Killer Queens (13 page)

‘Blimey, Chlo. Hard to believe you’re marrying into all this, babe.’

But Sophie wandered in and plopped her tiny little bottom onto the arm of one of the Chippendales without the slightest concern for their value or historical worth, quite indifferent to the creaking sound of the delicate wood.

‘Quite a mouth on you, Laura,’ she continued, staring up at Lauren, a cigarette dangling from between her fingers; Lady Margaret gestured swiftly at a footman, who dashed over with an ashtray a mere second before the trail of grey ash hit the hand-woven silk carpet. ‘I must say, you’d fit right into any massed gathering of squaddies.’

‘It’s Lauren, not Laura,’ Chloe snapped. ‘And she doesn’t swear any more than any of your lot do in private. It’s her accent you’re really talking about, not her effing and blinding.’

‘I did say “squaddies”,’ Sophie pointed out lightly.

‘Well, if we’re talking about massed gatherings, that’s your friend Minty, right? Pulled more trains than Thomas the Tank Engine, by all accounts,’ Lauren said, hands on hips.

‘Actually,’ Chloe chipped in, ‘it would really be Toby. He did the heavy goods pulling, didn’t he?’

‘Or Mavis,’ Lauren said, really getting into it now. ‘She was the diesel engine, right? Didn’t she do lots of shunting?’

Chloe had been trying to keep a straight face, but Lauren pronounced ‘shunting’ with such relish that she snorted a little. Lauren was more than equal to continuing on her own, however.

‘But I’ll bow to Princess Sophie’s experience of squaddies,’ Lauren added. ‘I heard you like a bit of rough, love,’ she said directly to Sophie. ‘Uniforms and all.’

The footman who had handed Sophie the ashtray and retreated to his post by the main door went as red as the satin waistcoat he wore under his black tailcoat. Lauren winked at him and flicked her mass of extensions over one shoulder.

‘At least I’m not so ignorant that I bitched about being given an old ring, rather than my fiancé popping out to a
shop
and getting me a new one,’ Sophie snapped.

‘I
never
said that!’ Chloe exclaimed, outraged: she knew much better than that now, was fully aware that one should not buy, but inherit, one’s own furniture and jewellery and paintings.

‘Oh dear, didn’t you?’ Sophie said, a smile curling her pretty lips. She tossed back her blonde locks. ‘What a shame! Because I read something on the internet about that – you getting all ratty with Hugo because you didn’t get a nice shiny new ring. How
terribly
unfair, if you didn’t actually say anything like that! I wonder who could
possibly
have told people the story?’

‘
Sophie
,’ Lady Margaret said reproachfully. ‘Chloe is going to be your sister. I really think it’s time for you to—’

‘She’s
not
going to be my sister!’ Sophie said furiously, jumping to her feet. ‘She’ll never be my sister! God, I
wish
Mummy were still around! Mummy would never have let things get this far! She’d have put a stop to things before Hugo got in too deep with Little Miss Dog Rose!’

‘
Sophie!
’

Lady Margaret was furious now. Chloe couldn’t help but be mortified that this scene was taking place in front of two footmen; it was yet another difference between born aristocrats like Lady Margaret and Sophie and commoners like Chloe and Lauren that the former took no notice whatsoever at the presence of staff members.

‘I
knew
your mother very well,’ Lady Margaret said to Sophie icily, ‘and let me tell you, she was
not
a snob! Besides, you must be aware that your parents’ marriage wasn’t exactly the success of the century, you silly girl, and Belinda’s blood was as blue as—’

‘Ink,’ Lauren filled in, as Lady Margaret flailed for a metaphor.

‘Yes! Ink!’ Lady Margaret flapped her hands impatiently. ‘Belinda’s blood was as blue as ink, and much good it did her and Oliver! If I were you, Sophie, I’d concentrate on the fact that your brother has found a nice girl who’s very compatible with him, and be pleased that Chloe is so suitable in many respects!’

‘Ow,’ Lauren muttered to Chloe. ‘Bet you want that on your tombstone, eh? “Suitable in many respects”.’

Lady Margaret, towering over willowy, slight Sophie, continued:

‘And Lauren, who is a
very
efficient young woman, and
extremely
gifted at all this public relationship thingywhatsit that we’re all forced to engage in now—’

‘She’s actually nicer about me than she is about you,’ Lauren noticed, very amused.

‘ –
does
have a point about your reputation, Sophie! I can’t deny that I’ve heard the rumours myself! One of the housekeepers at Kensington Palace told me that when you get back home the worse for wear not a single footman is safe from your attentions!’

