The Runaway Princess (34 page)

I smiled, nervously, because Sofia had just taken my other arm. “Okay.”

*

S
he ushered me down the corridors to the admin area of the palace, where the oil paintings were more martial; but when we were on our own, she suddenly did a double take to check we were unobserved, and pulled me into a room.

A vast library, I think. I didn’t have time to inspect it.

“Listen,” Sofia said, fixing me with her sharp eyes, “I’m going to lay it on the line for you, since everyone else seems to be pussyfooting around. This is just the beginning. Your life with Leo is going to be like this all the time from now on. All you have to be is sociable, not blindingly intelligent, but if you’re not up to it, do him a favor, do yourself a favor, do Giselle a favor, and call it a day.”

She said it in such a matter-of-fact tone that I was annoyed rather than mortified. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t noticed the photographers up till now.

“Is this about the grace? Because that was pretty amateur,” I said.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

I had so little left to lose now that my tongue seemed to be operating on its own. That, or Jo really had started to control me remotely. “You’re saying you could do a better job of everything, I suppose?”

“Yes.” Sofia stared at me as if I were mad. “Of course I could. But not your job—Leo’s. You’re just the set dressing. In any other country in the entire world, I’d be doing Leo’s job
and
yours now. It’s just here that this outrageous insult to me and you exists.”

“Sorry, I should be insulted?”

She clutched her forehead as if she couldn’t comprehend my slowness. “Instead of writing about what I’m doing to, I don’t know, protect women’s rights in inheritance cases, they’ll be writing about the size of your butt. You prefer that kind of feminism? You want to be picked over by the fashion blogs every day? Are you pregnant? Are you fatter than Kate Middleton? Is your mom on a diet?”

That struck home like a slap. I wondered exactly how much Sofia knew about those pap shots. Just like I wondered how much she really knew about my folder of ball-prep information, and my engagement photo wardrobe.

“I can put up with newspapers criticizing me,” I said, looking her square in the face. “I’ll learn. I’ll get better. But not my family. They are
not
part of the bargain.”

A smile curled the corner of Sofia’s nude lip. “That’s not up to you. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, on your own.”

My throat clenched.

She tipped her head to one side and fixed me with an unflinching gaze. “We need to talk about Kelly.”

I
said nothing, but the thoughts wouldn’t stay still in my head. Panic was making them fly round like loose papers in a breeze. If I’d ever wanted to go back in time and do something differently, it was now.

Sofia inspected her nails. “I’ve been told—can’t say by whom—that a certain American magazine, assisted by a certain British tabloid, has tracked down your sister. Kelly, isn’t it?”

She knew it was. I nodded dumbly.

“And there are some good reasons, I understand, why you wouldn’t want Kelly to be dragged through the press.”

Of course I didn’t! Mum had nearly died under the stress the first time round. And it had only been in the
Rothery Gazette
. What if it was on the front of every tabloid? Kelly telling all on
Loose Women
? Mum would never leave the house again.

I felt nauseated, and weirdly hurt. How come strangers had found Kelly when we couldn’t?

“Now, we can stop that,” said Sofia. “I can stop that. I can probably nip it in the bud so tightly that even Mom and Dad, even Leo, don’t have to know about it.” She paused, to watch my reaction. “You did tell Leo about your sister—and the jail time?”

“There was no jail time,” I snapped, “it was a suspended sentence.” I realized my error the second the words were out of my mouth.

Sofia pursed her lips in courtroom triumph. How she’d remained unpunched in her career was a mystery to me.

“That kind of thing doesn’t stay secret forever, Amy. As long as you’re in the spotlight here, there’ll be a reporter who’ll persuade her. A producer with enough money to make a documentary.” She rubbed her fingers together. “You can’t blame a girl like Kelly for wanting a little of her sister’s good fortune. It doesn’t sound as if she’s had much of her own lately.”

I gripped the table with both hands. Was she bluffing? What did Sofia know? What had Kelly done now?

Sofia saw my horror and shrugged. “Look, it might seem harsh, but I’m trying to help you. This is what it’s like when you’re in a high-profile family, Amy. You can’t have any secrets. You can’t even fib to your dietician in case he decides to write a book. I’m not expecting an instant decision—it’s a lot to take in, I know. But you need to think fast—aren’t the invitations to the cathedral blessing here due to go out on Monday?”

I nodded dumbly.

She made an “oh dear” face, then smiled sympathetically. Like a viper. “In the meantime,” she went on, “why don’t we go see Giselle, and see if we can’t negotiate a nice lump sum for your mother, to compensate her for that offensive photograph they printed? That might take some of the sting out of it.”

I wanted to tell Sofia that money wouldn’t even touch the sides of the agonies my mother would be suffering right now, but what was the point? Money was the answer to everything in the Wolfsburg scheme of things.

I followed her back out into the corridor. My brain was spinning so fast I could hardly focus, but one thing stood out.

