by Zoe May
‘No! I was on a stag do and we thought we’d gatecrash. All my mates fancy Holly!’ The man chuckles.
‘Right,’ I murmur. ‘So, what happened?’
‘Well, I scaled the barrier but the pigs tasered me. They cuffed me and brought me here.’
My eyes widen. ‘They tasered you?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, rubbing a spot on his back. ‘Still bloody hurts. They left me passed out in the back of the car, then drove me here when I came around.’
‘That’s crazy,’ I mutter. I thought what happened to me was bad, but at least I didn’t get tasered.
‘Yeah, bunch of pricks!’ The man tuts.
I smile politely and glance down at the dark skull eyes of his anarchy T-shirt. What was I thinking? Of course, there are people like this bloke, who want to cause mayhem and ruin the big day. Did I honestly think the officers would just let me strut up to Anders? Yes, I’m wearing a nice dress, but I could still be a nutcase.
I sigh.
‘Look, love,’ he says, ‘last time this happened back home, I got a caution, a slap on the wrist. You’ll be fine.’ He smiles, a little ruefully. ‘I might not be so lucky this time, mind.’
He lets out a belch. ‘Pardon me!’ he says, jokily. ‘Wait, this is the first time you’ve been arrested, right?’
‘Yes! They just bunged me in here. They didn’t even tell me what was happening.’
‘Oh, then you’ll be fine. Probably get off with a caution. Or . . . ’ He pauses. ‘Actually, today was a pretty big deal, maybe you’ll get charged and sent home, but it’s not the end of the world, eh? Ain’t too bad.’
I look at him in his horrible T-shirt, his breath reeking of booze, sitting in a police cell having just been tasered. Ain’t too bad?! Yeah, because he really looks like a high-flyer. I can’t get criminal charges! I have a career to think about. A flat deposit to finish saving for, a home I’ve been wanting to buy for years.
I plaster a polite smile onto my face. I know this guy’s trying to help, but I’m not sure that Phil would agree that a criminal record is no big deal.
‘I’ve been arrested six times,’ the goth pipes up in perfect English but with a deep-sounding, thick Norwegian accent. ‘Convicted twice. Imprisoned once,’ he adds with a flourish.
‘What for, mate?’ the anarchist asks.
‘Stabbing my classmate,’ the goth says with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
I can’t help gawping. Stabbing his classmate?! I’m trapped in police cell with someone who’s just been arrested and was previously imprisoned for stabbing someone. God knows what he was arrested for this time. Is this even safe?
‘He survived,’ the goth adds, with what sounds like a twinge of disappointment.
‘How long did you spend in the nick then?’ the anarchist asks, and I’m really not sure I actually want to know the answer.
‘Two years,’ the goth replies proudly. The anarchist looks impressed. Even the weird bearded guy looks kind of impressed.
Oh shit. I shrink into the seat, wishing the ground would swallow me up. I don’t want to be here, among these weird wayward people who now seem to be trying to impress each other with their criminal convictions.
Heavy footsteps thud down the hall again. Please not another crazed convict. Please, I urge whatever forces are above as the officer’s footsteps get nearer. I sit still, not wanting to look as he opens the door of the cell.
‘Sam?’
I glance up to see Anders – Anders! – standing in the doorway. He’s holding my shoe – a real life Prince Charming with my glass slipper.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Anders!’
‘Sam,’ he says tenderly. His beautiful blue eyes are laced with affection, his expression completely different to the look of surprise and horror he regarded me with earlier when I jumped the barrier. I scan his face as I get up from the bench, trying to figure out what’s changed.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, stepping towards him. The sight of him standing in the doorway of this police cell when not long ago he was being broadcast from the chapel is a bit too much for me to take in. It’s so surreal. One minute I’m sitting here completely glum next to convicts bragging about their criminal records and now Anders is standing in the doorway of my cell. It’s like a mirage.
‘I’ve come to get you,’ he tells me, looking at me so intensely that it feels as though it’s just me and him in the room.
‘Oh, thank God!’ I gush, flooded with relief, as well as those fluttery butterfly feelings that I get every time I see him.
Anders breaks eye contact and glances around the cell, taking in its occupants.
