The Runaway Princess

  “Well, hello.” He gave me the slow, sexy smile that worked on the stupid half of my brain. “Look at you! Don’t you look gorgeous?”

  I blushed and tried to pretend that I hadn’t made that much effort. Admittedly, Jo had spent about two hours painstakingly tonging my hair into bigger curls than normal, and then doing my makeup to a depth of approximately one inch, but I didn’t think I looked that different.

  Rolf stared at me for a moment, then gave me a wolfish wink, glanced across at our flat as if Jo might be at the front door, and went back to his phone.

  “ ’Scuse me,” he said, “but I’ve got an awkward sitch with tonight’s guest list. Too many girls, not enough Rolf, if you know what I mean.”

  I thought there was probably more than enough Rolf to go round, but I didn’t say anything. It was much easier to warm to Rolf when Leo was talking about his childhood terror of penguins, caused by an unfortunate incident at the Royal Zoo, rather than faced with the real thing in all its manicured glory.

  “Where’s Leo?” I asked instead. “He is still coming?”

  “Yup. He’s been delayed at the office. Says he’ll meet you there.”

  My heart sank. I’d got my invitation in my bag, but no actual ticket, and I had no idea what I was meant to do on arrival. Leo hadn’t put any instructions in with the thick white envelope. “Must be something important.”

  “I’m sure it is. It always is with Leo. I don’t know if he’s told you, but he’s the only person in London with a job.” He paused, glanced across at the house once more, then as the car purred away, said, “Text Tatiana.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Text Tatiana. I’m talking to my phone.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “Hey, baby. Total nightmare.”

  It took me a second to realize he wasn’t actually talking to me. “Mine doesn’t do that,” I said, feeling I ought to explain.

  “What?”

  “Mine isn’t voice-activated. Although I do shout at it quite a lot!”

  Rolf frowned. “Delete. Delete. No, not that. Text Tatiana.”

  “Sorry, did I mess that up?” I gripped my—Jo’s—evening bag and tried to focus my thoughts before I blurted out something else that might crash Rolf’s phone by accident. I wasn’t sure how this texting of Tatiana fitted in with Rolf’s determined wooing of Jo. I resisted the temptation to shout “Delete Tatiana.”

  “Double booking,” said Rolf, with an ambiguous wink.

  “On the Rolf Express?”

  “Exactly.” He fiddled with his phone. “If someone hadn’t been washing her hair tonight, there might have been room for two. …”

  Jo was not washing her hair; she was having dinner with Marigold at J Sheekey. I could have told him that for nothing, but I bit my lip and smiled enigmatically.

  While Rolf fiddled with his phone, I turned my head away and watched the nighttime streets of central London flash past. I never got tired of seeing the postcard sights, all lit up for the evening as if they were onstage: the round face of Big Ben above the spiky Houses of Parliament, orange taxi signs like eyes in the darkness, and the pearly strings of lights along the Embankment.

  After a while I noticed that people were looking at me. Well, at the car. As we swished past, their heads turned automatically to see who was in such a massive look-at-me limo.

  The first time a tourist pointed, I shrank back in my seat, as if they could see me as clearly as I could see their curious faces. But as we went on and I realized I was safe behind the tinted privacy glass, I started to enjoy it. If Rolf hadn’t been there, I might even have indulged myself in a royal wave, just to see what it felt like.

  It wasn’t a long drive to the Royal Opera House from Jo’s flat, but the traffic was gridlocked, and by the time we pulled up outside, we were nearly twenty minutes late. My heart was racing with tension.

  Well, my heart was racing. Rolf was still smarming at his phone: “I’ll totes make it up to you. Big love. Delete big love. Text, kisses. Yeah. Rolf. Ex ex. Ex. Send. What are you doing?” he added, seeing me struggling with the car door.

  “Trying to get out. We’re so late!” I checked my nails. I’d been to a salon down the road that afternoon, and already one was chipped. I wasn’t used to varnish.

  “It’s deadlocked, babe,” he said, as if it were very obvious. “And the doors are armor-plated.”

  I turned to look at him, to check if he was joking or not. “Why do you have an armor-plated car?”

