The Runaway Princess (24 page)

“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.

B
ack 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.”

*

T
hree 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?”

Giselle’s first words to me had been, “So, Amy—sell yourself!” which was an immediate problem, since it had been drilled into me from an early age that talking about yourself was bad manners, not to mention boring. And to be honest, there wasn’t a huge amount to tell her—there’s only so many ways you can spin your mother’s encounter with Princess Anne at the Great Yorkshire Show. Giselle’s questions seemed geared to flushing out much more high-ranking details, like where I’d done my degree or what my most significant achievement to date had been. Mindful of Pavlos’s recent sacking, I’d done my best to give her whatever she needed.

Both Liza and Giselle had demanded to know what charities I’d be representing; under pressure, I’d suggested I could found a therapy garden—since digging seemed to have stabilized my dad’s depression—and “maybe something to do with baking?”

“Home baking is a wonderfully inclusive, nourishing skill,” Liza had said. “You know what would be great? If you could do some baking classes for underprivileged kids! Maybe your mom would like to join in! Wouldn’t that be cute? Me and your mom and you?”

I’d tried to hide my horror and had agreed to about four things in a row just to stop the questions. I spotted on the press release that the Princess Amelia Green Shoots Project would be launching “this summer.” When was I going to do that? My work diary was already running three weeks behind. And I could have come up with a better name than that. Especially if I was going to be designing it.

At his desk, Leo stabbed the send button on the e-mail he’d been rushing to finish, then joined me on the executive leather sofa. His assistant had been told not to put any calls through for half an hour, and we were down to eleven minutes now.

He pinched a California roll from my sushi box and put his feet up on the chrome table. “I’m sorry about Giselle, but in my experience, it’s always better to give the press something to run with, and then they don’t come looking for more. And by the same argument, it’s better to agree to this engagement photo session for Mom, and then she’ll leave us to handle the wedding plans ourselves.”

He flashed me a crooked smile that gave no hint of all the wrangling about cathedrals and banquets that had gone on when I wasn’t around. I knew that because Rolf had told Jo that Liza had tried to barter a honeymoon on Richard Branson’s ultra-
exclusive
Necker Island in return for a cathedral wedding, and Leo had
refused
point-blank because it was still my day.

I felt bad. I didn’t want to look like I was causing trouble
already
.

“Seriously, have you read this?
‘Amelia Wilde is one of London’s most in-demand outdoor experience creators, and comes from a long line of horticultural experts.’
She sounds great. I must get her on board!”

“She is great.” Leo slid his arm around me, mindful of the glass walls that surrounded his minimalist office space. “I particularly like it when she wears those jeans with the rips in the wrong place and then digs until she gets this very attractive flush all over her. …”

My stomach knotted with excitement, and I had to resist a powerful urge to wrestle him to the ground. Leo looked extremely suave in his business suit. All chiseled and professional and—

A secretary walked past and stared in at us, and I sat bolt upright. Leo just helped himself to more sushi.

“Will I have to do much preparation for this photo shoot?” I tried to phrase it so I didn’t sound quite so clueless.

“Ah.” He scrunched one side of his face up, as if he’d found something untoward in his fish.

“Ah, what?”

“Ah, I meant to warn you about that. Sofia’s going to be in London next week, and she said she’d come round and give you a heads-up on the sort of prep you might want to do.”

“Such as?” I asked warily. Sofia was supergroomed. That
totally
understated New York–style supergrooming that made Jo look like Helena Bonham Carter.

Leo shrugged. “I have no idea, I’m not a girl. But you shouldn’t have to do too much. You’re gorgeous as you are. I keep telling you.”

I put back my last bit of sushi and pushed the box away. I had the sinking feeling that I was already about five bazillion calories too late.

*

S
ofia came round in person to begin the princessing process while I was in the bath deliberating about whether shaving my legs before being taken on a beauty boot camp was like tidying up for the cleaner.

I know. I could have kicked myself. But to be fair, she arrived at eight o’clock, and I honestly had no idea she’d turn up herself—I’d assumed she’d call me and send a car or her assistant like the rest of them did. Sofia either didn’t have the staff or, as I soon realized, didn’t trust anyone to do anything properly.

Dickon had to let her in, because I was in the bath and Jo hadn’t heard the door buzzer (she was on the phone to Callie Hamilton, who was trying to persuade her to oversee the new subcellar under her cellar). By the time Sofia had stalked up two flights of stairs, she’d probably added at least two more to-do’s to her list of improvements, starting with sacking the doorman.

“Good morning,” she said when I opened the door wearing only a towel and Jo’s Ugg boots. “You should get your landlord to upgrade that intercom. It’s hopelessly outdated and a security risk. If you give me his number, I’ll deal with it for you right now.”

Panic spread through me. How could anyone look so groomed so early? Did she have a hairdresser living in her flat?

“Um, I’ll look out the number.” I didn’t like to say that the landlord was currently in the kitchen yelling at a needy client.

Sofia peered at me down her long tanned nose. “Are you ill? Did I get you out of bed?”

I clutched the graying towel closer. It was Sod’s Law that this morning I hadn’t used one of our many good towels. I made a massive effort not to tell her that this one was Badger’s (although I should stress it was fresh out of the washing machine). “No, I, er, just wasn’t expecting you quite so—”

There was a cough behind me, and Jo moved me firmly out of the way.

“I’m so sorry about my friend,” she said, extending a gracious hand. “She’s positively incoherent until she’s had her first gin of the day. Hello, I’m Jo de Vere. You must be …”

“Sofia Wolfsburg. How nice to meet you.”

The two of them shook hands like a pair of boxers squaring up before a title fight, and eyed each other with the sharklike
politeness
of the upper classes. From where I was standing, hopping from foot to foot with working-class embarrassment, it looked like quite an equal match: Sofia was pin-sharp in a navy suit that fitted her exactly, whereas Jo was wearing her “I mean business” Vivienne Westwood skirt that I’d thought, for six months, was tucked up in her knickers. (It wasn’t. It was ruched like that.)

I noted that Jo didn’t fluster about whether to curtsy or call her Princess Sofia, but simply smiled and waved toward the kitchen. “Have you had breakfast yet? I was just about to put some coffee on. Would you like some toast?”

Yes!
I thought privately. Score one to Jo.

Sofia smiled. “No, thank you, I had breakfast before I saw my trainer.”

Oh. Maybe one all.