The Runaway Princess

  Eventually I had to stop drinking tea because I was too embarrassed to go and find someone to tell me where the loo was.

  When Leo finally appeared at half two, in jeans and a fresh white shirt and hair that looked slept-on but all the more sexy for it, he wasted no time in spiriting me out through a side entrance into the gardens. He marched me through the Italian garden and the Australian bush garden to the private family gardens that tourists weren’t allowed in; then he grabbed me and gave me a tight hug that made the blood shoot round my body.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” he said, pressing his nose into my hair. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Leo,” I said, gently wriggling free, “is everything okay? What’s happening?”

  He pulled a “not really” face, then sat me down on the nearest stone bench.

  “Granddad died this morning.” I could tell he was struggling not to cry.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” I took his hands, threading my fingers through his.

  “In a way, I’m glad. He was there at the end, but he was weak and there were problems—serious ones. He was a very active man, he’d have hated being on machines. It’s as if he was only hanging on long enough to …” He stared out over the garden and pressed his lips together.

  “You don’t have to hold anything back for me,” I murmured into his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

  Leo turned back to me with wet eyes. “You were saying how the last thing your grandmother did was to give you Badger?”

  I nodded. “She thought I was the only one who’d look after him properly. It was typical of her that her last thought was about tidying up.”

  “Well, the last thing Granddad did was to change the succession. Dad’s the new sovereign prince now. Not Pavlos.”

  I blinked in surprise. “What?”

  “Granddad apparently ‘remembered’ that Dad had been born ten minutes before Pavlos, and that he’d only said Pavlos was older because my grandmother had thought he was born first, and he didn’t want to contradict her in public.”

  “But isn’t it on the birth certificate?”

  Leo pressed his thumbs into his eyes wearily. He didn’t look as if he’d slept at all. “You’re not going to believe this, but they’ve produced a birth certificate that says otherwise. If I were a really suspicious person, I’d wonder if he’d had two done at the time for this very reason.”

  “But why would someone do that?”

  “To see how your two heirs shaped up and then decide later?”

  “What? Like The Apprentice?” I realized a nanosecond too late that that probably wasn’t the most tactful way of putting it.

  Leo shrugged and nodded. “It’s like I said, at the time the cabinet wanted a serious heir. Pavlos’s always been serious. He’s a qualified tax accountant—he does the family tax returns for fun. He represented Nirona at chess. The most controversial thing he’s done in his entire life is marry a Frenchwoman.”

  “That’s not controversial.”

  “I know. He’s … a bit dull. But, God, I should have seen it coming—things are different now, banking isn’t what it was, tourism’s on the way up again, and …” Leo wiped his face with his hand. “I guess Granddad felt that glamour’s where the money is, and that Mom and Dad will do a better job of keeping Nirona on the map. Mom’s got her media profile in the US, and Dad’s very popular. Sofia’s got some historical credibility, with the books she’s published about the family, I’ve got the banking experience, and even Rolf’s got connections in the entertainment industry. …”

  He trailed off as his words sank in. I made myself count the seagulls flying across the bay to connect myself to this surreal conversation. I couldn’t take it in.

  A leaden feeling was pooling in my stomach. I didn’t have connections to the entertainment industry. Or academic credibility. Or anything else that would count in Wolfsburg PLC. And it was so easy to get rid of people who didn’t fit.

  I wondered how much money Boris was going to throw at the Pavlos problem. What sort of payoff did princes need?

  One. Two. Three. Four. There were a lot of seagulls here. Five. Six. Keep counting, don’t speak. Seven. Eight.

  “But what about Pavlos!” I said, unable to hold it in. “He’s devoted his whole life to being taken seriously! How does he feel, having it taken away from him? What about his kids? Haven’t they been sitting in every night eating pizza instead of going wild in Boujis?”