Lauren’s heavily pencilled eyebrows shot up as she tried her best not to snigger. Both footmen standing with their backs to the walls of the Belgian Suite’s sitting room were now avoiding each other’s eyes.

‘You and your friend Araminta are
notorious
!’ Lady Margaret continued, and even Sophie flinched at this: clearly it was a very bad word in the posh lexicon. ‘Both of you need to take a good hard look at yourselves before you end up in serious trouble. Honestly, Sophie, sometimes I think I should tell Oliver to make you join the army! You need serious discipline!’

‘Don’t know if that’d be the best idea, Lady M,’ Lauren said irrepressibly. ‘All those squaddies in their camos – you’d have to bury her in a Y-shaped coffin.’

One of the footmen nearly broke Palace protocol by bursting out laughing; only the strict discipline of his training allowed him to choke it back at the last minute.

‘
Not
helpful!’ Lady Margaret rounded furiously on Lauren, her weather-beaten face creased into a frown so deep that even Lauren muttered:

‘Sorry. Too far,’ in instant apology, shuffling her feet like a schoolgirl being hauled over the coals by the headmistress.

‘I’m
so
sick of this!’ Sophie exclaimed passionately, throwing her cigarette at the ashtray and managing, through some miracle, to hit the target. ‘Everyone’s always picking on me! Hugo’s so bloody perfect, he does everything right, never gives anyone a moment’s trouble, and
I’m
always the one people get cross with! It’s
so
unfair! You
know
Daddy’s livid that Hugo’s marrying her, but he doesn’t get it in the neck like I do! It’s like everyone just
makes
me out to be the bad one! But at least I just
shag
my commoners, I don’t
marry
them!’

Lauren’s fists clenched; Chloe took a step forward, allowing herself, for a brief, glorious moment, the fantasy of doing what she and Lauren had talked about yesterday, planting a punch in the middle of Sophie’s pretty face with her left hand, seeing that cabochon emerald smack into her cheekbone. Sophie’s eyes met Chloe’s, read the fury in them, and the colour drained from her face in fear; but the actual blow that landed was, quite unexpectedly, from Lady Margaret. The slap, from a hand calloused and strong from decades of trowelling earth and reining in horses, sent Sophie reeling.

‘
Oww!
’ she shrieked, just as the door opened, held by the footman outside, and Hugo, in a smart blue suit and Britannia Royal Naval College silk tie, his shoes polished, his hair brushed back as smoothly as his curls would allow, walked into the sitting room. Chloe blinked as she took in the tie, which had wide diagonal stripes of bright yellow, red, blue and burgundy and was pretty much the ugliest thing she had ever seen.

‘What’s going on?’ he exclaimed, looking from his fiancée to his sobbing sister. ‘Honestly, we’re all supposed to be
happy
today!’

Letting out a long, bubbling sob, Sophie pushed past him and dashed for the door.

‘She’s upset that she wasn’t invited to the wedding of King Joachim and that beach volleyball girl that you’re off to in a couple of months,’ Lauren said smoothly, adding insult to injury. ‘She’s feeling all left out, poor thing.’

Sophie turned by the door, shot Lauren a glance of utter hatred, and then made her exit, grabbing the door from the footman’s hand and slamming it herself to demonstrate the level of her rage.

‘Goodness,’ Hugo said, staring, baffled, after his sister. ‘I had no
idea
Soph liked weddings so much! Shall we see if we can bag her an invite to Herzoslovakia? It’ll be dull as ditch-water, but if she’s getting
that
upset . . . Isn’t she going to be one of your bridesmaids, Chlo? That should cheer her up too, shouldn’t it?’

‘Not when she sees her dress,’ Lauren muttered happily to Chloe. ‘Peach is going to absolutely
fuck
with her colouring.’

Present day

‘Fatiha, your back’s so much straighter!’ Belinda said encouragingly, bending down in front of the Berber woman who, in loose linen clothes, was executing Downward Dog on a bright purple mat spread out on the marble floor. She considered Fatiha’s alignment thoughtfully for a moment, then took up a position in front of Fatiha’s wide-spread hands.

‘Grab onto my ankles,’ Belinda instructed. Fatiha lifted her head in surprise, saw her mistress nodding, and then, giggling a little, reached out and cautiously lifted one hand and then the other, holding onto Belinda’s ankles.

‘I’m just going to stretch you out a bit,’ Belinda said, stepping back fractionally, increasing the pull on Fatiha’s arms, making her spine straighten as she did so. ‘Can you feel that?’

