Killer Queens (3 page)

‘And it’s not just chaps telling stories, either,’ Toby went on. ‘There must be photos of Minty
en deshabille
on half the mobiles in London.’

Chloe allowed herself an ironic smile. The Palace set had a tendency to assume that they knew everyone, or rather, everyone who mattered; they would regularly say ‘all of London’, or ‘all of Scotland’, when what they really meant was ‘the handful of families we grew up with’. ‘The
gratin,
as Hugo’s father, Prince Oliver, called it, meaning ‘the upper crust’.

‘And videos, too,’ Toby added as they shuffled round. ‘
Lots
of videos. I’ve got one of her and Nacho Montes after a polo match – top stuff! Honestly wouldn’t have thought it possible. Nacho’s really pretty damn impressive. Huge thighs, you know. Helps for balance, I suppose, when you’re shagging a girl on top of a horse.’

Chloe was giggling now, her head on his shoulder. Toby always managed to cheer her up when she was feeling down.

‘Thank you, Tobes,’ she murmured in heartfelt tones into his handmade Savile Row shirt. ‘You do know how to make me feel better.’

Toby pulled back a little and looked down at her, his handsome face unexpectedly serious.

‘You’re the one for old Huge, Chlo,’ he said. ‘Really, you are. He’s got a big old job to do, and it’s heavy on his shoulders. You’re just the girl to help him carry the weight. Nothing against Uncle Olly, but he hasn’t exactly been much use in the father department. He should have married again, really. Given Huge and Soph another mama. And Great-uncle and Great-aunt’ – this was how Toby referred to King Stephen and Queen Alexandra – ‘are all terribly stiff-upper-lip and buck-up-and-play-the-game, you know? Doesn’t suit Hugo. He’s a lover, not a fighter.’

Chloe had never been more grateful for her ability to keep a natural smile plastered to her face. As she stared up at Toby, letting the full weight of his words sink in, no one around them would have realized the importance of what he had just said. Toby had endorsed her as Hugo’s future wife. This was truly momentous. Her feet kept moving, following Toby’s shuffle, her body swayed gently, but her brain was processing what he had just said with a mixture of excitement and disbelief.

Chloe and Hugo had been a couple, on and off, for five years. Long enough for Chloe to be absolutely sure that she was in love with Hugo, the person, and not Prince Hugo, the heir to the British throne. Long enough for Chloe to fully understand the level of scrutiny to which she would be subjected for the rest of her life, if she were given the opportunity to marry him, and to accept that that would be the price to be paid. Long enough for any normal young couple to decide that they were ready to get engaged: Chloe was twenty-seven, Hugo twenty-nine.

And more than long enough for the nickname ‘Lonely Chlo’ to burn its reluctant owner, every time she heard it, as if it were a dash of acid over her bare skin.

Chloe knew that she was by no means the bride that the Royal Family would have chosen for Hugo. To be fair, neither was the Honourable Araminta Farquhar-Featherstonehaugh (surname pronounced Farker-Fanshawe, in what Chloe considered a deliberate attempt to make common people look stupid when they got it wrong). The King and Queen would have preferred a nice, quiet, not-very-bright girl from the ranks of the aristocracy, one who had been born into the
gratin
knowing every unspoken rule, who had her own silly nickname – ‘Wonky’, or ‘Flaps’, perhaps.

She felt her chin raise in defiance of Hugo’s snobbish grandparents and icily distant father.

Toby’s absolutely right,
she thought proudly.
I
am
the girl to help Hugo carry the weight of being King one day. I love him and he loves me. I may not be posh, but I’m not a chav either. And frankly, the Royal Family could do with a bit of common blood in it. Hugo’s mum was really posh, and that marriage was a complete disaster – Prince Oliver and the King and Queen won’t even hear her name mentioned!

‘Darling!’ Hugo came up, throwing his arm around her shoulder. ‘Tobes, unhand my lady! Whatever he was whispering in your ear, Chlo,’ he said, grinning at his cousin, ‘you should just bloody well ignore. You know what a dirty bird he is.’

‘Toby was actually saying really lovely things,’ Chloe answered pertly. ‘Not a rude word to be heard.’

‘Oh my God! It’s worse than I thought!’ Hugo pulled her away from Toby. ‘He’s trying to seduce you! Toby, this one’s off-limits!’