  “I know it sounds harsh, but it’s not about him. It’s about what’s best for the country,” said Leo. “That’s always been drilled into us, even me and Rolf. Nirona’s like an extra dad. You’ve always got to put it first. How you behave, how you spend your holidays, what job you choose. If Granddad thought that what Nirona needed was a more glamorous, proactive monarchy, then Pavlos will just have to deal with it.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was trying to relate the situation to something I’d felt myself, but the closest I’d got to this sort of thing was when Dad’s brother Terry had wanted my cousin Steve to take over the family bakery and he’d refused because of his skin condition and there’d been words. Even though, as Di Overend put it, no one likes a scabby bun.

  “I mean, Pavlos might be happy for all we know.” Leo turned his palms up with a shrug. “He couldn’t do his orienteering at any sort of competitive level while he was the heir to the throne, in case of injury.”

  “Well, that’s okay, then.” I knew I was taking it too personally, but there was nothing wrong with Pavlos. He was a bit dull, and a bit balding compared with Boris and Liza’s luxuriant manes, but not dispensable. “I’m sure Mathilde will be relieved she doesn’t have to be the reigning princess, if Pavlos can spend more time running around the local forests with a compass and a whistle. It’s every little girl’s dream to be married to a man in an

  anorak.”

  Leo ran a hand through his messy hair, making it stick up even more. “Amy, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about on your own. Before anyone else gets back.”

  “Um, okay.” This sounded ominous.

  “The situation now’s very different to what it was last week. Whether we like it or not, things have changed for me.”

  He swallowed, stared at the ground, then looked straight at me, his expression disconcertingly serious. His familiar face had an edge to it I suddenly didn’t recognize, and I had the sickening sensation of being on the other side of a widening chasm.

  “If you want to break off the engagement,” said Leo, “I will completely understand.”

  I blinked in shock. Break off the engagement? “What?”

  “If you want to break it off, then I understand,” he repeated.

  “Are you saying …” I really did feel nauseous now; I could taste the tea rising in my throat. “Are you saying … that now you’re the crown prince … we shouldn’t get married?”

  As soon as the words left my mouth, I was embarrassed. How could a gardener stand next to him in a tiara and state robes? The country would be expecting someone like Liza, or Sofia. I knew I couldn’t do what Liza did. Leo was trying to give me a dignified exit, making it look like my decision, while they got busy restructuring their new royal family.

  Icy prickles of humiliation sliced through me, despite the warm sun.

  I started to take off the diamond ring on my finger, but my hands were shaking and I couldn’t get it over my knuckle.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Giving … you … your … ring back.” I finally got it off, and offered it to him. “There. You can find someone more princessy to give it to.”

  Leo’s jaw dropped open. “No! Oh, my God, no, what gave you that idea?”

  “You did! Just now! You asked me to break off our engagement!”

  “Amy, no, it’s the other way round.” He grabbed my hands, but didn’t push the ring straight back on. “It won’t just be me you’re marrying now. When Dad’s crowned, I’ll have to be here much more.
I might be able to carry on my job part-time, but I’d have official duties too, especially if Mom’s going to be back and forth to the US with this campaign. She wants to be a UN goodwill ambassador. It’s not like the royal family runs the country, but our role has always been hands-on, lots of public appearances and charity work. As my wife, you’d have to take on some fund-raising of your own. …” He paused. “I know you’re not mad about public appearances. You don’t enjoy that side of my life. That’s fair enough.”

  I stared at him. If I said no, was that giving them ammunition to fire me too?

  “I would try,” I heard myself say. “For you. If it’s important for you. …”

  Leo suddenly looked older. More like a man, a man with responsibilities that were weighing him down. “That would just be the start. Ultimately, you’d have to be with me when I take over from Dad. You’d be taking on the top job too. I’ve got no choice in the matter. But you have. I know you’d be wonderful, you’re so natural with people, so good at listening, but I don’t want to force you into it.”

  My heart banged so hard against my chest I could hardly breathe. It was dreamlike but thrilling at the same time, that Leo honestly believed I was up to taking on a job he cared so much about himself. That he wanted me next to him.

