Marrying Up (29 page)

Within Max, every fibre, bone and muscle strained restlessly. Was there to be no light at the end of this long and very ornate
tunnel in which he found himself?

‘It’s high time you took on more royal duties,’ the King was telling his son. Max’s face fell. ‘You are going to represent
me,’ the monarch continued, ‘at an important business event tomorrow. Your brother was supposed to be going, but he’s grounded.’

Sergeant Poivre of the Royal Sedona Police had not spared the details of Giacomo’s theft of the bus. The King had been mortified
and furious. Thankfully, he had Hippolyte’s assurance that the press had not got wind of it

Max did not ask why Giacomo was grounded. He did not
care. One puzzle did, however, filter through the outer layers of his preoccupied brain. ‘But Giacomo never goes to important
business events,’ he pointed out. ‘He only ever goes to parties on yachts.’

‘Well it is on a yacht, as it happens,’ the King snapped.

‘I don’t like yachts.’ Events on yachts, in Max’s limited experience, were all about drinking and one-upmanship. He doubted
any useful business could be done. ‘They’re full of stupid airhead socialites,’ he added, to make this point.

The King stared irritatedly at his son. ‘And what other sort of person do you expect to find a wife among? There’s no other
type left!’

Max did not reply to this, but his expression was eloquent enough. The King scented rebellion.

‘You will go,’ he said gratingly.

‘I’d rather not,’ Max said quietly.

Fury rose in Engelbert’s chest; how dare Max defy him? Even Giacomo, reprobate though he was, never stood up to his father
the way Max routinely did. There were times when Max didn’t seem like a son of his at all.

‘Maxim,’ he said heavily, as if the sheer weight of his words could crush his son’s resistance, ‘you are heir to the throne
of the ancient Kingdom of Sedona. As Crown Prince, it is your royal duty to do as your monarch commands.’ Engelbert’s moustache
was bristling defensively, his authoritative bass surprising even himself. ‘To disobey me is treason!’

Crouched over his desk in his office, Monsieur Hippolyte had one hand placed protectively on his head as he tried to placate
Jason Snort. ‘I’m sorry about Lady Florence,’ he was pleading desperately. ‘None of us know what happened to her. But I promise
you, as soon as someone else comes along . . .’

‘But there’s no princess, no photos and so I’ve got nothing to sell,’ Snort raged from the other end of the line. ‘Which leaves
me with no alternative but to offer for sale my latest set of pictures of . . .’

Hippolyte’s ears throbbed in panic. His heart soared into his throat. Not Madame Whiplash. Please.
Please
. . .

‘. . . everybody’s favourite playboy prince, Giacomo,’ Snort finished, as Hippolyte drew a deep, shuddering breath of relief.
‘Didn’t realise he could actually
drive
a coach,’ the photographer added. ‘Thought he sat in the back of them and got pulled along by horses.’

Hippolyte’s relief had been short-lived. Panic was once again thumping in his breast. He knew about the story; Sergeant Poivre
had wasted no time in putting the chateau in the picture in the bluntest terms. But he had hoped – prayed, no less – that
the incident might have gone unnoticed by the wider world.

‘We’ve got pictures,’ the paparazzo said gleefully. ‘My colleague Des passed him on the road. Veering all over the place he
was. According to Des, he almost went over the edge.’

If only
. . . Monsieur Hippolyte closed his eyes longingly.

‘There was a girl on board too,’ Snort added slyly.

‘Who?’ gasped Hippolyte in panic. Please God none of the international slappers that Prince Giacomo seemed to find so irresistible.

‘I can’t say,’ Snort said cagily, sending the private secretary into a fresh plunge of terror. He did not explain that the
reason for this was that Des’s pictures were too bad to use. The girl was unrecognisable, as was Giacomo at the wheel. According
to Des, before he could get the Prince in focus, the bus had reared at him and he had lost the picture in trying to save his
own life. Des’s excuses, as well as his pictures, were rapidly getting worse, Snort thought. But the story could still be
used as leverage with Hippolyte.

‘So we’ll run it,’ he said casually, ‘if you haven’t got any better suggestions.’

Hippolyte racked his brains. ‘Er, there’s tomorrow night,’ he gabbled eventually. ‘Prince Maxim’s going to a party . . .’

‘Prince goes to party! Hold the front page!’ sneered Snort.

‘. . . on a yacht. Bigski’s yacht.’

Bigski. Jason raised an eyebrow. He had heard the tycoon was in town; or in harbour.

