To Marry a Prince (3 page)

‘I don’t even recognise the names of the dress designers any more,’ she sighed. ‘Have I been gone so long?’

‘Much too long, doll,’ said Carlos, flicking her hair. ‘This is going to take months of work.’

‘Well, see what you can do for today. Lottie’s taking me to a party tonight.’

‘Ah-ha. A party.’ His eyes lit up at the challenge and he began to mutter to himself.

Realising that her participation was not required, Bella turned to
Sherlock
, the satirical magazine that her father always bought, with its wicked cartoons and sly comment on politicians and media figures. Though even there, many of the names were new to her. It was almost a relief to find a piece on the Royal Family. At least
they
were still the same, even if
Sherlock
didn’t think much of them. The magazine was running a spoof advertisement for
The Royal Pantomime or Snow White’s Escape
, starring a flashing-eyed brunette called Deborah as Snow White, with the King and his family as the Seven Dwarfs. Bella had never heard of brunette Deborah either.

‘I think I just lost a year of my life,’ she told Carlos ruefully.

He peered over her shoulder at a cartoon of the
three youngest dwarfs tap dancing. Their faces were recognisably those of Prince George, Princess Eleanor, and the heir to the throne, Prince Richard.
Dim, Ditzy and Dull were excited
, read the caption. Carlos grinned.

‘Poor bastard. Every time a girl dumps him, it’s all over the tabloids. And now
Sherlock
is calling him Dull. That’s got to hurt. It’ll stick, too.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bella, not much interested in the PR problems of the King’s eldest son.

But the other people in the salon didn’t agree.

‘Who said she dumped him?’ said the grey-haired woman on Bella’s right indignantly.

‘She’s dating someone else,’ Carlos pointed out.

‘So? Maybe Prince Richard dumped
her
.’

‘Why would he do that? The woman’s hot, hot, hot.’

‘And now she’s dating someone else. That’s fast. What if the Prince found out she was a slapper and gave her the boot?’

Carlos was unconvinced. ‘Why wouldn’t he say so? I would.’

The grey-haired woman sniffed. ‘Because
he’s
a gentleman.’

Carlos snorted.

‘I think he looks lovely,’ said one of the junior hairdressers dreamily. ‘Dark and brooding, like he’s got a secret sorrow.’

She put a magazine on Bella’s knee, open at a black-and-white photograph of an unsmiling Prince Richard.

‘Very nice,’ Bella said without interest. ‘What about my hair?’

‘But don’t you think he looks sad … underneath?’

Bella glanced down at the photograph again. It wasn’t a party shot, like the others, but a studio portrait with the subject looking straight at the camera. Hooded eyes, mouth like a steel trap, cheekbones to make a Renaissance painter do a jig with delight.

‘Secret? Maybe. Sad? Nah, not a chance. He’s got a General’s scarlet uniform at home and a nice bright shiny sword to play with.’

The grey-haired woman said, ‘But things like that are just for show, dear. He could still be sad, you know.’

‘What’s he got to be sad about? He’s rich and good-looking and he knows what he’s going to do with his life.’ None of which applied to Bella just at this moment, though she did not actually say so.

‘Well, he has just lost the delicious Deborah,’ said Carlos thoughtfully. ‘No matter who ended it, or how serious it really was, that’s always a bummer.’

But Bella didn’t want to think about ending affairs. Of course, it hadn’t exactly been an affair with Francis. Nowhere near. Right from the start they’d agreed – well, he’d announced and she’d agreed, of course she had – that they couldn’t do anything about their attraction to each other while they were working so closely. It would de-stabilise the team. It wouldn’t be fair, Francis had said, looking noble and handsome and terribly responsible, to
anybody
. She thought now: how many others had he said that to? Half of them? All twenty? She flinched. How could she have been so naive? How could she? She groaned in spirit.

She found they were all looking at her, surprised, and
realised that she had actually groaned aloud. Somehow it was the last straw.