Chloe was giggling with happiness. One of the things she loved most about Hugo was that he never tried to be cool, to make her jealous, to play games at all. The Mintys of his social circle might try to dirty-dance with him, or corner him for a full-on flirting session, but their advances all went over Hugo’s head: he just thought they were jolly friendly girls.

‘You know what you’d be getting into with that one,’ he said, glancing at his cousin. ‘He’s an utter freak show.’ Lowering his head to Chloe’s, he hissed loudly:

‘Ginger pubes! Absolute bush of ’em, too! Chaps never wanted to use the shower at school after he’d been in there! Soap was plastered with ’em, and the drain—’

Toby was sniggering.

‘I
do
have a big bush,’ he said, complacently cupping the crotch of his jeans. ‘Apart from my huge cock, I’m practically a woman.’

Some parts of being posh Chloe would never understand if she lived to be a hundred.

‘Should we be going?’ she said, turning to Hugo. ‘It’s past midnight, and I have to be up for work . . .’

‘Of course! Sorry, darling!’ He bent to kiss her. ‘We’re off, chaps!’ he announced.

Chloe sighed. Just once, she’d like to slip off with her boyfriend, just the two of them – well, plus his security officers, of course – avoiding the procession that always fell in behind them. Everyone wanted to be seen with the heir to the throne, and since photos were strictly prohibited inside Pirate’s Cove, being snapped by the paps waiting outside was the ideal way to secure that trophy. A group clustered around them, and in the bustle at the cloakroom Chloe and Hugo were separated. She was pulling on her Reiss coat – bought on sale, and still at the absolute limit of her budget – as she heard Sophie say to Minty, in that clear, cutting voice which was lowered, but still pitched to carry perfectly to her intended victim:

‘Darling, have you
heard
the latest thing they’re calling Lonely Chlo? Dog Rose! Because she’s
such
a social climber! Awfully clever, don’t you think?’

Minty, more than a little tipsy and not Britain’s Brainiest at the best of times, slurred: ‘Sorry, darl, don’t get it . . .’

‘Her surname’s Rose! Dog Rose! Honestly, you
are
as thick as a brick, Minters,’ Sophie snapped impatiently at her drunken friend.

‘
Oh
!’ Minty could be heard saying as they turned to leave, Sophie glancing back swiftly at her victim to ensure that her words had hit the bull’s eye.

And they had. Chloe was frozen to the spot, her hands at her belt, which she had just finished buckling and pulling smooth. She wanted, very badly, either to cry or to slap Sophie in the face, but she couldn’t do either. She couldn’t do anything but keep smiling. This was the true price of being with Hugo – the slights and slurs visited on her by his spiteful sister and her coterie, a level of sheer, snobbish nastiness which spread all too quickly to the press, and was picked up by a large section of the public. Chloe was resented by women who were desperate to be in her place, the girlfriend of a prince in line to be king. Those women would have accepted Hugo being with one of his own kind, but were driven to heights of jealousy specifically because Chloe, the daughter of a suburban retired engineer and a housewife, wasn’t remotely posh. She was just a normal middle-class girl. Like them.

And if a normal middle-class girl could have a chance with Prince Hugo, why not me?
envious women thought, looking at the latest photographs of Chloe and Hugo together at a charity event or a polo match, Chloe pretty and well-groomed, her light brown hair streaked with blonde, her figure trim but not skinny, her subtle green mascara bringing out the emerald lights in her hazel-grey eyes; an attractive girl, but not a model or an actress or an aristocrat. Just a very nice example of the girl next door.

So why her and not me?
women thought resentfully.
What does she have that I don’t?

Sadly, Chloe had been made all too familiar with that mentality. The upper classes thought she was an upstart, and the middle and lower ones resented her for exactly the same reason.

Poor Cinderella must have had a really miserable time after the fairy tale ended,
Chloe thought bitterly.
I wonder if Prince Charming had a sister who spent her life making up increasingly nasty nicknames for Cinderella . . .

Everyone was leaving. For a split second, Chloe was tempted to hide out in the loos for a good cry. Finally letting go, letting it all out. She always carried spare makeup: she’d be able to repair any damage before she eventually emerged. That vicious phrase, ‘Dog Rose’, was already causing the tears to well up. It would catch on immediately, of course: Sophie had a twisted genius for insults. She should be writing for late-night Channel 4 comedians.