  “Because some nutter tried to have a go at Granddad once. Anyway, everyone’s got them. The Saudis. The Grimaldis. The Ecclestones.”

  The Ecclestones were my parents’ neighbors in Yorkshire. I didn’t think they were the same ones, though.

  “And don’t try to open the door!” he added, as I was digesting this startling information. “That’s what Mark’s for.”

  “But I’m perfectly capable of—”

  “That’s not the point,” said Rolf. “It’s about the show. The entrance. The magic.”

  As he spoke, the door swung open and the driver offered me a hand out, as if I were some elderly granny. This driver actually wore a peaked cap, as well as driving gloves. I didn’t know drivers had formal wear too.

  I stuck one foot out, but before I could remember what I’d seen in the films about exiting cars like a lady, there was another hand on my back, giving me a none-too-gentle push. I was already distracted by the banks of people with cameras waiting outside the door of the Opera House—some of them now pointing at me—and the unexpected shove nearly made me fall out onto the pavement.

  “Hurry up, and don’t show your knickers,” said Rolf with a wink that said exactly the opposite. “I hope you’re wearing some?”

  Somewhere in the seconds between finishing his text and copping a feel of my bare back, he’d done up his bow tie, smoothed down his hair, and somehow transformed his sleazy appearance into a more presentable version. Like Wonder Woman but in a limo rather than a phone box.

  I swallowed. Dare I say it, a more princely version.

  “Of course I am wearing knickers,” I said haughtily, and got out.

  Immediately the cameras started flashing, and I had to fight my instinct to jump straight back in the car. I really didn’t enjoy having my photo taken—my best side was the back of my head—and the flashes were giving me black spots in front of my eyes. I hoped they would stop once they realized I wasn’t anyone famous, but they seemed to get more intense.

  Stand up straight. Smile. Not like that. Don’t show your wonky tooth. I turned my head so my beauty mark wasn’t facing the cameras, and the flashes went mad.

  Then, of course, I realized Rolf was playing up to them behind me. He’d slipped on a pair of sunglasses, which he was now taking off again, while grinning and turning very slowly to give everyone his best side. While the cameras were still whirring, he yelled, “Okay, that’s enough!” He held up a hand and shepherded me into the foyer of the Opera House.

  I really mean shepherded. I was so stunned he practically had to push me in, and this time he seemed to be checking whether I was wearing a bra.

  *

  Once inside, I pretended to be looking around while I recovered my composure. I’d never been to the Royal Opera House, and the first thing I noticed wasn’t a thing, but a smell—the drowsy scent of tiger lilies arranged in stripy starbursts all round the room. They were the most strongly scented lilies I’d ever come across and I wondered where they’d been flown in from.

  Long gold banners with the Prince Boris Foundation logo hung from the ceiling, and waiters in dazzling white shirts and black cats’ ears circulated with trays of champagne flutes. They slid through the crowd of chattering guests, keeping their trays straight, all the streaming bubbles in the flutes aligning perfectly, despite jeweled hands reaching out of nowhere to grab them.

  I turned to ask Rolf if he knew how long Leo would be, but he’d vanished, and my nerves reappeared in one panick
y whoosh. I didn’t exactly feel comfortable with Rolf, but he was the only person here I knew—plus, he was the only one I could easily ask about what to do. Should I have shown my invitation to someone?

  I looked around and sent a silent thank-you to Jo for refusing to let me wear my nun dress. Everyone was seriously dressed up. There was more fur in here than at Battersea Dogs and Cats Home, and every other face was familiar in that “Are you from Zumba? Oh no, you’re the foreign secretary” way.

  “Champagne?” A waiter materialized silently in front of me. He didn’t look too chuffed about the cat’s ears.

  I probably shouldn’t have, but the prospect of some Dutch courage was too tempting. I took the glass from the tray with a nervous smile, accepted a tiny canapé on a napkin from the waiter behind, and got out my phone to pretend to be checking some urgent e-mails. Everyone around me was doing the same. The only difference was that other people were talking to their phones at the same time. And I didn’t have e-mail on my ancient phone, so I had to content myself with checking my own contacts list, frowning at it every so often.

