by Janet Gover
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look in the mirror. Above your left ear.’
Intrigued, Nicolas walked over to the mirror. A streak of blue paint coloured the hair near his temple. Nicolas closed his eyes, feeling again the sensual touch of Lauren’s hands as they wove through his hair. Her hands must have been smeared with paint. Nicolas looked down. His own hands were also streaked with colour. It must have happened when he took the palette from Lauren’s hands. He reached for a cloth to clean them.
Meanwhile, his mother had taken up a position in front of the easel. She spent a few moments studying the half-finished portrait.
‘Are you sleeping with her?’
‘Mother!’
The Queen raised one well-groomed eyebrow. ‘Don’t sound so shocked. It’s not an unreasonable question.’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘Well, are you?’
‘No, Mother. I’m not sleeping with her,’ Nicolas protested.
Queen Charlotte shook her head and turned back to the easel. ‘Nicolas. I may be a widow and the ageing mother of two adult sons, but I do know what sex is all about. This painting glows with it.’
‘Mother!’ Nicolas didn’t know what shocked him more, the words or the fact that they came from his mother.
‘Have you looked at this painting?’ the Queen asked. ‘I mean really looked it.’
In response, Nicolas did look at the portrait. Closely. At first he saw only the figure of a man seated in a chair. Then the painting drew him in. Something in the texture of the work, in the lines and colours … After a few moments, he took a deep breath. ‘It’s very flattering.’
‘It’s more than flattering. It’s very good. But perhaps not what we want hanging in the portrait gallery.’
Nicolas had no answer.
His mother turned to him. ‘Nicolas, just what are you doing to this poor girl?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘You know exactly what I am talking about. The d’Arennes are easy to fall in love with – but they are difficult to love. No one knows that better than I.’
The cryptic words stopped Nicolas’s sarcastic reply. He frowned as his mother glanced at the closed door, her mask slipping just enough to show a hint of regret. Perhaps pain. There was something going on he didn’t understand.
‘Mother?’
‘We are born to this life Nicolas, but she is not.’
‘If you’re implying she’s not good enough …’
‘Did it occur to you I might be implying exactly the opposite? I like this girl. She’s bright and she’s immensely talented. Do you really want to clip her wings? Think about it.’
Before he could respond, his mother turned to go. As if by magic, the door was opened from the outside by Courtauld. Queen Charlotte walked through the door without a glance at either her son, or his equerry.
Nicolas turned back to the painting, his mother’s words running through his mind. This time, he looked at it differently. He saw Lauren in her work. He saw her joy in every splash of colour. Every swirl of thick paint reflected her humour and wicked smile. To Nicolas, even the choice of pose said more about her, than it did about him. The casual pose and the discarded jacket indicated a freedom of spirit … a freedom Nicolas didn’t really have.
That free spirit was so much a part of her, she would wither without it. Would he really risk that to make Lauren his? And would she … could she love a man like him? A man tainted by failure. A man with blood on his hands.
‘Sir.’ Courtauld’s voice was a welcome interruption. ‘May I remind you that you are scheduled to attend the Royal Horse Guards Dinner this evening. Full dress uniform is required.’
‘Very well.’
Nicolas heard the sound of the door closing softly. He was alone in the studio. Well, not really alone. Lauren’s presence was in every part of the room. He wandered around, touching the workbench, with its clutter of paints and pencils. Lauren had left a brush lying on the bench. That was uncharacteristic. She was normally meticulous about placing the brushes in cleaning solution. Nicolas performed the simple task, in the way that she had taught him, and wondered about the telephone call. Was there some emergency?
He realised he really knew very little about Lauren. He knew nothing about her family or friends. Somehow, they had never got around to talking about her. Their conversations had been very much of the here and now – and very much about him, Nicolas realised ruefully.
He went back to his own office, sat down at his desk, and reached for the phone.
With a single call, he could find out all about Lauren. The palace security office did a thorough check on everyone who worked within the high walls.