‘What about my
hair?
’ she yelled. ‘Come on, you idle crimpers. Don’t just stand there wittering. Work your magic.’

So they all went back to the important stuff. And Carlos piled her blonde shoulder-length hair on to the top of her head, leaving some feathery tendrils to caress her long neck.

I just hope it’s clean, thought Bella, uneasily aware that a couple of long showers might not have been enough to clear away the grime of ten water-restricted months spent living in a tent.

But everyone else told her she looked lovely. And Bella had to admit that the soft, artistically untidy style, had turned her wide-eyed and feminine. She hadn’t felt feminine in a long, long time.

She kissed Carlos as she left. ‘Thank you. You’re a miracle worker.’

‘But of course. Haven’t I always said so?’ But he was pleased, she could see.

So was Lottie on coming into Bella’s room to check that her instructions had been carried out.

‘Well, at least no one’s going to mistake you for a Shetland pony now.’

‘
What?
’

Lottie grinned. ‘I
told
you, this party is
über-posh
. Very smart people, deep into the horsey set. The way you were looking this morning, they’d have fed you a carrot and showed you to the stables.’

And, quite suddenly, Bella started to laugh. In fact,
she laughed so much she jabbed the mascara wand in her eye and had to start again.

‘Oh, Lotts, I do love you,’ she said, when she could speak. ‘Gosh, it’s good to be home.’

‘Trees in Tubs Make Your Party Swing’ –
Mondaine Magazine

Lottie called a minicab to take them to the party. Conscious of her own jobless state, Bella protested at the extravagance. But her friend was adamant.

‘These shoes are meant for dancing, not pounding the London Underground,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ll thank me later. Besides, it’s cold out there.’

That was undoubtedly true. Reluctant to spend her remaining cash on a stellar outfit, Bella had in the end found a pretty dress in an Oxfam shop, one of the better ones in Soho that sold nearly perfect vintage clothes, rather than size 20 tee-shirts from George. It was vaguely Ossie Clarke in a heavy, midnight blue crepe. The neckline plunged into a deep V, a bit risqué she had thought, but it also had long sleeves that gathered at the wrist with a row of tiny buttons and it swirled nicely when she walked. But it was almost certainly a retiree from the summer. It was not warm.

‘Odd but stylish. You look like Greta Garbo,’ said Lottie, deciding it would do.

She insisted on dusting Bella’s skin with gold glitter.

‘You’ve got the perfect tan. Light, real and every-
where. Make it work for you,’ she instructed.

She also lent Bella a full length suede coat with a big fake-fur collar, along with a sparkly gold bag. They checked the contents of their bags together, just as they used to do when they were eighteen.

‘Lippy, perfume, hankie.’

‘Check.’

‘Phone.’

‘Check.’

‘Keys.’

‘Check. No, I left them in the kitchen—’ Bella dived to retrieve them.

Lottie was patient. ‘OK, that’s it. Except for running away money, of course.’

Their eyes met. It was Bella’s Granny Georgia, a Southern Belle of the old school, who had taught them that: never go to a party without your running away money tucked into your underwear. Ladies didn’t make a fuss but they were always prepared. If their gentleman escort wanted to stay too late at the party or had a little too much to drink, a lady quietly and discreetly made other arrangements and kept the cash to do so about her person at all times. Men, said Granny Georgia, momentarily less ladylike, Never Thought of That.

Bella chuckled. ‘I’ve got enough cash to get me home.’

Lottie clicked her fingers. ‘That reminds me, you’ll need the minicab company’s card.’ She dived into the hall drawer and with a flourish produced a dog-eared bit of pasteboard. ‘Put this number into your phone
now
.’

Bella complied. And while she was at it, she checked her incoming messages. No, nothing from her mother, so no surprise there. Her father hadn’t got back to her either, but he was probably up a mountain somewhere. And she knew Granny Georgia was in Brazil saving the rain forest until Christmas. But she was a bit hurt that her brother Neill hadn’t even bothered to leave her a message.

Lottie was oblivious. ‘I have an account. You won’t have to pay cash. Just say Hendred Associates.’

