The Runaway Princess

  I tried to telegraph “it’s fine, it’s just for today” using only my eyebrows, but then it struck me that actually Sofia was his employer, and I wasn’t. She knew the rules; Billy knew the rules; I didn’t.

  So I shut up and listened to Sofia reeling off all the appointments we had to fit in before three. I didn’t even want to think about what Ted would be saying when he got my text message about not being able to make it to Palace View to measure the big landscape boxes because I was having my teeth fixed.

  Just go with it, I told myself. Stick it out. For Leo.

  *

  If this were a film, there would now be a montage of me being marched around the West End in a flurry of high-end bags, nail files, and hair dryers, with maybe a jaunty shoe-trying-on sequence to the tune of, say, “Rich Girl” by Gwen Stefani. And at the end of it, I’d emerge beaming in triumph, all polished up and looking like a million dollars. I mean, I’ve seen Pretty Woman.

  It didn’t really work out like that.

  For a start, Sofia didn’t have a rail of fabulous evening wear wheeled into the personal shopping suite of Harvey Nichols. Instead, she gave me a lecture about flattering my figure with simple basics, and how I should stick to a palette of cream, oatmeal, and caramel, which is a fancy way of saying “no colors.”

  I didn’t mind the styling advice, which came from her and the personal shopper in a sort of bad cop/good cop routine. The stylist kept smiling and complimenting me on my “fresh” skin, and Sofia kept frowning and throwing out fascinatingly random details of etiquette, like how all royals wear closed-toe shoes, and that bare legs were totally out from now on. And some of the things they made me try were amazing—I had no idea how tall and elegant I could look in the right skirt.

  But as the clothes started being wrapped, as well as being piled up on the velvet couch, a disturbing thought struck me: Who was paying for all this?

  Slowly, panic clamped around my innards as I realized the probable answer was: me. My bank balance was teetering on the thin line between black and red, thanks to my new social life. Leo wouldn’t let me pay for much, but the more I noticed his casual chucking around of money, the more important I felt it was to pay my own way some of the time, if only to prove to myself that I was staying true to the life I’d built up. It was a point of principle: I didn’t want him to think I could be bought that easily.

  Sofia wasn’t checking the price tags, but I was—when they weren’t looking—and I’d had no idea you could even find a T-shirt that cost so much money. There was about three months’ salary currently draped over the arm of one chair, and Sofia hadn’t even started on closed-toe shoes yet.

  My mouth dried as the Card-Declined Shuffle played out in my head. Should I go to the loo and text Jo? Or Leo?

  Not Leo. I didn’t want Leo getting involved in this. I needed to show him I could handle situations with his sister.

  Sofia caught me looking at the door. “Problem?”

  I glanced anxiously at the assistant, who was busy calling down to the shoe department for reinforcements. I wasn’t sure how to start, especially with someone who seemed to treat Harvey Nichols like Topshop.

  “Um, are we taking all these clothes?” My voice sounded quite high. “Could I maybe just take the skirt and the jacket and—” That was five hundred pounds right there. For me, that was a week’s salary.

  Sofia furrowed her brow. “No, this is your capsule wardrobe. If Leo asks you to come home for the weekend, you’d need all these.”

  I’d already stayed there for the weekend. How bad had my outfits been? Had they prompted some kind of fashion intervention? My armpits prickled.

  “It’s lovely that you’ve got that … shabby chic thing going on, nothing wrong with it at all, but you need to upgrade to investment pieces. You need at least one go-to silk shirt,” said Sofia patronizingly. “And a versatile trouser. And a luxe cashmere knit. And a timeless shift in at least two foundation colors. You build from that. You see?”

  “Right.” I swallowed, and my panicky eye fell upon a sign by the desk. I could almost hear the celestial hallelujahs. Store cards! Of course! I could open one of those accounts. I was in the personal shopping suite with a princess, wasn’t I?

  “Do you think I should apply for a store card?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could. “You know, for the loyalty points? If I’m buying a lot, makes sense. …”

  “If you want.” Sofia seemed nonplussed. She was clearly a stranger to M&S gift vouchers, or paying things off over about twelve months.

