To Marry a Prince

by Page, Sophie

  Richard himself was quite unreadable. He appeared comfortable with his arm round Chloe but he was neither waving to the cameras nor murmuring intimately into her ear.

  ‘She doesn’t look his type,’ Bella said involuntarily. He said he was my boyfriend.

  ‘You think not? She’s got a pulse.’

  ‘Why are you so angry, Lottie? I thought you liked him.’

  ‘So did I. How wrong can you be? The rat.’

  Bella swallowed. ‘What have you heard? Have you any reason to think they’re an item?’

  Lottie flung herself down on the sofa, her arms extended along the cushions. ‘Honestly, Bel, I haven’t a clue. Our tame celeb watcher at work says that the smart money has been on him marrying her all along. The families have known each other for ever.’

  ‘Who marries someone because the families get along? Get real, Lottie.’

  ‘Yes, but even Royalty Watchers has her on the list of Top Ten possibles. Number eight, I think.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Lottie looked wretched suddenly. ‘I’m really sorry, Bel. I didn’t know before or I’d have warned you. He seemed a nice guy. I thought you could trust him.’

  To her own surprise, Bella heard herself say, ‘I think he is.’

  Lottie stared at her in amazement.

  ‘This photo doesn’t have to mean anything. He told me once that he was public property. If he goes out with friends, he’s bound to be photographed with one woman or another, isn’t he? If I don’t want that to happen, I ought to be ready to go out with him myself. In public.’

  Lottie shook her red head in despair. ‘Hey, I’m all for giving the man the benefit of the doubt. But that’s going too far!’

  Bella said slowly, ‘You can only go with your gut, right? My gut says he’s always been straight with me.’

  Lottie gave up. ‘Heaven help you, Bella Greenwood, you’re in love with the man.’

  10

  ‘Breaking Up, Making Up’ – Girl About Town

  Bella spent a restless night. The scary thing was that she was almost certain that Lottie was right. It came as a nasty shock.

  She hadn’t been in love with anyone since the actor who played Romeo when she went to Stratford with a school trip. Not in love. She’d had good boyfriends and bad boyfriends. She’d gone out with guys who were so keen on her, it seemed she couldn’t turn round without treading on them; and others who managed to slot her in once a week between their careers and their squash, rugby, golf and stamp-collecting. There had been relationships which ran out of steam over months and relationships which flared up like a firework and died in a week. She’d been more serious about Francis than about anyone else. Now she thought about it, she had been dazzled by his reputation in their small circle and even thought they might have a future together. But she had never said to herself that she was in love with him.

  He doesn’t make my toes curl.

  Oh, hell. That was the worst reason in the world for seeing someone. No substance to it at all and it could be dreadfully deceptive.

  Yes, but Francis had been a deceiver, too, in his own mean, egotistical way, and he was totally free from the toe-curling factor.

  I don’t think Richard is a deceiver. But why hasn’t he called me?

  What am I going to do if he doesn’t? And what the hell am I going to do if he does?

  However, next day she was too busy to think about Richard or anyone else for that matter. The evil dentist fired his senior hygienist, after a long-running fight about supplies, and the other hygienists all walked out on the spot. Bella spent the whole morning on the phone rearranging appointments. Her employer wanted her to work over her lunch hour as well, but she was determined to see Anthea and refused.

  It was as well she did. The moment she went in, one of Anthea’s assistants leaped up and almost hugged her.

  ‘Bella! Oh, it’s good to see you. Anthea’s been trying to contact you all week. She’s got the absolutely right job for you … number two at a tree conservation charity. Wait right there and I’ll get you the job spec. Anthea will have finished with her client by the time you’ve looked through it.’

  Anthea herself was less effusive. ‘Don’t you ever answer your phone? Oh, well, never mind, you’re here now. Don’t move from that seat until I’ve got you an interview.’

  Bella left the agency with an appointment to see the charity’s director and chairman that evening and clear evidence that her phone was not reliable. In fact, when she looked at the memory, she saw that she had not received or sent texts for several days.

  She could not get to the phone shop until the evening but the friendly assistant recognised her and her new phone and was only too happy to sort it out.

  ‘It’s a design fault. It happens when you press …’ He showed her the exact key sequence to be avoided and Bella told him he was brilliant. It was more difficult to undo, apparently, but eventually he found a way through the walls and barriers and up flickered a great list of unanswered texts.