‘All right for some,’ the anarchist pipes up. ‘Where’s my knight in shining armour when I need him?’
‘Rescued by Prince Anders!’ The goth sneers. ‘How did you pull that trick?’
I decide to ignore them. ‘Am I really allowed to go?’ I ask Anders hopefully.
Anders nods and hands me my shoe. ‘Come on,’ he says.
I slip my missing glass slipper on and follow him out of the cell. We walk side by side, escorted by an officer down the corridor of the station. I can hardly believe what’s happening. I was worried I might be stuck in the cell overnight, for God knows how long. I was fretting that I’d miss my flight home. Now, here I am, next to Anders, saved from being locked up. All that time I spent pining for him and now here he is, only a few feet away from me. My crazy barrier-jumping plan seems to have somehow worked.
‘What were you thinking, Sam?’ Anders comments, looking over as we head down the corridor. He shakes his head. ‘Climbing over the barrier, trying to run up to me!’
‘I just wanted to talk to you,’ I tell him. ‘And I had no idea how to get to you. You left the country. I asked The Chronicle for your details. I asked the palace. There was no other way!’
‘So, you scaled a barrier at the royal wedding?’ he scoffs, with a wry smile.
‘Yes,’ I admit in a small voice.
‘Honestly,’ Anders tuts, as we head into the reception area of the police station.
I glance at the officer, who still looks incredibly angry with me.
‘So, is that it? I can really leave? I’m not being charged?’ I ask Anders in a hushed voice.
‘Yes, that’s it. I got you off the hook,’ Anders says as the officer brings me my clutch bag. He hands them to me a little reluctantly, clearly not happy that he’s having to let me out of the cell on royal orders. God knows how long he would have kept me in there.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ Anders says.
He beckons over two burly security guards dressed in black who I’d assumed were undercover police officers. I eye them warily.
‘They’re my bodyguards,’ Anders explains.
‘Right.’
Anders’s bodyguards flank us as we head outside. I take a deep breath as we emerge onto the street, relishing the fresh air, which feels unbelievably fresh compared to the acrid stench of the cell. The weather’s still clear and perfect, although the radiant shimmer of the sun is long gone, and the sky is greying at the edges.
A few passers-by start pointing at Anders and taking photos of him on their phones.
‘Come on.’ Anders turns his head away from them as he beckons me towards a waiting limo.
‘Can you step aside please,’ one of the bodyguards says to a fan who is now only a few feet away and keeps snapping at Anders even though it’s clear he doesn’t want to be photographed.
Anders pulls a door of the limo open for me. ‘Quick, get inside,’ he says, a desperate look in his eyes.
I clamber onto the plush seat and move aside to make space for him. The seat is huge, an L-shape curving around the back of the car, alongside there is a table and a bar area. It’s practically the same size as mine and Collette’s living room back home. Anders gets in with me and one of the bodyguards closes the door behind him. The windows of the limousine are blacked out and it feels silent and sa
fe inside, even though the passers-by are pointing their cameras at the windows.
‘Sorry, I struggle with the attention I get in public,’ Anders grumbles, looking embarrassed.
‘It’s okay, I know.’
He smiles weakly as the guards get into the front seating area of the limo. The chauffer begins driving and we pull away.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘To the palace, of course!’ Anders comments, with a smile.
‘The palace?’
‘Yeah, where did you think we were going?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘I thought maybe you were about to drop me off at my hotel or something.’
Anders laughs. ‘No Sam. My brother just got married. I need to get back to the palace, and I was kind of hoping you’d be my date.’
‘Your date?’
‘Yes!’ He grins and I feel relief flood through me. He hasn’t just rescued me from the police station out of pity or some kind of warped sense of obligation; Anders actually wants me to be his date!
‘But what about Ingrid?’ I ask.
‘Ingrid!’ Anders rolls his eyes. ‘Ingrid is a friend of the family who I got together with briefly ten years ago. She’s always had a thing for me, but, trust me, nothing’s happened since. Nothing. She likes to court media attention. She has a book out soon, so I guess she wanted to get in the papers.’
‘A book?’
‘Yeah, some cookbook she wants to be a bestseller.’