  No missed calls from Leo. I typed Where are you? How long will you be? then deleted it and texted I’m here! in what I hoped was a cheery manner.

  I gazed around at the milling crowds as if I were looking for a friend—one of Jo’s top party tips—but when several other guests looked at me and started muttering to each other, I put the phone to my ear and pretended to be taking a call instead.

  That’s when I heard the voices behind the lilies.

  “… with Rolf?”

  “I don’t think so. Isn’t he seeing Tatiana Solzenhoff?”

  “Yuh, she told me. But he arrived with some other girl, did you see how she …”

  I gripped my glass. They were talking about me. Me!

  Frustratingly, the voice dipped—with, argh, a low chuckle—and I missed whatever I’d done that had been so amusing.

  I wanted to part the lilies and lean through to say, “No, I’m not with Rolf, not in a bazillion years. I’m with his much more attractive brother,” but I was temporarily stunned at the thought that two people I’d never met were discussing me, just because I’d arrived with Rolf. They’d noticed me, because I’d arrived with him. How did that make me feel?

  The two women started talking again, but as I leaned forward to peer through the lilies, I brushed against a pollen-loaded stamen, and my attention swerved.

  What sort of florist hadn’t taken the stamens off the lilies? Lily pollen stained everything in sight, and there were a lot of white dresses around, mine included. Jo had already warned me that this dress was so vintage it required specialist dry cleaning, and that I wasn’t to let Rolf anywhere near it with a red drink. Any drink, for that matter.

  Without thinking, I started to nip off the heavy orange stamens, dropping them into the cocktail napkin that I hadn’t been able to off-load onto a waiter. I was focusing on doing that as cleanly as I could when a warm hand touched the bare skin on the small of my back, and I squeaked with shock.

  I spun round, ready to apologize for defacing the arrangement (or slap Rolf’s face), and saw a much more welcome sight: Leo, effortlessly stylish in black tie, his blond hair brushed back, and two glasses of champagne in his hands.

  The relief. I can’t even tell you. Also, the burn of excitement at seeing him in a dinner jacket. Hot. Hot hot hot.

  “Hello!” He smiled his familiar eye-crinkling smile, and already the situation seemed less alien. “Don’t tell me—you’ve got some notes for the florists?”

  “Oh, they stain, and this dress …” I waved the napkin pollen-bomb stupidly.

  “Here, let me,” he said, juggling the glasses to take the napkin off me. He handed it to a waiter who’d materialized out of nowhere, as had three women in plunging dresses that seemed to be held up by sheer willpower. Leo smiled at them, then led me away to a quieter corner.

  “Can I get my apologies in first?” he asked, before I could speak. “I’m so sorry about leaving you with Rolf. I was on a conference call with New York that overran, and I couldn’t get away without jeopardizing the deal. And second, sorry we couldn’t schedule dinner beforehand, but I thought at least this way you only have to talk to Dad and Rolf before and after the performance. Start you off gently.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. I could feel curious eyes drilling into the back of my head. People were staring at us. Well, at Leo. “Thank you for sending the car.”

  “You’re welcome. I just wish I could have been in it. You

  look incredible,” he added. “I spotted you straightaway from the foyer.”

  “Why?” Panic flickered in me as people glanced over, then pointedly looked away. “Am I not wearing the right thing?”

  “No! Because your hair is about a foot higher than normal.” Leo touched one of the curls Jo had pinned up in a high bun, then touched my ear as if he couldn’t stop himself. “It really suits you. Shows off your lovely neck.”

  I stashed the compliment away for later and blushed. “Jo did it for me.”

  “And the dress is adorable, very on-trend with the vintage detailing.” He pretended to grimace. “I am allowed to say that. My mother’s in fashion.”

  I smiled, mainly at the conspiratorial wink he was giving me, the one no one else could see. “It’s all held up with sellotape, you know. I’m a bit worried it might peel off if it gets too hot.”

  “In that case, there’s no way I’m letting you sit near Rolf.” Leo’s face was straight, but his eyes were roguish above his champagne glass.

  I leaned forward anxiously, and he leaned forward too.