His hand stopped moving before he picked it up.
Nicolas was suddenly afraid that Lauren had run away – away from him and away from the kiss that even now lingered on his lips. The touch of her lips on his cheek had been too great an invitation to resist. At least, he’d assumed it was an invitation. What if he was wrong?
He remembered Lauren kissing Josef on the cheek just a few nights ago. Did he ever kiss her back? The mere thought was a torment that sent Nicolas to his feet to pace the room, wondering where Lauren had fled. Had she gone to the clergyman? To her hairdresser friend? Or perhaps there were family members also living nearby?
He wouldn’t make the call. He would not violate her privacy and risk driving her away.
Chapter Eight
‘I’m sorry. I am really, really sorry.’ Lauren dashed through the salon door and flung herself into the chair.
‘How could you forget?’ Maria was obviously upset and angry.
Because he kissed me, Lauren wanted to shout. Twice now. And I kissed him back!
‘I don’t know what happened,’ she said instead. ‘I’ve been so caught up with this portrait I don’t even know what day of the week it is. I’m here now. Tell me what to do.’
‘Just sit there,’ Maria said, only slightly mollified. ‘I’ve got to change your hair colour.’
‘Again?’ Lauren was always willing to try something new but four different hair colours in as many weeks was a bit much, even for her.
‘Yes, again.’ Maria was pulling on a pair of pale green rubber gloves. ‘My section of the competition is this evening. We have to be at the hall by five o’clock. So I’ve only got four hours to get your hair the colour I want it.’
‘Four hours?’ Lauren asked. ‘That’s plenty of time.’
‘Not for what I want to do. Now just relax.’
Relax! Lauren leaned back and closed her eyes. How could she relax when a kiss had tilted her whole world on its axis? She was clinging by her fingernails to a ledge, about to fall.
Or had she fallen already?
When Nicolas kissed her … Her lips still tingled with it. Her heart screamed at her to leap out of the chair and run back to him. At the same time, a voice just as loud in her head was telling her to run as far away from him as her legs would take her. Lauren had so little experience of the emotions that were filling her heart, her mind and her body.
Growing up with an absent father had been bad enough. The one devastating day she had seen him, and seen what he did, had made her wary of men. Trust was the most important thing in her world now. There were few people she genuinely trusted. Her mother, of course. Maria and Josef too. She knew she would never trust Nicolas. Not the playboy prince. And without trust, there could be nothing between them. Nothing but a couple of kisses that had made her long for more.
‘Lauren, are you all right?’ Maria’s words dragged her back to the here and now.
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you all right? You look like you’re about to burst into tears.’
‘I’m fine,’ Lauren hastened to assure her, another layer of guilt piling onto her already erratic emotions. Maria’s salon was normally a haven for gossip and confession, with stylists and customers alike indulging in this most feminine of pastimes. But not today. Lauren would not
ruin Maria’s big day by dumping her own conflicted emotions on her. The competition was just as important to Maria’s career as the royal portrait was to her own.
Lauren felt another surge of distress. She hated being in the limelight, but had agreed to this to help her friend. She had been certain that no one would pay any attention to a single model in the big events. But that was before she’d been commissioned to paint this portrait. Before she’d been photographed with a prince. Now she wasn’t so sure, and the thought of being identified terrified her.
But she would not let Maria down! She closed her eyes again. She would get herself under control! She gave herself up to Maria’s ministrations, hoping the familiar ritual would soothe her jangling emotions.
Four hours of dyes and shampoos and lotions later, Maria was happy with the result.
‘What do you think?’ she asked Lauren.
Lauren looked in the mirror, then started back in surprise. ‘What have you done to me?’
‘The way you were fidgeting,’ Maria chastised her, ‘it’s a wonder I got anything done at all. Isn’t it great!’