‘Bigski always has lots of girls at his parties,’ Hippolyte added, veering off into the realms of the wildest speculation.
‘It’s not impossible that the Crown Prince might meet someone there.’

Snort considered this. ‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘But this is your last chance, Hippo. If I don’t get a shot of Max and some
totty, you’re toast.’

Alexa was sucking the last of the gin off the ice cubes in her glass and thinking about leaving. Her equilibrium was quite
restored. It now seemed a pleasantly long time since the near miss with Lady Annabel.

She paid the bill, stood up swayingly on her heels and picked up her bag. Then, suddenly, someone was shooting into the bar
and running across the carpet towards her.

‘Lexie! Omigod! Lexie!’

Alexa stared at the tangle of blond hair and long limbs.

‘Florrie!’

Alexa felt near blinded by the blaze of Florrie’s teeth and the dazzle of her eyes. In her simple short white dress with wide,
gold-trimmed leather belt, she looked like a goddess; an effect reinforced by silver gladiator sandals. Alexa felt hideously
conscious of the leopardskin print dress. Would Florrie recognise it?

Florrie’s priorities were elsewhere, however. A long finger flew to the plump, bow-shaped lips. ‘Sssh!’ Her grin was wide
and naughty and her violet-blue eyes twinkled with excitement. ‘I’m in major trouble. Mummy’s furious with me.’

A burly waiter, bringing up a chair for Florrie, now looked at her closely. Was he remembering Lady Annabel’s instructions?
Alexa tried to throw him off the scent. ‘A glass of tap water for my friend, um,
Celia
,’ she rapped out.

‘I’m not called Celia,’ Florrie began indignantly, before being dug hard in the ribs by Alexa. Only then did the penny seem
to drop. ‘Oh, yah, sorry.’

The waiter was still staring at Florrie. ‘Tap water!’ Alexa commanded. There was to be no repeat of the Ritz disaster.

Florrie looked peevish. ‘I want champagne.’

‘A glass of champagne, then,’ said Alexa wearily. Because Florrie just
had
to pay this time. Even by her feckless standards, anything else was unthinkable.

Florrie waved a long, imperious arm. ‘Actually, we may as well have a bottle. Bring us your best, waiter.’

Alexa swallowed. The Hotel des Bains’ best champagne would be in the Igor category, pricewise. Florrie
must
be picking up the tab.

Florrie was rummaging in her bag and producing from it an iPhone and a packet of cigarettes.

Tapping at the iPhone and frowning at its screen, she lit up and took a deep drag. The waiters were all staring moonily from
across the room and seemed in no hurry to remind her about the smoking ban.

‘Omigod, I’m in so much trouble, you wouldn’t believe it,’ Florrie exclaimed to Alexa, glancing up from the gadget.

The burly waiter appeared with a champagne bottle in a chilled bucket, and sashayed towards them, lowering it ceremonially
in a fug of cigarette smoke. Florrie, blowing a lungful right into his face, ignored his advent. The waiter stood there as
if surrounded by the scents of heaven. ‘Shall I pour, mademoiselle?’

‘Yah, great,’ Florrie said absently.

‘Why are you in trouble?’ Alexa asked when the waiter had gone. ‘What have you done?’

Florrie looked up from laboriously tapping in a message. ‘It’s what I’ve not done.’ She grabbed a glass and sprawled back
in the chair. ‘Did I mention that prince guy that Mummy wanted me to meet?’

Alexa confined herself to a short nod.

‘Well the meeting was this morning, in his royal palace or whatever, and I sort of forgot.’ Florrie exhaled a plume of smoke
and jiggled the long legs stretched in front of her.

Alexa remembered the appearance of Lady Annabel in the bar. Her spectacular outfit now made sense, as did her spectacular
fury. About to set off to meet the royal family, Lady Annabel was unable to find her daughter. A smile tugged at the edge
of Alexa’s mouth; she tried hastily to suppress it.

She need not have put herself to the trouble; Florrie was as oblivious as ever to anyone else’s reactions. Her attention was
once more on her phone; she drained her champagne glass absently. Immediately, three waiters came rushing across simultaneously.
‘Allow me,’ said one, grasping the bottle in the ice bucket and refilling the glass. ‘
Permettez-moi
,’ said another, straightening Florrie’s glass on its white paper coaster printed with the swirly hotel logo. A third proffered
a small silver bowl of nuts. Florrie ignored these attentions completely. She was laughing at a message she had received.

Alexa, however, wanted details. ‘You mean,’ she said, ‘that these royals were waiting for you and you didn’t turn up?’

