Not Your Cinderella: a Royal Wedding Romance (Royal Weddings Book 1)

by Kate Johnson

  “And you’re not,” Jamie said cautiously.

  She nearly told him. She nearly opened her mouth and told him she was Sharday Walsh, and if he didn’t know who that was then she’d educate him—

  —and then she thought about the exposed beams and herringbone brick of the Master’s House at Lady Mathilda College, and about the soft bed and the rainforest shower and the endless array of food and the superfast wi-fi, and the Cambridge students, so bright and shiny and full of potential, and how she could be one, really actually be one if she swallowed her pride and took this chance.

  She was a smart girl, and she’d made some stupid choices. Saying no to this would be another one of them.

  This could be my shot.

  “No,” she said firmly. “I’m not. And I will never be. Just because I was born here doesn’t mean I’ve got to stay here.”

  Jamie’s slight frown turned slowly to a smile. “So that’s a yes, then?”

  “It’s a hell yes,” Clodagh said, and he reached out to shake her hand.

  There it was again, that jolt of electricity, that sense there was no one else around. That look in his eye like he knew her, and always would.

  Clodagh snatched her hand back. “I’m not going to sleep with you,” she said, and in the soft lighting she saw Jamie’s cheeks go pink.

  “Right, well, good, because I wasn’t expecting you to.” He cleared his throat. “Ahem. Okay. Right then. Um. Do you have things you want to pick up?”

  Clodagh nodded without enthusiasm. There wasn’t a lot, but it was hers, and she’d work out later how she felt about asking for help buying new stuff.

  The Range Rover came to a graceful halt in front of the towerblock. “You can’t come up,” she warned Jamie. “I haven’t told them about you. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  He raised his hands in surrender and pressed a button on the console under the privacy screen. “Khan, could you go up with Miss Walsh, please, to collect her things?”

  “Sir.”

  She heard the soft thud of the front car door closing, and then hers was opened, and the PPO who was apparently called Khan helped her out and steadied her on her crutches.

  The lift was graffitied and stank of stale piss. Clodagh didn’t look at Khan as it creaked to a halt and she led him down the badly-lit hallway to her mum’s flat, letting herself in with the key.

  The TV was blaring, as usual, and kids were squabbling over what to watch.

  “I hate fucking Paw Patrol!”

  “Granny! Callum said a bad word!”

  “Callum, don’t fucking swear.”

  Clodagh winced, and thanked God Jamie had agreed not to come up.

  “Mum, it’s me.”

  Her mother came out of the kitchen, tugging down the too-tight t-shirt she was wearing. It said ‘Diva’ in rhinestone letters. “You took your time! Thought you was just going for… who’s this?”

  Sharon Walsh, never one to ignore an attractive man, perked right up at the sight of PPO Khan. She fluffed her hair, thrust out her bosom and smiled girlishly.

  “A friend, Mum,” said Clodagh, suddenly tired beyond belief of her mother. She’s doing her best. She does her best. She’d been telling herself that all her life. Did that mean this was really as good as it got?

  “He’s come to help me pick up my stuff.”

  “Your stuff? Why, where’re you going?”

  She’d thought about this on the way up. “I had an offer of a spare room. Back in Cambridge.” It wasn’t a lie.

  “Spare room?” Her mother waggled her over-plucked eyebrows at Khan. “That what they’re calling it these days?”

  “No, he’s… you know, whatever.” She swung past on her crutches, heading for her old bedroom where the carrier bags of her belongings had been stored. Half their contents were missing.

  “Where’s my stuff?” she asked Nevaeh, who shrugged sulkily. “Nevaeh. Where’s my stuff? My blue sweater and my scarf and that grey tunic? And my red bra? Where are they?”

  “Callum’s wearing them,” said her mother from the hallway.

  Muttering swearwords, Clodagh swung back out, into the living room, where Scott’s stepson Callum was indeed wearing several of her things, including a bra that sagged off his chubby shoulders, and a scarf he was waving like a feather boa. “Very funny, Callum, now give me back my stuff. Now.”