  “Good. Good. Right. Let me go and … talk to the assistant.”

  I scuttled off in search of the assistant and tried to steer her into a discreet corner, just in case my application was declined. Mum had refused to have credit cards for the past ten years, just in case the credit check ran into Kelly’s history and set off some big red alarm above the tills; Dad, as a bank manager, saw them as a slippery slope, and had written me a four-page guide as to why they could end up ruining my life when I went to uni.

  But needs must. And in two shakes of a ballpoint pen, I was welcomed into the charging classes.

  *

  Sofia and I left Harvey Nichols with my brand-new credit card charged up to the limit with four bags of the most expensive plain clothes I’d ever clapped eyes on. While she phoned for Billy to collect us, I tried to work out how I was going to pay it off. There were a couple of extra balcony jobs I’d put on the back burner because Ted and I were already booked up till July, but if I focused my time and cut out all unnecessary activities, like sleeping and eating, I could fit them in. Just.

  From Harvey Nichols we went to a Harley Street dietician, who clamped my muffin top and bingo wings with calipers and prescribed a bag full of supplements, in addition to the diet that’d be delivered to our house every day; the personal trainer swaggered in, and ran through the ex-marines boot-camp exercise schedule I was on (although my aerobic capacity amazed them all—thank you, years of digging); and finally, two doors down, was the orthodontist who fitted me for my new invisible braces. And reconstructive work. When he examined my fillings, he actually made that “which cowboys did this work?” sucky noise that builders make.

  I tried to chat with Sofia throughout all this, but while she was cordial enough, she didn’t give me anything other than answers to my questions. I wondered if that was part of the training too—how to be so royal you never actually said anything.

  We arrived at the hairdresser’s on the King’s Road at three, and there wasn’t a single area of my body that wasn’t earmarked for improvement. In a way, it was quite Zen. I seemed to remember Grace Wright had been on an extortionately expensive monthlong retreat to “break down her ego” and had only got as far as throwing away her hand mirror. Sofia had broken me in under seven hours.

  I sank into the chair while the salon manager and Sofia (and Liza on the phone) chatted about my hair as if I weren’t there. It was almost soothing not to have to take responsibility for it. Sofia swanned off to get her own hair blow-dried, and I relaxed, until the junior brought my coffee and a pile of magazines, the top of which was the Hello! with me and Leo at the premiere of the new Keira Knightley film (Leo in black tie, looking like one of the Hollywood A-list, me looking like the Radio 1 listener who’d won a competition to go to a premiere).

  I shut it quickly, looked at my be-foiled reflection, and flinched. Then closed my eyes.

  When I thought back to that boxing gala Jo and I had gone to, just a few months ago, it almost made me laugh. I’d thought getting ready for that had been hard work, but it was nothing compared to this. Nothing. This was international-level maintenance carried out by trained professionals, not your flatmate wielding her hair irons, and Sofia hadn’t even started on the sinister-sounding “program of personal education” that would apparently cover things like the Wolfsburg family’s position in the European hierarchy of monarchy, and their charities, and their personal responsibilities within Nirona.

 
Not for the first time that day, I wondered whether there was a way I could subtly ask Sofia if every day was like this, or if this was a one-off, but I didn’t want to look like I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t want to give her another constitutional stick to beat Leo with.

  When my phone buzzed in my bag, I nearly didn’t answer, in case it was Liza with another beauty to-do, like “be stretched three inches”; but when I saw Leo’s name pop up, a warm feeling of relief spread through me.

  Hope all going ok. Let me take your new hairdo out tonight—Delaunay at 7? L

  I pulled my shredded personality together. Leo, I knew, loved my old hair, my old nails, and my old muffin top. He could only love this new improved version even more.

  *

  “Wow,” said Leo when the waiter showed me to his table, and pulled out my chair.