‘Yes,
madame
,’ Fatiha said obediently, and Belinda hoped she meant it; one of the troubles of teaching yoga and Pilates to the Berber women who staffed Rahim’s estate in the High Atlas mountains was that they were so fiercely loyal to Rahim, the prince of their tribe, that they found it very difficult to tell Belinda, his consort, if something wasn’t working.

‘Can you see?’ she said to the three other women in the class. ‘Zahra, Souniya, Asmaa, stand up for a moment – she can’t hold this for ever—’

The three others gratefully abandoned their own Dogs, walking their hands up to their feet and rolling up to stand. Belinda watched them with pride, aware of how supple their backs were now after years of her lessons.

‘See how her shoulder blades are really sinking into her back now?’ she said, leaning forward to lay her fingers lightly on either side of Fatiha’s spine. ‘Her back’s getting so lovely and straight!’

‘Yes,
madame
,’ they all murmured in unison.

‘Right, Fatiha, you can let go now and walk back into Child’s Pose,’ Belinda instructed, and felt the tight grip on her ankles release as Fatiha obeyed. ‘All of you, take up Child’s Pose now,’ Belinda added. ‘I’ll come round and give you each an adjustment.’

She pressed down on each woman in turn as they folded forward onto their mats, their stomachs relaxing between the spread of their open knees. It had taken years, too, to stop them automatically giggling every time their mistress touched them; now, they positively sighed in release as Belinda’s hands pushed their shoulders further down, her knees bracing back against their hips, lengthening out each of their backs in turn.

‘Come up by rolling onto your right side and pushing yourself up gently, raising your head,’ she said. ‘And then lie down for Corpse Pose.’

As they stretched out, she walked around the room, laying a scented lavender cushion across their eye sockets to blot out the light completely, running through a gentle litany of how to relax, from the top of their head right down to their toes; the forehead melting into the hairline, the eyebrows separating gently, the cheekbones spreading out to the ears, the tongue resting on the roof of the mouth, the lips slightly parted . . . by this time, Asmaa, as always, had begun to snore lightly, and the other women were breathing regularly, the clearly audible breath that was called Ujjayi by yogis.

Belinda surveyed her little group with immense fondness as she sat down softly and folded her legs into full lotus, hands in prayer position at her breastbone. This had been one of the things that had kept her sane and focused in her exile with Rahim, first learning the discipline of Iyengar yoga, and then realizing that she wanted to teach it too. Her regular classes were hugely satisfying to her; she had seen the posture and strength of her pupils improve, and recently she had started a children’s class too. She ran a mat Pilates class, too, which she had had to modify for her students – none of the Berber women had the slightest interest in flattening their stomachs.

‘You can remove your eye mask and start to open your eyes now,’ she said, pitching her voice loud enough to wake up Asmaa, who snorted, caught her breath and spluttered into consciousness. ‘Then roll to your right sides and come up slowly to sit.’

The women sat up and swung their legs into excellent cross-legged positions; used, unlike Westerners, to sitting on the ground frequently, their hips were much looser than Belinda’s had been when she first started practising yoga. Their hands rose to their breastbones in an echo of Belinda’s pose, their heads bowed with hers: they all murmured ‘Namaste’ together and as they lowered the backs of their hands to rest on their knees, their heads rose again, wide smiles mirroring back hers.

‘Thank you all,’ Belinda said happily. ‘Very good class, everyone.’

‘Thank you,
madame
,’ they all chorused cheerfully.

Calling her
madame
had been Rahim’s idea; as they were not married, Belinda was not, technically, his princess, and besides, that title was the last one they wanted to associate with her in her new life. The Berbers all spoke fluent French, and
madame
had seemed a neat solution to the problem. Her new name, Hana, was barely spoken; lovers rarely need to use each other’s names, and to everyone else at the Tarhouna Palace, Belinda was simply
madame
, their adored prince’s beloved consort.

Belinda stood up and left the room so that her class could put away the mats, yoga bricks and bolsters they had used that session. The wooden door, carved with decorative chinks and curlicues, allowed light and air to filter through, but even so the bright Moroccan sun outside was always a shock, like walking on stage, a sudden blinding burst of white hitting her square in the face. The sky seemed already bleached of its blue by the force of the sun; Belinda skirted the edge of the shallow tiled pond in the centre of the courtyard, water trickling gently into it from a high fountain – a modern, sculptural shape that looked like loose slabs of Carrara marble stacked carelessly one on top of the other. There were pools and fountains scattered throughout the palace, oases of water in the dry heat of the sun, encircled by cloistered courtyards which provided shade, and whose elegant arches threw darker silhouettes across the tiled floors.