  Callum ignored her and carried on wiggling his bum to a Beyoncé song on the TV.

  “Callum! Now! Give it to me or I’ll take it off you myself.”

  “No! You’re not my mum!”

  Her patience cracked like a gunshot. I’m leaving this place, and I never want to come back.

  Clodagh hopped closer, penning Callum in the corner of the room, and he glared sullenly up at her. She leaned down and said in a low voice, “Give me back my clothes right now or I’ll beat you to death with my crutches.”

  Callum burst into tears. Clodagh reached for him, and he started throwing clothes at her.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” her mother said. “Callum’s on the spectrum, you know.”

  He damn well wasn’t. They’d had this conversation at least three times. Clodagh had seen the Ed Psych at every school her siblings and nieces and nephews had attended, and the only thing wrong with any of them was laziness and spoilt entitlement.

  “The only spectrum he’s on,” she said, “is the arsehole one, and if you say one word about vaccines—”

  “Vaccines cause autism,” piped up Kayleigh.

  “No they fucking don’t. Tell your mother to read a sodding book for once in her life, would you? Khan, would you get my stuff for me, please?”

  “What is wrong with you?” said her mother, glaring. “Why are you being like this?”

  “Because I’ve had enough,” Clodagh said, as Khan silently gathered up scattered items of clothing from a suddenly mute Callum. Clodagh realised that as he bent forward, his gun brace was visible.

  “Enough of what?”

  “Of this. Of you. Of the crab bucket.”

  “The fuck are you talking about?”

  “This is my shot and I will not give it up.” She tried to calm herself. “This is my chance to get out of here and be something different.” To not turn into you.

  “Oh, yeah, little miss clever, innit. Always superior to the rest of us.”

  “At least I want to be better,” said Clodagh, and at a nod from Khan, swung out of the flat.

  “Well don’t expect me to take you back when he chucks you out,” her mother screamed, and Clodagh slammed the door shut.

  She was trembling slightly as they waited for the lift, the PPO carrying her pathetic few bags of belongings. Ancient graffiti on the lift doors, not quite obliterated by cleaning or resprays, still said Pakis out.

  “You okay?” he said, and she nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak without bursting into tears. “Family’s tough,” he added.

  “Yeah.”

  They stepped into the lift. “You and the prince can swap war stories.”

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure his mum screams at him all the time. I’m sure he gets stuck sleeping on the sofa and woken up by Peppa bloody Pig at 6am whenever he goes home.”

  “No, but he does have the entire world watching everything he does.”

  She glanced up at him. There had been warning in that statement.

  Suddenly the girl looking back at Clodagh in the dull reflection from the lift wall looked younger and scrappier, hair in tight braids across her scalp, eyes spiky with mascara—

  “You’ve read my file,” she said.

  He acknowledged that with a tilt of his head. “The highlights.”

  Clodagh lifted her chin, and looked at the person she was now. “And?”

  Khan shrugged. “He won’t care about your background,” he said, as the lift ground to a halt and the doors opened on the concrete forecourt. The Range Rover gleamed expensively under the orange sodium lights.

  “Really?”


  “No. But the rest of the world will.”

  Part Two

  Chapter Eleven

  The smell of melted cheese and garlic hit Jamie as he walked through the door, and his stomach growled in response. The downstairs lights were on, and he could hear Clodagh’s uneven footsteps as she hobbled around the kitchen in her new walking boot. After three weeks, her ankle had begun to heal well, and she’d been allowed to replace the heavy cast with the much more practical boot—so long as she promised to keep the weight off and stay clear of Aldi.

  “That smells amazing,” he said, tossing his jacket on the seldom-used dining table and going through the living room, where the coffee table was set with paper napkins, wineglasses and a bowl of Wotsits. He grinned. She had him down to a T by now.

  “Couldn’t get Dominos to come out this late, but I made stuffed crust.”

  Jamie blinked at her. “Made it?”