  I held my smile, because he didn’t follow it up with anything else; instead he seemed to be taking it all in—the sleek blow-dry that made my hair look so much longer, my subtly applied makeup, my understated camel cashmere T-shirt (new) over my best jeans (old) and platform shoe-boots (concealed). I had noticed heads turning when I walked through the packed restaurant, something that had never happened before, but that might have been because I was swaying dangerously in my unusually elevated state. Sofia hadn’t thrown in walking lessons with the new shoes.

  “Is that a good wow?” I ventured.

  Leo gave me an appreciative smile that made my stomach flip over. “Of course it is. You look amazing. I mean, you always look amazing, but this is a new sort of amazing.”

  “Why, thank you.” I shook out my napkin with a careless air and immediately knocked over my water glass. “Oh, nuts! Sorry, sorry.”

  We both scrambled to stop the water coursing across the pristine white cloth, and I accidentally put out the candle in the middle. The waiter was there relighting it, and another two were replacing the cloth before I could finish apologizing.

  When they were gone, he let the smile drift from his eyes down to his lips, and leaned across the table. “The thing I like best about the new you,” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear, “is that I can still see the old you underneath it.”

  “If you mean the klutz who knocks glasses over”—I pulled a regretful face—“I’m afraid she’s never going to go away.”

  “I absolutely insist that she doesn’t.” Leo held my gaze for a charged moment, then shook out his own napkin. “So, how was your day with Sofia? I see she’s dressed you as herself. Do you feel ready to march into the European Court of Human Rights and start reducing seasoned lawyers to jelly?”

  “I don’t think I could march very far in these heels, to be honest with you.”

  “In those heels, you’d just need to turn up to have them eating out of your hand.”

  I decided that maybe grooming wasn’t such a bad thing; it certainly seemed to be turning our dinner into a live-action episode of Mad Men. I’d never felt so grown-up, sitting here in the Delaunay in my diamonds and my blow-dry with my devilishly handsome fiancé. For the first time, my normal boring world and Leo’s glamorous world seemed to be merging into one. And I was actively enjoying it. I wasn’t even worried about mistaking a fellow diner for a waiter.

  “How was she?” he went on. “Apparently it’s all kicking off back home—they’re not happy about Rolf driving across the desert in a clapped-out Fiat in some rally.”

  “Because it’s too dangerous?”

  “Well, Mom thinks it is. Sofia probably doesn’t think it’s dangerous enough. And, of course, Giselle can’t be with him twenty-four seven to make sure he doesn’t do something outrageous, and it’s very hard for her to spin Rolf to begin with.”

  The thought that had been gnawing away at me all day finally slipped out. “Leo, be honest with me. Is Sofia really fine about the change of succession?”

  He looked up from the menu at once. “Why do you ask? Has she said something?”

  “No. It’s just … a feeling I get. That she’s not exactly thrilled.”

  He looked momentarily flustered, as if he hadn’t really thought about it.

  How could he not have thought about it? I wondered, amazed. She was his own sister! It was like Pavlos all over again.

  “I think she’s fine about it, far as I know. She seemed to be involved in some of the legal execution of the handover, so … Better to be the daughter of the guy in charge than his niece.”

  “But if Sofia’s always had a bee in her bonnet about the succession and how it can’t possibly be changed to accommodate women, it must be pretty galling to see it changed just like that for someone else?”

  Our appetizers arrived, and Leo waited until the waiter had gone before answering me. He seemed to be considering it properly.

  “I love that you’re so empathetic, Amy. God knows we need some of that in the family. But it’s like I said, normal rules don’t apply. We all know that’s the way the cookie crumbles. I hope she hasn’t said anything unpleasant to you about it?”

  “No! No, I just … can’t believe that you …”

  Oh dear. This wasn’t coming out the way I’d wanted.

  “Forget it,” I said lightly. “It’s probably just me, misunderstanding her sense of humor. Sofia’s quite hard to read.”