‘Okay . . . But she was with you today?’ I remind him, thinking back to how awful it felt to see her strutting up to him, whispering in his ear about me.
‘I haven’t got a restraining order on her, Sam! She came up to me for the same reason she made up those lies about me and her. She saw the cameras and she wanted to get in the papers. It drives me crazy but there’s not a lot I can do,’ he sighs.
‘So there’s nothing between you?’
‘Nothing,’ Anders insists, looking me straight on, his eyes so sincere that I know he’s telling the truth.
‘Okay,’ I reply, thinking back to her bragging on TV about how in love they were. ‘She sounds like a nightmare.’
‘She is!’ Anders comments. He reaches over and takes my hand. I fold mine around his.
‘I read your letter,’ he says.
‘Oh God,’ I groan. ‘I never meant for us to end up in the papers. I didn’t set you up. It was never some kind of warped press stunt. You believe me now, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I believe you,’ Anders says, lacing his fingers through mine.
‘Oh, I’m so glad. I hated the idea of you thinking I’d do something like that.’
‘I didn’t think you were that kind of person,’ Anders says. ‘But it’s hard. I’ve been betrayed before.’
‘I can imagine, but I genuinely didn’t know you were a prince.’
Anders smiles playfully. ‘My fake reporter notepad worked then?’
‘Yeah!’ I laugh. ‘I guess I can be pretty naive sometimes!’
‘I’m sorry, Sam. I should have been honest, but you just assumed I was a reporter and I found myself going along with it. I didn’t think I’d see you again after we ran into each other in the lift. But then my brother kept asking me to check up on all the wedding suppliers – the cake and the flowers and things, and you were just there! And you kept assuming I was there for a story and I just went along with it. It was the easier option, I suppose,’ Anders explains guiltily. ‘I came to London to get away from press attention for a bit and I knew you were a journalist. I didn’t want you to act differently around me once you realised I was a prince.’
‘I see. But why were you always hanging out at The Chronicle?’
‘My uncle’s a shareholder. Isaac promised to give them tip-offs about wedding stories and since I was in London, I would stop by and give them the inside scoop.’
‘That makes sense,’ I comment, thinking back to when I first saw Anders in the lift with wedding brochures tucked under his arm. I’d taken that detail as a sign that he was reporting on the wedding, when, in fact, he was bringing materials with him for a meeting with The Chronicle. No wonder he seemed so well dressed for a journalist.
‘It should have told you, but it just snowballed. I’m sorry,’ Anders says.
‘It’s okay. I thought you were one of the strangest reporters I’d ever met!’ I admit.
Anders laughs. ‘The gold-tipped fountain pen probably wasn’t the most convincing touch.’
I laugh, shaking my head. ‘Nope. But you seemed to have so many contacts, so I assumed you were doing something right.’
‘Yeah, it’s easy to have contacts when you’re the brother of the groom.’
‘I thought you were just an incredible journalist.’
‘I know.’ Anders lips twitch. ‘I felt bad! I’m sorry!’
‘It’s okay,’ I comment, and I can’t help laughing. The whole thing was ridiculous.
‘I even wore sunglasses at the bridal fair to try to be incognito! You wanted me to walk into an entire room full of royal wedding reporters!’ Anders laughs.
‘You said you had conjunctivitis!’
‘I know! And then you wanted me to take them off for the kissing demonstration and I couldn’t think of a way out of it!’
‘I felt bad for Sheila!’
‘I could tell! There was no way I could say no. I was sort of hoping you might cover my face with your hands or something while we kissed, the way Sheila warned us not to!’
‘Poor Sheila!’ I laugh.
‘Hah! Poor Sheila!’ Anders scoffs. ‘We got her kissing demonstration on the front page of three national papers. Sheila must love us.’
‘Good point!’
‘It was a pretty good kissing demonstration though, wasn’t it?’ I inch closer and place my hand on his thigh.
‘Yeah, I’d say it was a pretty effective demonstration,’ Anders comments wryly.
‘Very effective,’ I add and our eyes lock.
He draws closer and I feel that electricity, that pull, that spark. That undeniable, incredible spark. We kiss and this time it’s slower and more tender, as though we’re both relieved and grateful to be with each other again. It’s more than just lust and magnetism this time; it’s a gentler kiss, one in which we’re coming together truly knowing each other, with no falsehoods in our way and no onlookers. It’s just me and Anders and it’s intimate and intense.