  “Yeah.” She came out of the kitchen, bottle of red in hand, smiling at him. Her hair was pinned up, she had on leggings and an oversized sweater and she looked absolutely gorgeous. “Found a recipe online.” She chewed her lip. “I hope it’s okay. It’ll just be a couple of minutes.”

  Jamie knew he would eat it even if it was terrible.

  “How’d it go?”

  Jamie groaned. “As well as can be expected.” The Royal Variety Performance, over for another year. He flopped onto the sofa and poured them both a glass of wine. “Cheers. I mean it’s always a bit of a curate’s egg, isn’t it?”

  Clodagh nodded, sitting down at the other end of the sofa and propping up her ankle on the stool he’d found for her. “Some dodgy comedian and a popstar you’ve never heard of.”

  “And the obligatory American who doesn’t really know what they’re doing there.”

  “But heard the word ‘royal’ and said yes because they thought they were going to marry you,” she teased.

  Jamie thought back to said obligatory American. “Well, that would be fun, but I don’t think he swings that way.”

  Clodagh laughed, as the phone in her pocket pinged a timer. “Food’s ready.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  He slid the pizza stone out of the oven onto a wooden board and grabbed the slicer.

  “Who was the musical this year?” she called through as he slipped the dough balls onto the plate warming in the bottom oven.

  “Er…” he stood there in the middle of the kitchen, plate in each hand, trying to remember. “You know, I couldn’t even say.”

  “Clearly memorable, then.”

  “Yeah. I was hoping for Hamilton, but what can you do?”

  She made a noise he couldn’t identify. “You know Hamilton?”

  “Of course I know Hamilton. It’s not all chamber music and Zadok the Priest round our way, you know.”

  “Have you seen it?” She sounded wistful.

  “No. Haven’t been in America since it opened. Heard good things though.” More than good things. He actually desperately wanted to get tickets for the London show, but even if he did there was no guarantee he could actually make the date, booked a whole year in advance. He’d never forget the Crowded House tickets he’d looked forward to so eagerly, only to have Peaseman override him with a state visit to, of all the ironies, New Zealand.

  “Cirque du Soleil were on though,” he said as he carried the food in, “and they’re always good.”

  “Yeah, I like them.”

  Jamie put the serving platters down on the coffee table and watched Clodagh poke at the pizza, which looked kind of messy but pretty edible. Was it seriously only three weeks she’d been here? It felt like forever. It felt like it should be forever.

  She’d been hesitant at first, not wanting to make a mess or cause a fuss, and Jamie realised she wasn’t just nervous about imposing on him, she was ashamed of her lack of knowledge. She didn’t really know how to cook, not properly from scratch, and she was puzzled by a lot of the ingredients in the fridge and the larder. He had to admit, some of them were a bit weird. If someone had told him ten years ago he’d have opinions on harissa paste, he’d have been baffled.

  Jamie had made a game of buying new kinds of mustard, just to see Clodagh’s incredulity.

  She’d introduced him to crisp sandwiches and cheap, knock-off Pot Noodles from the pound shop, and he’d taught her how to make bolognese without using a jar of sauce. She’d told him about the Game of Thrones books she’d had to wait for at the library, and he’d downloaded the boxset of the TV series. She’d scolded him for wasting water and energy when he did his laundry, and he’d learned that the only thing she was willing to spend good money on was decent conditioner for her hair, which explained those glorious curls.

  She’d sit there in the evening combing some coconuty stuff through her hair and Jamie discovered he had a new favourite scent.

  And now every time he walked through the door it felt so damn good to know Clodagh would be there, experimenting in the kitchen or clattering down the stairs with her hair in a towel, or sitting on the sofa, exclaiming over whatever she’d just found on Netflix.

  I am so into you.

  “Pizza okay?” she said, and he realised he’d just been holding one slice in the air after his first bite. He took another one. Actually, it was good.

  “Pizza’s great,” he said, and smiled with pure happiness. “Everything’s great.”

  “You’re looking well,” said Paulie as Clodagh stumped up behind the bar.