But if I hide out, there’ll be a huge scene. Hugo will come back to find me, Sophie will put out the story that I’m crying because I heard someone saying ‘Dog Rose’, and that’ll not only make the nickname spread even further, it’ll show that it has the power to upset me.

And I can’t let that happen. If it does, I’m lost for good. You can’t be a princess and show that you’re affected by nasty gossip. You have to be above it all, or you’re not fit to be a princess in the first place . . .

The awful thing was that it felt as if Sophie won either way. And Sophie had planned everything meticulously. The insult had halted Chloe in her tracks for long enough that, by the time she emerged onto Piccadilly, the rest of the party was already walking towards their waiting cars. Minty had wound her arm through Hugo’s and was telling him something ‘
terrifically
funny’, laughing up into his face for the benefit of the paps, looking to all the world as if
she
were his date for the evening, not Chloe. Flashes were going off, rough male voices calling all of their names as familiarly as if they were friends: Chloe was used to it by now, but this time it rankled as never before. And it wasn’t just her name they were calling: she could hear ‘Lonely Chlo!’ being shouted to provoke a reaction.

Next time it’ll be ‘Dog Rose’
. She shuddered at the prospect.

Minty was hanging off Hugo’s arm, dressed in her designer shaggy Mongolian fur coat, dyed neon green, short enough to show off not only her long bare legs, but, by implication, that she was rich enough to never really need to worry about the cold, because she was never outside long enough to feel it. If Chloe, a size 12 to Minty’s 8, had tried to wear that coat, she would have looked like a joke, a Big Bird who waddled rather than tripped lightly in the six-inch heels Minty was sporting.

And Sophie had pushed her way forward to follow Hugo. Being royalty, next heir to the throne after her older brother, Sophie didn’t need to hang on his coat-tails for press attention: in fact, as a pretty princess, she naturally commanded more. But she had twined her arm through Toby’s, was giggling and smiling for the cameras just like Minty, and the impression given was of two handsome, perfectly matched, aristocratic couples who had been out together as a foursome.

With me tailing behind like a fifth wheel,
Chloe recognized with a sinking heart.

‘Chloe!’ To her great relief, her boyfriend turned round, looking for her, dropping Minty’s arm. ‘Darling, we completely lost you there! Terrible crush – I should have waited for you.
So
sorry.’

He strode back towards her, capturing her hand, tucking it familiarly over his elbow, patting it reassuringly.

‘Let’s get you home for some sleep,’ he said. ‘My Chloe has a proper job, not like you three layabouts.’

Warmth flooded through Chloe. The tears were back, prickling at the corners of her eyes, and when they were safely ensconced in the car, curled on the back seat, she let them fall. The security officers were in the front, one at the wheel, one beside him, but she knew them to be totally trustworthy.

‘Darling!’ Hugo said again, pulling her even closer. ‘What’s up? I thought we had a lovely night out!’

Oh Hugo, you are so sodding blind,
she thought with immense irritation. But that one, at least, she couldn’t blame on him being royal. Hugo was a typical man; he had no idea of the evil machinations of which women were capable, nor did he want to know. Chloe knew better than to complain to him about his sister or Minty: that would just put his back up. And she couldn’t mention the Dog Rose thing either. Talking about class made Hugo incredibly uncomfortable; like all posh people, he did his best to pretend that it didn’t exist.

‘We did have a lovely night,’ Chloe agreed, sniffing back the tears. ‘I’m just knack—
tired
, I suppose.’ She really was tired if she’d even let the word ‘knackered’ half-slip from her lips; usually she was so careful to posh up her vocabulary. ‘It’s a lot to go out dancing after a long day at work.’

This was exactly the right line to take. Hugo was hugely proud of the fact that Chloe worked for Rescue Children as the deputy head of fundraising: she was a serious girl, with a grown-up job doing something socially worthy, a total contrast to Toby and Sophie’s crowd of party animals. Hugo, a Royal Navy Lieutenant, was much the same, having risen through the ranks not entirely due to his royal status but also to his capacity for hard work.

‘I won’t drag you out during the week any more,’ he vowed. ‘Or at least, we won’t stay so late.’

‘I feel better now I’m alone with you,’ Chloe said, reaching up to kiss him; she had long got over her embarrassment at making out with security officers nearby. Hugo kissed her back with great enthusiasm, reaching down and pulling her legs across his lap: she could feel his erection swelling beneath her thighs. One of the positive sides to his absences on board ship was that when he was on post-deployment leave, he was always keen to make up for lost time.