  “I’ve known her for twenty-seven years and I still can’t tell when she’s joking.” He paused. “I’m not sure she often is, to be honest. Anyway, there’s plenty of time for you two to get to know each other.” Leo beamed at me, and his eyes crinkled at the edges. “I was talking to Mom today about the Coronation Ball she’s hosting the weekend before the coronation—the palace staff are starting to plan that now, and she wanted to know which jewels you’ll want to wear.”

  “Which jewels?”

  He nodded, as if we were talking about shoes. “One of the traditions of the Coronation Ball is for the ladies of the family to get the state jewelry out of the vaults and wear it, for everyone to enjoy. Most of the pieces have got stories attached, how they wound up in our sticky hands.”

  “Such as?” I was agog already. Not just jewels, but jewels with stories!

  “Well, there’s the Rudolfo suite—emeralds and diamonds, tiara, choker, earrings, et cetera, et cetera. They’re traditionally worn by the Princess of Nirona, Mom, now. Rolf’s named for this guy, Rudolfo—he was a Wolfsburg younger son who made a fortune playing cards all over Europe, mostly from other younger-son princes. Granddad used to tell this great story about a scandalous divorce caused by just one night of blackjack in the room in the palace when Rudolfo won the Empress Josephine’s emeralds from one Italian duke and an estate in Ireland from an English general and some Russian aristo’s oldest daughter.”

  “Really?” I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth. “The aristocracy gambled with their children?”

  Leo waggled his hand. “This child was about forty-one at the time. The good news for us was that Rudolfo was gallant enough to decline the daughter but quite happy to take the jewels and the estate.”

  I was privately quite glad I wouldn’t be wearing those. “Are there any that I’m officially supposed to wear?”

  A thrill ran through me. Me! Being an official part of the jewel displaying!

  “You can have whatever you like, you’ve got first pick since Mom’s wearing the emeralds. So find a dress, then choose which pieces suit you best.” Leo attacked his steak with gusto. “Has Mom spoken to you about meeting with a designer? I love that blue Zoë Weiss one, but I think for this ball all the dresses have to be a certain color this year, for charity.”

  “Sofia didn’t mention it,” I said. “We covered nearly everything else, though.”

  He put his cutlery down and reached into his pocket for his iPhone. “How about you come out with me on Thursday, for the weekend? We can meet with the designers for your therapy garden, and Mom can schedule a consult for the dress, and we can check in with the jeweler, and still have time for ourselves.”

  Leo gave me a
winning look. Normally I’d have said yes immediately, but this time I couldn’t.

  “Sorry, I can’t get away till Friday night,” I said. “I’ve meetings all Friday with the Palace View developers, about the communal meadow area that we’re creating. I’m getting some people round from the bee conservation—what?”

  Leo was doing that “as soon as you stop talking I’m going to start” wineglass fidget. It was very off-putting.

  “No, go on,” he prompted.

  But I’d lost my train of thought. “Um, yeah, Palace View. I need to make sure everything’s on track, because if Ted and I do well on this, then it could be the opening we need to—what?”

  “I was just thinking that now you’ve got so many demands on your time, isn’t it time you thought about some sideways management?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Well, someone’s going to have to take over the reins at some point, so why not now? Get them to sit in on the meetings, train them up.”

  I tightened my grip on my wineglass. “But it’s my project. And it took me ages to get to this point.”

  “It’ll still be your project,” he said easily, “but if you’ve got a good assistant on the case, you can run it from wherever you happen to be. That’s how I deal with office stuff when I’m in Nirona. We all do it.”

  “We’re not really at the point where we can afford an assistant,” I said. We weren’t even at the point where I could borrow five grand from the business to pay off my credit card. Resistance fermented in my stomach.

  “Tell you what,” said Leo, returning to his steak. “Why don’t I invest in your eco-friendly landscaping company—right up my portfolio alley—and you can hire someone? You’ll be freed up, Ted’ll get someone new to boss around, business expands. Everyone’s a winner.”

  I gazed at him over the table, seeing the banker in him properly for the first time. One half of my brain was saying, Wow, he wants to invest in my business, and the other half was saying, quite loudly, Isn’t this just another case of chucking money at a problem so it goes away?