  “Apart from the whole cast on my leg thing?” she said.

  “Apart from that. Doesn’t she look well, Stevo?”

  “Yeah, great,” said Stevo, one eye on the football showing in the other bar.

  Clodagh smiled and pulled Paulie’s pint. She felt well, actually, which wasn’t a surprise given how good her life had been lately. No worrying about money. No freezing cold flat with a lumpy bed and weird stains on the wall. No horrible flatmate.

  Jamie didn’t behave like a prince—not, she had to admit, that she’d really had any thoughts on what a prince would behave like in private. She’d honestly expected him to have more domestic help, but apart from Lenka who came in to clean and change the beds a couple of times a week (“He says he can do them himself, but he’s a prince! And it’s my job!”) he looked after himself pretty well.

  Having a nearly unlimited budget helped, of course. Jamie blithely told her to put whatever she wanted on the online supermarket order, but Clodagh still erred on the side of caution. And two days after she’d moved in, Lady Olivia had whirled up, all air kisses and swishy hair, and tossed a couple of glossy carrier bags on the dining room table.

  “My sister is clearing out a load of clothes and she’s about your size, Clodagh, so I wondered if you wanted them? Not sure quite what you’re going to do about that cast, mind you. How do you get clothes over it? And don’t your toes get cold? Ooh, I know, ski socks! Shall I see if I have any?”

  Clodagh wasn’t really fooled by the charade, but she appreciated the effort. Some of the clothes still had their labels on.

  Jamie and Olivia looked anxiously at her, as if she’d reject the offer, and the words ‘gift horse’ and ‘mouth’ came to her mind. She swallowed her pride, and said thank you.

  It would be easy, really easy, to get used to this kind of lifestyle, she realised. Sure, she was working on her last couple of assignments—amazing how decent rest, lack of stress and gentle encouragement helped her progress—to get the baseline qualifications she needed to apply to university, and Jamie was coaching her on the application process, so she wasn’t being totally idle. She’d written more essays and blog posts in the last few weeks than in whole years combined. And she’d learned to cook, so there was a skill-set she could utilise, sort of.

  But she’d made herself go back to working in the pub as soon as she was able, leaning on a crutch to keep the weight off whenever possible. It might be a horrifyingly small amount of money to someone like Lady Olivia, but it was
Clodagh’s own horrifyingly small amount of money, and she could save it for the first time in her life.

  She looked up as the door opened, and in came Martins, one of Jamie’s female PPOs. The security staff were cordial to her, as they were to everyone, but remote. Clodagh couldn’t quite shake the feeling they disapproved of her presence.

  Martins was followed by the usual Friday night crowd of postgrads, including Jamie. He looked at the bar before anywhere else, and his gaze warmed as it fell on her. Clodagh smiled back without realising.

  “D’you want a drool bib?” whispered Oz in her ear, and she jumped.

  “Shut up. He’s a friend, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  No one knew she was living with Jamie. They’d agreed to keep it quiet. Jamie usually came and went through Lady Mathilda College’s admin building, which backed onto the Master’s Garden. The Range Rovers left straight from an anonymous looking garage round the back of the college. Clodagh had been nervous about using the gatehouse, where the PPOs dwelt with their many cameras, but no one seemed to pay her the slightest bit of notice. She’d learned what time the walking tours went past, and avoided them, and drew no attention.

  “Good to see you back at work,” said Jamie, smiling in a way he never did on camera. A genuine smile, she’d come to realise. A smile that meant he was actually happy, and not just presenting a cheerful face for the public.

  “Good to be back. Haven’t seen you in a while,” she said, and he grinned wider at her.

  He didn’t walk home with her, but left before the others. He’d explained to Clodagh that this was so no one could follow him, although there was usually a PPO with a car only a few minutes away, should he need to make an escape.

  To her surprise, Khan did stay, taking a stool at the end of the bar, making long work of a tonic and lime and pretending to watch the football. Even when the match finished, he stayed.