  “I mean, I’m assuming Dad isn’t going to change the succession so Rolf inherits instead of me,” he added.

  “I think Rolf would have to get some shoes with laces first,” I said. “And a shave. Stubble is not a good look with a crown.”

  Leo managed a quick smile, but his expression still seemed wary. “Do you need a little time to think about this? I don’t want to rush you. It’s a big decision.”

  “I don’t need any time at all,” I said, all the whispering doubts in my heart swept away. “I want to marry you. I want to be with you. If you’re going to be a banker or a prince or a gardener, I’d want to be with you, helping you to do whatever you had to do. Making you happy. And I hope you’d do the same for me.”

  “You know I would,” said Leo. He gazed at me, relief mingling with the sadness in his red-rimmed eyes. He traced the line of my cheekbone with his finger, touching the bump of my nose. “And I will. I promise I will.”

  He took his great-grandmother’s diamond ring from my fingers, and tried to fit it back on. But my knuckles had swollen up with friction, and it wouldn’t move.

  My heart sank. Oh, God. It was an omen. I’d broken the spell. I’d thrown away the ring!

  “Oh no. You don’t get away that easily,” he said, and grabbing my hand, he plunged it into the water feature behind us, holding it down until my skin chilled. Then he slid the ring on my finger, and smiled triumphantly.

  I looked at the diamonds sparkling in the sunshine and tried to make the moment stick in my head: I was Amy Wilde from Hadley Green, and I was going to be a crown princess.

  And then Leo leaned forward, took my face in his hands, and kissed me, slowly and sweetly, while the fountain trickled behind us, and the bougainvillea tumbled in front of us, and it was as if he’d proposed all over again but this time in Technicolor.

  Twenty-one

  Back in London, the reality of where my life was now headed began to sink in when I had a sneaky look at the prince-hunting websites and discovered that I now had my own official page on YoungHot&Royal.

  My hit-rate was second only to Rolf’s; he had celebrated his promotion to second in line by buying a racehorse called Daft Mare. But whereas online posters were lining up to lust after Rolf’s luscious lips and chest hair, they were mainly concerned with making personal comments about my “manly” calves and taking bets on how long it would be before Leo got back with Flora Hardy-Torrence.

  “It’s not fair to use a photo of you at a funeral,” Jo complained on my behalf. (I had to pretend I didn’t check it four times a day.) “You’re supposed to be looking sad and dignified. There’s no need for the ‘miserable’ caption. You’re wearing a fascinator, for God’s sake. Those things pinch.”

  “They’re not blackheads either,” I pointed out from the kitchen, where I was potting some seeds. “That’s the veil.”

  “I’ll write and correct them.”

  “No! Don’t.”

  The photograph was of me outside Nirona’s beautiful Gothic cathedral, on top of the island’s highest hill. Leo’s grandfather’s funeral had been a magnificent state affair, and it gave me the first big culture shock of our new relationship. Until now, Boris and Liza hadn’t seemed too different from some of the wealthier clients Ted and I worked for in London—thanks to recommendations from Jo’s limpetlike client Callie, we’d worked in some spectacular houses. Even the glamorous nights out as Leo’s black-tie date had started to feel almost normal, given that they often ended with us curled up on his squashy sofa, me eating cereal in my evening wear while he rubbed my sore feet and checked the markets one last time before bed.

  But the crowds that greeted Prince Wilhelm’s horse-drawn carriage made me realize that in Nirona, at least, Leo wasn’t just some wealthy businessman. He was their prince of hearts. Thousands of people lined the streets around the cathedral, many waving flags and wearing black armbands, and banks of international cameramen jostled for pictures of Leo and Rolf walking in the procession behind a somber but tanned Boris and a haggard Pavlos. (Further Internet research suggested that haggard was his default expression, but clearly orienteering wasn’t quite the compensation Leo thought for losing the top job.)