I had to get back to England. I had to warn Mum and Dad, not on the phone, in person, and I had to try to find Kelly myself first. I had no idea how I could do that, but waiting here for the bomb to drop wasn’t even an option. And I didn’t want Leo to know.

The cogs in my brain spun and spun and finally stopped, like a slot machine coming up with three lemons.

How could I marry Leo? Really. How could this ever work?

“Sofia,” I said, as if a thought had just occurred to me, “I’ve left my phone in my room—I should go and get it, in case you need details of … stuff.”

I was the world’s worst spontaneous fibber. Even my ears felt red.

“Sure.” Sofia was checking her BlackBerry; now that she’d finished with me, I was off her radar. “We’ll be in the press center. Get one of the staff to bring you down if you can’t find it.”

“Okay. See you in a sec.”

I shot Sofia the most poisonous look I’d ever shot anyone, and spun on my heel. Jo would be leaving for the airport in fifteen minutes, which didn’t give me much time.

*

I
threw a few things into my handbag—not much, so as not to draw attention to the fact I’d gone—and tried not to look at Leo’s cuff links on the table, the ones I’d given him, the ones he wore more than all his expensive ones. A pain was piercing my chest, and I had to concentrate on the logistics of getting home, or else it would swamp me.

I took a piece of paper from the morocco leather writing set on the desk and scribbled him a short note, writing the first thing that came into my head.

I
pulled the engagement ring from my finger and left it on top of the folded paper, along with my diamond daisy chain. I didn’t want Sofia coming after me, accusing me of nicking the family silver.

And then without looking back at the rumpled bed or Leo’s discarded white shirt on the chair, I grabbed my bag and ran down the stairs to find Jo.

*

J
o’s bags were being loaded into the back of a purple palace Range Rover when I ran down to the private entrance to the state apartments. She seemed pleased to see me.

“Come to say good-bye?” she asked. “Aw, I’ll miss you. Still, you’ll have a great week, recovering before the—”

“No,” I said brightly, avoiding her hug and grabbing the car door handle. “I’m coming with you to the airport. I’ll say good-bye there.”

“Really?” Jo frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to be going to the cathedral for a rehearsal?”

“They don’t need me, just Leo.” I jumped into the back of the car and clamped my handbag between my knees so she wouldn’t see how full it was.

“Come on,” I added, “we don’t want to be late! We’ve got to set off right now—apparently there are delays on the motorway. Leo says sorry not to say good-bye in person, but they’re in some family meeting. About, um, Rolf.”

Jo gave me a funny look, but she got in, and then to my intense relief we were purring down the winding mountain road from the palace to the small harbor on the other side of the island, where the ferry took tourists back and forth throughout the day.

Jo chatted about the ball and the other dresses and how Callie would probably demand every single detail, and I answered as best I could while keeping one anxious eye on the rearview mirror in case a purple palace car appeared with a furious Leo at the wheel.

But nothing followed us. We boarded the ferry, and I watched the white castle recede into the sparkling blue of the sea, turning my gaze away before I had time to register a “last look.” And then we were on the Italian mainland, speeding down the motorway to the airport, and the magnitude of what I’d done slowly broke over me like the worst hangover known to man.

I’d done it again. I’d run away. I’d done the thing Dad had told us never to do. But, I argued, I had to be true to the person I knew I was when all the diamonds were packed away. And that person wanted to put things right at home before anything else.

“Are you okay?” asked Jo. “You’re going to break your phone, gripping it that hard.”

“Just thinking about Dad,” I said. He hadn’t picked up when I called; I guessed the phone was off the hook. I’d left a message telling them not to panic, that I was on my way, but it wasn’t enough. I didn’t have the right words for more; it was a hug that was needed now, a silent reassurance.

Jo squeezed my knee sympathetically, and we said nothing until the driver signaled to turn off for the airport.

“Jo,” I said as we drove toward Departures, “put your shades on, and my hat, and get out first. I’ll get the driver to drop me at the side. But don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll see you by the British Airways first-class desk.”

“But I’m not flying first class, Princess Amy.”

“Do it. Please.”

Again she looked at me strangely, but nodded, and pulled my hat low over her eyes. It looked a lot better on her.

As she got out, three photographers loitering by the entrance followed her, shouting, “Amy! Amy! Over here! Over the shoulder!” as I’d guessed they would, so when I slipped out of the car round the corner, I was able to walk in unnoticed.

Jo was waiting by the BA VIP check-in desk, looking flushed. A crew member was guarding her.

“What was that in aid of?” she said. “Did you want me to have a taste of the VIP lifestyle before I go home?”

“Something like that.” I fumbled in my bag for my purse, and looked at the BA rep. “Are there any seats left on this flight? In first?”

I couldn’t go and ask in economy. Too many people looking.

“I’ll check for you, madam,” he said, and began rattling away at the computer.