The car draws to a halt. I turn to look out the window. We’re already back at Kongelig Palace. We were so wrapped up in each other that I didn’t even notice. We’ve entered the palace via a private road. It’s surrounded by tall walls spiked with wrought iron but in the distance, I can still hear people partying in the streets. I think of Becky and Simon and wonder what they’re up to; they’d never believe I was here, on the other side of the walls, having been rescued from prison.
‘Don’t even think about jumping those walls, Sam,’ Anders jokes. ‘Those spikes are electric.’
‘Okay!’ I roll my eyes. ‘Noted!’
Anders leads me towards an enormous gothic doorway, flanked by pillars with a gilded crest of an eagle overhead, which one of the security guards opens. With the electric fence, bodyguards, and limousine, it’s finally hitting home, really hitting home, that Anders is a prince. He’s not just a prince I once met and snogged, he’s a prince I’ve kissed twice, who’s inviting me into the palace as his date. He’s a prince I might actually have some kind of a future with. To say this whole thing is surreal would be an understatement. The bodyguards hold open the doors for us and we step inside the palace.
‘Now you have to promise me that everything you see here is off the record?’ Anders says with a cheeky glint in his eye.
I laugh. ‘One hundred per cent off the record. I promise.’
‘Good.’ He smiles as I take in the hallway of the palace. It’s a huge, open space, with a soaring domed ceiling. I gaze upwards. It’s all gothic pillars and ornate beams
and tapered arches. An enormous candelabra chandelier spills soft light over ancestral portraits on the walls.
The sound of music and laughter floods down the hallway. ‘Come on, we’d better join the reception,’ Anders comments. ‘I skipped family photos to come and get you!’
Anders begins heading towards the direction of the party.
‘Wait!’ I suddenly feel a pang of nervousness. ‘I’m so embarrassed. I can’t go in there! I just got arrested. What will your family think of me?’
Anders grins. ‘To be perfectly honest, Sam, it wasn’t the best first impression in the world, but my family have a sense of humour. They’re not going to judge you.’
‘A sense of humour? So they’re just going to laugh at me?’ I grimace.
‘No! But they can see the funny side. I mean it is quite funny when you think about it.’
I picture myself scaling the barrier, flashing my knickers for all to see. I mean, I can see how other people would find it funny, I’m just not quite ready to see to the funny side myself.
‘Please tell me they didn’t see my knickers at least,’ I sigh. ‘Please.’
‘Actually . . . ’ Anders pulls a face.
‘What?’
‘I think more than just my family saw your knickers,’ he comments, a little awkwardly.
‘Anders, what do you mean?’
‘The story was picked up by a few journalists,’ Anders says, avoiding eye contact.
‘What do you mean “a few journalists”?’ I ask anxiously, praying he means a couple of Norwegian reporters writing for obscure websites that no one will ever have heard of.
‘Umm . . . Do you want to see?’ Anders suggests.
‘I guess,’ I grumble.
‘Are you sure?’ Anders asks apprehensively.
‘Yes!’ I reply impatiently, tense with nerves.
‘Okay, one second.’ He takes his phone from his pocket and looks an article up.
‘Is it bad?’ I ask.
‘Well, it’s, umm . . . It’s on the Daily News website,’ Anders tells me, handing me his phone.
I feel like my mouth has just fallen open. The Daily News!? The Daily Newss website is huge. It’s full of the trashiest, most gossipy celebrity news and it gets millions and millions of hits every day. It cannot be true that photos of my bum are on the Daily News’s site. This cannot actually be happening. I reach for the phone, my hand a little shaky as I hold it, taking in the headline: PRINCE ISAAC’S BROTHER’S BRITISH SQUEEZE GIVES ONLOOKERS AN EYEFUL JUMPING BARRIER AT ROYAL WEDDING. Underneath the headline is a picture of me, scaling the barrier while flashing my white lace knickers. It’s a terrible photo, not that photos of me with my arse hanging out tend to be particularly great, but the angle is awful, making my bum look at least three times its usual size.