  Both Leo and Rolf looked as brooding and handsome as film stars, with purple state sashes over one shoulder and jet-polished shoes you could see your face in. Some girls screamed as they went past and were roundly shushed, but even so, I got the message. If Leo was going to break the hearts of all Nironan women under the age of thirty-eight, I was going to have to prove to them I was more Cinderella than Yoko Ono.

  The paparazzi aimed their lenses at me too, even though I didn’t walk with the family, our engagement not yet being officially announced in the court circular. That made me feel uncomfortable; my makeup was heavier than normal, and I was terrified of smiling by accident and someone posting it on the Internet as “Amy’s Disrespect.” Leo had told me to go to Harvey Nichols and buy whatever I needed, but I’d stuck to a plain black coat and a hat that the assistant talked me into against my better judgment. I’d never worn a hat; my masses of hair had always been enough of an event on their own. Liza had had her hairdresser do an emergency restyle on me so my fascinator stayed clamped on my head, then put me in Car Five with Nina the assistant and some distant cousins.

  “It’s better to keep it low-key,” as Liza said. (Actually, we were all supposed to be calling her Eliza, now she was the sovereign princess.) “We can shoot the official engagement photo when all this calms down. It’ll cheer people up. Everyone loves a royal wedding.”

  So that was the next big thing preying on my mind as I went back to London, to a grumpy Ted and a gardening diary full of postponed appointments: the official engagement photo. I’d never enjoyed having my photo taken, as I never looked the way I did in my head; and now, thanks to the fashion police at YoungHot&Royal.com, I knew that my natural resting expression was “vacant.” However, I tried hard to believe Leo when he persuaded me that it would be fine, and that Liza’s team of makeup artists and stylists would make sure I looked as gorgeous in the final photograph as he assured me I did in real life.

  Or as Ted put it, as he reluctantly helped me with a rescheduled border-planting session in Fulham, “There’s always Photoshop.”

  *

  Three days later, I got the e-mail from Liza informing me and Leo, with Nina and her press officer, Giselle, cc’ed in, that plans for the ceremonial blessing of Prince Leo and Princess Amelia were now “very near the top of her agenda!” and that I should be prepared to clear diary space at short notice.

  From my wedding onward, I would be known as Princess Amelia. I found that out from the glossy press release that Liza’s office had prepared
for us to sign off on.

  “Amelia? What’s wrong with Amy?” said Leo when I read it aloud to him. We were having a picnic lunch in his office; he didn’t have time to make it across town on his shorter hours, but I didn’t mind. The panoramic view from his window over the City was something I was happy to trek across town for.

  “She says she thinks Amelia sounds more royal. She told me she changed her name to Eliza from Liza. What could I say?”

  He snorted. “You’ll notice that she’s not calling me Prince Leopold. That’s a lot more royal. And she chose it.”

  “Look, I don’t mind,” I said, although it already felt as if the press release was about someone else. Giselle had gone very heavy on “Amelia’s” expertise in organic horticulture and garden design, her commitment to preserving biodiversity in the form of honeybee protection schemes, her interest in fringe theater, and her delight in outdoor pursuits (which I assumed was the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award I’d told her about).

  I mean, technically it was all true—and I had just signed the Palace View landscaping contract, which was a huge deal to me, at least. In a way, it was quite flattering to see myself through their eyes—but also a bit … scary.

  “If she thinks Amelia’s better … Technically it is my name, I’ve just never been called it.”

  “Is it?” Leo swung round on his office chair. He looked surprised. “Did you tell her that? Or did she subpoena your birth certificate?”

  “I think I told Giselle. …” I couldn’t remember. Giselle had a way of extracting details that made you feel you were in a centrifuge—i.e., dizzy and eager to give up information. “I had that chat with her after the funeral.”

  Leo’s expression changed to one of sympathy. “I forgot you talked to her. What else did she winkle out of you? You know the CIA had to sack Giselle for unsafe practices?”