“What?” Jo hissed.

“I’m coming with you.” I glanced across the airport concourse, still paranoid that Leo would arrive, or Sofia, or some minion I wouldn’t even recognize until it was too late.

“But they need you here, for interviews and stuff. Rolf said you and Leo were launching your gardening for therapy charity tomorrow?”

“I’ve got to get home.” I pried my credit card out of my purse and prayed it had enough credit left on it.

“I have two seats in first class, madam,” announced the
steward
.

“I’ll take them,” I said, without even bothering to ask the price. “She’s upgrading. Give them your ticket, Jo.”

She slid it over the counter without taking her bewildered eyes off me. “What’s happened?”

“I can’t tell you now. When we get home.”

“Passports?” The BA steward had seen it all before; he didn’t even register our frantic whispering.

“Is it something to do with those photos of your mum?” Jo asked, then her face clouded. “Leo doesn’t know you’re here, does he? What’s going on?”

The steward coughed. “I’m sorry, madam, the card’s been declined. Do you have an alternative method of payment?”

“You’re kidding!” Black spots danced before my eyes. I’d been paying it off! Had someone blocked my cards? Had Leo realized I’d gone, and pulled strings to stop me leaving the country?

“Here.” Jo shoved a card at him. “My emergency card,” she explained. “Dad gave it to me. I was to use it only if I was about to be deported. This had better be a very good reason.”

*

I
was on pins through passport control, and it was only when we were safely on board and taxiing down the runway that my legs stopped shaking and I sank into my seat.

Jo kept glancing at me, but I was trying to order everything in my head and I couldn’t. I kept seeing hideous visions of Kelly chatting to a couple of seedy journalists, wringing her hands and pretending to look ashamed. Eventually Jo gave up and concentrated on getting full value from her upgrade; there wasn’t a lot of time on the flight to work through a mini bag of toiletries, but she did it.

My butterflies of guilt returned as we went through UK Customs; I half-expected to see someone in dark glasses holding up a sign saying Amy Wilde: Runaway Princess among the bored taxi drivers or maybe a gaggle of tipped-off paparazzi, but the only familiar face in the crowd was Ted’s below his shock of dark curls. He was holding a sarcastic sign reading The Duchess of de Vere’s Chauffeur.

“What’s he doing here?” I asked nervily.

“He’s giving me a lift home.”

“In the van?”

“Well, yes. Unless he’s been out and bought that Ferrari while we were away. Is that a problem? It seats three.”

“No, just that I’ll be driving around in a big van marked Amy Wilde Is in Here!” I squeaked. I was too stressed to add my usual concerns: that Ted didn’t use his mirrors enough for my liking and barely understood roundabouts.

Jo pulled me to one side and grabbed my arms. “I don’t know what you’ve done, but can you at least keep the hysterical paranoia down until we’re out of here? Because right now you’re asking to get our bags—and very possibly our digestive tracts—searched by the nice men in plastic gloves.”

She had a point. I tried to get a grip. I didn’t want Ted asking questions too.

“Fine,” I said, breathing through my nose. “Fine.”

Ted seemed surprised to see me, but gallantly shouldered my bag as well as Jo’s. “We are honored,” he said. “A duchess and a princess. I should have got a flag to put on the front of the van.”

“Hello, Ted,” I said. My voice was very high. “How’ve you been?”

“Busy. I’ve found a bee bloke in Clapham who wants to talk to you, and we need to fill in that sunken garden thing you designed in Eaton Place—it’s a magnet for urban fox orgies, apparently.”

“Lovely,” I squeaked.

Jo shot me a sidelong look and took over the conversation until we were in the car park, telling Ted all about the ball and the dinner, and how much she’d liked the palace gardens. If I was quiet, he didn’t seem to notice; he was more interested in whether Rolf had “made an arse of himself” and what sort of loo paper an actual palace supplied.

We were pulling into Leominster Place when I caught sight of the photographer, drinking a coffee and making a call by the postbox opposite our flat. I saw the sun glint off his lens, and it went through me like a knife.

“Can you drop me here?” I asked, grabbing Ted’s arm.

“Get off!” The van screeched to a halt. “I’ve told you a million times before, you do not interfere with the …”

But I wasn’t listening. I grabbed my bag from the footwell and slipped out, using the van as cover as I crouched down. I’d seen that guy before—he was probably the sod who’d got the photos of me wobbling around the park.

I made a mental note to get a water pistol. How powerful would it need to be to wreck a digital camera from an upstairs balcony?

Jo’s window buzzed down. “I’ve got to see Callie before she goes, but I’ll be back ASAP,” she said. “Do you need anything?”

I shook my head, then walked as fast as I could without drawing attention to myself round the back of the house, where I climbed up the fire escape, just as Leo had done the night we met, and knocked on the kitchen window of a very surprised Mrs. Mainwaring.