  “What?” he stage-whispered. “Was there an Incident in the limo?”

  “No! Leo, are you sure I’m wearing the right thing?” I whispered. “Everyone’s wearing diamonds and—and tiaras! People keep staring at me. I mean, I don’t have a tiara, but—should I have got one? I didn’t know the dress code was heirlooms.”

  Leo straightened up and spoke in a normal voice. “They’re staring at you because you look adorable, you nut. It’s a charity gala, you’re wearing exactly the right thing. I always think there’s something in bad taste about coming to a fund-raiser in a million dollars’ worth of jewelry and only donating ten quid to the actual cause.”

  He touched my arm lightly as he spoke, and a calm sensation spread through me. I had donation money in my handbag. Mum would have killed me if I’d forgotten that.

  “Now,” Leo went on, “if I can tear him away from his adoring public, let me introduce you to my father.”

  He nodded toward a gaggle of guests standing in what I assumed was the VIP area. As Leo approached, they parted, and in the middle of them was a tall man wearing the most impeccable black tie I’d ever seen, but with a bright pink bow tie. And pink Converse All Star sneakers.

  “Ignore the shoes,” muttered Leo, seeing me freeze like a rabbit in the headlights. “It’s his thing. He thinks they make him look like a film star.”

  Leo’s dad did look like a film star. Or rather, Boris looked like one of those eighties film stars who’d moved from leading-man roles into characterful father parts, with a sideline in high-profile humanitarian charity work. He had the same striking blue eyes as Leo, and his hair was sandy blond, swept back off his forehead in a thick swoop. His tan glowed against the sparkling white collar of his evening shirt, and when he reached forward to greet me, his cuffs gave off a sudden flash of bright light so sharp my head spun round to see where the photographer was.

  I later found out this was because he had diamond cuff links the size of pebbles.

  “Leo! And who is this beautiful woman?” he said, taking my hands and fixing me with his warm gaze.

  I had no idea what he was going to do with them, but I had to fight back the stupid grin forming on my face. It was like being bathed in the most flattering sunlight in the world. Keeping his unsettlingly blue eyes fixed on mine, Prince Boris raised my right hand to his lips and kissed the backs
of my fingers while still holding the left.

  Obviously, I melted like an ice cream. I tried not to simper too hard, but I heard a weird kitteny noise seep out nonetheless.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Rolf, who clearly didn’t like anyone muscling in on his charming slimeball act, least of all his dad. “Amy, that’s his standard greeting. If you were a guy, he’d ask who your tailor was so he could get himself a set of shoulders like that too.”

  “So I could send my son to him for a proper suit, you mean,” said Boris without taking his eyes off mine.

  “My suits are far more fashionable than—” Rolf started, but Leo coughed and took charge of the situation.

  “Papa, this is Amy Wilde,” he said. “Amy, my father, Prince Boris of Nirona and Svetland.”

  Boris inclined his head, and my smile stuck as my brain finally caught up.

  Should I curtsy? Could I curtsy in this tight dress? Was it better to curtsy and rip it? I did a jerky sort of bob, which made me look like I’d got a cramp; as I did, the two glasses of champagne I’d knocked back finally reached my head and collided with my jittering nerves, and I slipped forward.

  Leo put his arm out and stopped me lunging into his dad’s chest. He managed to make it seem as if he was just putting a protective arm around me, but I turned red all the same.

  Oh, great start.

  “Save that for later, maybe,” said Rolf from somewhere behind me.

  “Let’s not stand on ceremony,” said Boris with a gracious smile and a trace of an accent. “You can call me Your Serenity, or Prince Boris, or just Boris, it’s up to you.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Are you a fan of opera, Amy?” he inquired.

  “Or feral cats?” inquired Rolf in the same cordial tones.

  “Mmm! Both!” I smiled and nodded. From that point onward, I decided, polite smiling was going to be my default response to everything. Hopefully Leo would guide me through some more specific conversation later.

  An official appeared and murmured to the man in dark glasses standing two feet to the left of Prince Boris; the man then put his finger to his left ear, murmured something into his cuff link, and said, “If you’d like to take your seat, sir, everyone’s ready for you.”