Lauren’s hair was once more shining white. At least most of it was. At irregular intervals, coal-black chunks of hair broke the snowy brilliance. The final touches were the bright pink patches – but only on one side of her head. ‘I feel like a Dalmatian dog that’s been playing with a can of pink paint.’
Maria laughed happily. ‘Exactly! Now. Grab that bag of clothes. You can change at the hall. We’ve got to get going.’
Lauren shook her head, a half smile on her face. If only Courtauld could see her now!
‘That’s better. Work on that smile,’ Maria told her. ‘I need all the help I can get.’
Their journey to the competition was accomplished in a whirl of boxes and bags, crushed into Maria’s small car. They rushed through a wooden door under a sign pointing to the competitors’ entrance. Maria slid to a sudden stop.
‘Oh my God!’
They were standing in a vast exhibition hall packed with people. Long tables marched in orderly rows towards a stage that seemed a mile away. A red-carpeted catwalk ran from the stage back into the crowd. Not a soul was still. People, mostly women, seemed to be rushing from table to table, from stage to door and from almost everywhere else to places unknown. And the noise! The whir of hairdryers and electric razors underpinned the higher pitched roar of voices, which seemed to get louder and more excited with every second that passed. And over it all floated a haze of perfume and scented lotions.
‘Oh my God.’ This time Maria whispered the words.
‘What’s wrong?’ Lauren asked.
‘Just look at it,’ Maria almost wailed. ‘There are so many people!’
‘So?’
‘I don’t even know where my place is. What chance have I got of winning this?’
‘About the same chance I’ve got of being commissioned to paint a royal portrait,’ Lauren replied.
Maria took a deep breath. She nudged Lauren gently with one elbow. ‘Thanks.’
A flustered woman with a clipboard guided them to a numbered place at one of the tables. Maria started unpacking the assorted paraphernalia of the hairdresser’s art.
‘Go and get changed,’ she told Lauren as she piled brushes and combs and sprays onto the table. ‘Over there, I think,’ she added, after consulting a folded map amid a swathe of paperwork she dredged from the bottom of her bag.
Like the hall, the changing room was full of women hovering on the brink of panic. Lauren found her way to a corner. She dropped the bag at her feet and leaned back against the wall, wishing there was a chair to sit on or crawl under. She didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be somewhere quiet, with a sketch pad and pencil to occupy her mind and drive that kiss away. She wanted to be with Pastor Josef, washing dishes in the safety of the shelter. And she wanted to be back in the arms of the man who, with a simple kiss, could turn her into a blithering idiot.
Lauren slid down the wall to perch precariously on Maria’s bag. She didn’t know whether to scream or cry. She was confused, and desperately uncertain. She had to come to terms with her feelings before she went back to the palace. Had to know how to act when she next saw Nicolas. The last thing she needed right now was to be a model in this competition. Yet she couldn’t let her best friend down. Lauren shifted uncomfortably at the thought, or was it simply that something was pressing painfully into her backside?
Lauren reluctantly rose to her feet and unzipped the bag. The offending item was a wide black leather belt, liberally dotted with silver studs. Intrigued, Lauren dug deeper into the bag, pulling out the oddest assortment of clothing.
As she walked back to Maria’s place, Lauren felt distinctly uncomfortable. Her own black skirts were short – but not as daring as the one she was now wearing. The T-shirt had been torn and covered with some sort of tatty lace. She held the leather belt in her hand.
‘I thought I would be wearing the dress I borrowed the other night – to wear to the palace,’ Lauren said.
‘No. I borrowed that from a friend who was using it for the formal competition this morning. I wasn’t interested in entering that section.’ Maria was still busy arranging her stuff on the table.
‘But I’m not even certain I’ve got this on right!’
Maria looked up. ‘Close,’ she said. ‘Let me just fix this.’
Maria took hold of Lauren’s costume and tore the top a fraction more then took the belt and fastened it around Lauren’s hips.
‘That’s better,’ Maria said. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a pile of heavy metal jewellery that clattered to the table. ‘This can wait till after I’ve finishing styling your hair. So can the tatt.’
