at the wheel and Jo in the front watching out for any photographers and arguing with Ted over the music choices.

  I sat on the bench bit where we normally stored tools and glared at Kelly.

  Kelly, free from Jo’s supervision, glared back at me. It was just like being back in Dad’s caravan, but with less Formica.

  “You know, this is just as embarrassing for me as it is for you,” she informed me over the rattle of gardening implements. “Do you think I want Harry finding out about things that are very much part of my past?”