‘Yah, basically,’ Florrie said, not looking up. ‘They were all there waiting in the throne room, apparently. Crowns and robes,
the lot. Can you believe it?’ She grinned and drew on her cigarette.

‘But why didn’t you turn up? Where were you?’

Florrie ground her cigarette into the nuts. ‘Omigod, you sound just like Mummy! I’d had a bit of a hard night, OK? Went to
this great club. There was this really cool guy there called Jack.’ She looked, for a second, smitten. ‘Omigod, he’s
gorgeous
. Here he is.’ She tapped the screen of her iPhone and held it up.

Alexa stared into a blurred close-up face. She could see up both nostrils.

‘It’s Jack doing his party piece,’ Florrie said helpfully.

‘Which is?’ The picture gave little away.

‘He can drink an entire magnum of champagne in under a minute!’ Florrie’s eyes were sparkling.

‘Very impressive,’ Alexa said hastily. ‘So, back to these royals. You didn’t turn up because . . .?’

‘Jack took me to this, like, really amazing after-party. In this villa up in the hills somewhere. We got a bit stuck.’

‘How did you get back?’

‘Omigod, you won’t believe it, but Jack hijacked a bus – actually, that’s really funny. Jack . . . hi
jack
ed.’ Florrie clutched her arms and doubled up with honking laughter.

‘Hijacked . . .?’ Alexa wondered if she was hearing right.

Florrie was still snorting with mirth. ‘We were –’ she managed between giggles – ‘on this kind of really hot mountain road,
OK? And he flagged down this busful of tourists and made them get out while he pretended to show them something. Then, while
they were staring at whatever it was, he got in the driver’s seat and drove me back to the hotel. Cool or what?’

Alexa was still struggling to believe it. ‘But . . . the tourists? What happened to them?’

Florrie shrugged. ‘God knows. But wasn’t Jack cool? Like a sort of highwayman or something.’

Alexa decided that the fate of a busload of tourists was none of her concern. She had more important matters afoot. ‘So what
happened at the chateau?’

‘What chateau?’ Florrie looked puzzled.

‘The one you didn’t turn up to,’ Alexa said patiently. ‘The one with the crowns and the throne room.’

‘Oh, that one.’ Florrie rocked restlessly in her seat, evidently bored of the subject. ‘Um, I’m not sure Mummy actually went.
I think she had to call them when she couldn’t find me. I think the King was pretty furious, as Prince Whatsisname has to
find someone to marry.’ She gave a disdainful giggle and turned her attention back to her screen.

‘Prince Whatsisname?’ Alexa felt a crashing sensation behind her forehead, a thousand pennies dropping. Here she was, a
desperate gold-digger on the brink of hopeless ruin, while somewhere tantalisingly close was a prince who needed to marry
fast. The only link was Florrie. She
had
to remember his name. She leant forward. ‘Think, Florrie. What’s his name, Prince Whatsisname?’ Alexa squirmed in agony.

‘No idea, darling.’ Florrie was absorbed in her texting. ‘All I know is that he’s got to get married. Like, this minute! It
sounds as if anyone will do, quite honestly. Apart from me, of course. I’ve rather fucked it up.’ She looked up, flicked her
hair back and giggled.

Alexa stared at her with burning eyes. ‘But what’s he called?’

The room was quiet, full of the padded silence of thick carpets and expensive upholstery. It throbbed in Alexa’s straining
ears. Every atom of her being, every proton, neutron and electron, was focused on Florrie. The bar, with its clinks, murmurs
and ogling waiters, receded. Nothing existed apart from the beautiful girl who sat opposite her trying to remember the simplest
of facts while her fingers tapped agitatedly on her electronic phone.

‘The thing is,’ Florrie said eventually.

‘
Yes?
’

‘I just can’t remember.’

Alexa wanted to scream, but there was no time for that. Florrie was looking restlessly around the room; she might, any moment,
decide she was bored and leave.

‘Didn’t you make any notes about him on that?’ Alexa nodded at Florrie’s iPhone.

Florrie looked down at the small black rectangle in surprise. ‘Make notes? On this? I didn’t know you could.’

‘Another glass of champagne?’ Alexa offered desperately. She didn’t care what it cost any more. There was a jackpot within
grasp, after all.

‘May as well, I suppose,’ Florrie said ungraciously. ‘Nothing else to do except go up to the room and face Mummy.’

Alexa did not allow herself the luxury of being offended. She must focus on the matter in hand. ‘What’s the chateau called?’