‘Tatt?’ Lauren asked.
‘Don’t worry, it will be fine. You’ll look great.’
Lauren sighed away her misgivings and gave herself up to her friend’s ministrations.
After a long time of combing and teasing, and enough sprays and gels to equip a large salon, Maria took a step back to admire her work.
‘You look great!’
Lauren picked up a mirror, moving it around to see what Maria had done to her hair. Most of it appeared to be standing straight up in a demented multi-coloured Mohawk. Lauren got to her feet gingerly, afraid that too much sudden movement would cause the mountainous style to collapse. She looked down at herself. She was a symphony in black leather and studs, highlighted by torn black lace. She twisted her shoulder to look at the tattoo on her upper arm.
‘What is that?’ she asked.
‘It’s an ancient Egyptian god – or something,’ Maria told her. ‘Isn’t it great?’
‘I suppose it is, if you like crocodiles. I just hope it comes off.’
‘It will.’
‘What about shoes?’ Lauren wriggled her toes, shaking her head at the black polish that now adorned the nails.
‘No shoes.’
Lauren had feared as much. She slowly subsided back into the chair.
‘What’s got into you, Lauren? Are you sure everything is all right?’
‘Of course it is.’ Neither of them would be convinced by that tone of voice.
‘Is it Nick?’ Maria asked.
Lauren didn’t answer.
‘Do you know the reason I wanted you to model for me in this competition?’ Maria asked.
‘Because I’m willing to let you turn me into a demented Dalmatian?’
‘No. Well, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s because you’re so strong. You are the strongest woman I know. You’ve got attitude. Don’t let him take that away from you.’
‘I’m not,’ Lauren protested. ‘It’s just … Oh, I want to scream sometimes.’
‘That’s more like it. Hold that thought!’
Maria glanced across the room. Two women and a man were examining the first row of models.
‘The judges are just starting. They’ll be here in about ten minutes. So – you’ve got th
at long to get the attitude back. Think evil thoughts. I’ve got to go to the toilet. Right now!’ Maria vanished in the direction of the bathrooms.
Lauren watched her go, feeling incredibly guilty. Maria was a good friend, and Lauren was spoiling her big day. No, she wouldn’t do that. Lauren shook her head, conscious of the extravagant hairstyle. She reached for the mirror again to check nothing was out of place. Her multi-coloured hair stood up from the top of her head like a pink and black parrot’s crest. At the sides it lay close to her skull, curving backwards to reveal a large silver and black cross hanging from her right ear. Her left ear was unadorned. Her face was unusually pale, courtesy of Maria’s make-up skills, but her eyelids were heavily lined, making them seem huge. Dark purple lips completed the picture.
Lauren pulled a face, and the punk girl in the mirror did too. Watching her other self, Lauren suddenly understood what Maria was trying to do with the unusual design. She pouted, pulled an angry face then laughed. Maria could win this competition, but only if Lauren did her bit. She glanced at the approaching judges. She had a few more minutes to get it right.
Lauren stood up and placed her hands on her hips. That was a start, but she needed more attitude. What would make her angry? She thought of Nicolas but quickly shied away. Wrong. She called up a mental picture of the photographers crowding around her outside the shelter. Immediately her back stiffened. She remembered the sneering faces of the paparazzi and the terrible headlines the next morning and felt genuine anger. That was better. She threw her shoulders back and lifted her head, ready to stand up to them.
A few feet away, a camera clicked and whirred.
Lauren spun around, her heart pounding. The camera clicked again as she raised her hand to block the shot.
‘I’m sorry.’ The photographer instantly lowered his camera. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. You just looked so great standing there. The outfit and the attitude – a really fabulous shot.’
Lauren was confused. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, still angry.
‘I’m the official photographer. For the contest.’
‘Oh.’ Lauren felt like a fool. Of course there would be a photographer. What else did she expect at a national hairdressing competition?