‘Hendred
Associates?
’

‘Well, I’m not going to be working for someone else all my life. Establish the brand early and keep it cooking,’ said Lottie blithely.

But later, in the back of the minicab, she said more soberly, ‘Tonight I’m sort of on duty, Bella. Networking stuff. I may even have to go on somewhere. I’m sorry, on your first weekend home. But I can’t get out of it. Will that be OK?’

‘Fine,’ said Bella, who was beginning to feel the effects of a day’s unaccustomed shopping, on top of the jet lag. ‘I’ll probably push off earlyish anyway. What do we do? Should I text you when I want to leave?’

‘Good plan. And we can spend all tomorrow together.’

‘Sure. So who are the people giving this party?’

‘My boss. The Big Boss, I mean. Not my team leader.’

‘Coo,’ said Bella, impressed and just a bit wistful. ‘Your career must be really whooshing along.’

Lottie snorted. ‘Career, nothing. This is pay-back for personal services.’

‘
What?
’

‘Whoops! Sounds bad, doesn’t it? Memo to self: don’t say that to my mother. Actually, his idiot Number Three Son came into the agency for work experience in the summer. I was the one who drew the short straw and had to mentor the little toe-rag. Believe me, that family owe me.’

‘Ah.’

‘The party will be OK, though. Big Cheese is pretty much the last word in contemporary PR. He doesn’t do anything but work, but his wife is into charities and the arts and all sorts of groovy stuff. The kids aren’t all bad, either. And their parties are legendary. There should be some interesting people there. You’ll have a good time. Promise.’

She was right.

The party didn’t seem unduly posh, in spite of what Lottie had said. It was in a very smart house, though, in a very smart part of town, with some amazing artwork on the walls. But it all seemed friendly and casual, with dancing in a big, darkened room in the basement and people talking in every other room in the house, except the kitchen. Some were even sitting on the stairs.

Bella didn’t know anyone but it didn’t matter. She danced a bit, and talked a bit, and drank more than she had in nearly a year. The Oxfam dress fitted in nicely, neither too showy nor too casual, and the new shoes, not much more than sparkly gold straps atop four-inch heels, attracted enough envy to make Bella’s spirits fly. She had a great time until about three hours into the party when she suddenly realised that her
head was ringing and she could not feel her feet any more.

‘Air,’ she said, and fought her way up the darkened stairs from the basement to the ground floor, where French windows opened on to a handsome terrace.

But it looked as if someone was giving a speech out there and Bella hesitated. Seeing this, one of the circulating waiters took her by the elbow and directed her through a small doorway. She supposed he thought she wanted to go outside to smoke and shook her head to tell him she didn’t. But then she saw that the door led into a small courtyard, a small
empty
courtyard, and she thought: Lottie’s right. Sometimes the Lord provides.

She slipped outside.

It was utterly quiet. That was the first thing that struck her. In every room in the house there had been music – fierce, danceable rhythms in the basement; discreet string quartets to converse over in the reception rooms; cool clarinets on the stairs. Now for the first time there was silence. Not even the rumble of distant traffic disturbed the midnight air.

Bella wandered out into the silent darkness. Her heels clipped on the flagstones. The courtyard was open to the sky but it was not cold. A large pale plate of a moon hung in a gun-metal sky, playing hide and seek with billowing clouds, but not a breath of wind stirred the branches of a tall ornamental fig tree in the middle of the courtyard. Someone had wound a string of lights through it. They were shaped like little Chinese lanterns, and the shadows they cast were as still as a painting.

A ironwork table was tucked into one corner, surrounded by fragrant trees in stone pots – a lemon tree, an orange with the fruit nearly ripe, breathing an elusive sweetness into the air, and great wooden tubs of golden-leaved Mexican Choisya, smelling of basil. There was a half-drunk glass of champagne standing on the table, and the guttering remains of a flower-pot candle. Patio chairs were pushed back, as if the people sitting there had left in a hurry.