  On the bus down Piccadilly, she ran through them, skipping over Anthea’s, Neill’s and her mother’s.

  Yes, there it was. At 10.18 yesterday morning Richard had texted: I’m an arse. Forgive?

  Bella pressed the phone to her heart. So he hadn’t been ignoring her. He hadn’t stayed angry and imperious. He was the man she’d thought he was.

  He’d texted eight times in all during the day, and another six today. She didn’t have time to read them all because the bus had reached Green Park and she had to get off. She was meeting her potential employers at the Ritz for a drink. But the texts she had read grew increasingly frantic. She almost danced along the wet, cold pavements and into the fabulous hotel.

  An hour later she emerged with a new job.

  She could have gone home, of course, told Lottie and taken her out to celebrate. She would do that, of course she would. Later. First she had to read the rest of Richard’s messages. It wouldn’t wait until she got back to the Pimlico flat.

  So Bella found a coffee shop, bought a coffee she didn’t want and tucked herself into a corner table so she could go through them in order.

  He knew he had been horrible as soon as he left, he said. But he had been preoccupied about how to keep her name and address from his security officer. The reliable Ian had not been on duty. She had known that Richard didn’t get on as well with any of his other minders, but it sounded as if he really disliked this particular guy. It had obviously been a really full day, too, and his team had had to scramble to try and reschedule things all the way. He had known they would, as soon as he realised how late he had slept. He was sorry he had taken his temper out on Bella. What could he do to apologise?

  There followed a series of increasingly lunatic treats by means of which he hoped to lure her back, starting with star-gazing on the South Downs and ending with diamond earrings of her choice.

  Bella grinned and composed her answer to this last with care.

  Downs cold. Earrings also. Write me a sonnet. P.S. Not ignoring you, phone not working.

  She drank some of the luke-warm latte and went through the other texts. Anthea’s added nothing to what she had said today, so Bella deleted them. Neill, on the other hand, had clearly wished he’d not unloaded his troubles in the wine bar. Bella wasn’t to take it too seriously, he texted. He’d been tired and it had been a tough week. He and Val were fine really, just fine, and Bella wasn’t to worry about him. His later texts about the Viking longboat were a lot less stilted and more believable. He was clearly going to have the time of his life as a Viking oarsman. Bella decided that Lottie was a genius and texted her to tell her so.

  Her phone pinged and she saw Richard had replied. Eagerly she opened the message.

  Sonnet too long. Settle for a haiku? P.S. Bad phone!

  Bella laughed aloud.

  Haiku too short. Offers?

  She started to work her way through her mother’s texts. Janet had never really embraced the idea of texting bre
vity. She wrote in paragraphs, more or less as the ideas poured out of her brain. There had been times when it made Bella feel seasick, as if she were trying to stand upright on a surfboard, with the waves getting bigger and faster underneath her. This time, however, it just stirred her conscience.

  Janet was worried that there was something Bella wasn’t telling her. She knew that children need their privacy and she didn’t want to pry but she didn’t want Bella to feel that she had to carry everything on her own, either. No matter what happened, no matter what Bella had done – she said this several times in ten different messages – there was always a home for her with Janet and Kevin. They would always be there for her. Kevin would be delighted to help her find a job, or to fund her course if she wanted to re-train. Janet would do anything Bella wanted. Anything.

  The last text was a killer: I know we’ve never had a lot in common. Sometimes I feel I don’t know you at all. But I have this feeling that you’re on the edge of something huge. Don’t shut me out, Bella. I’m your mother and I love you. I want to help.

  You know me better than you think, Ma. Better than I know myself, maybe. I didn’t know I was on the edge of something huge until last night.

  But true as that was, it didn’t help her reply to her mother.

  There was another ping. She looked. Richard again.

  Quatrain? (4 lines). Can I see you this evening?

  She snorted. I know it’s 4 lines, smug sod. Octet (8 lines) minimum acceptable.

  His reply came back so fast, she suspected he’d guessed what she would say.

  A triolet? What about this evening?

  She laughed aloud.

  OK, you got me. What’s a triolet?

  She was drinking coffee when his reply pinged back. She nearly choked as she read it.

  If you meet me this evening, I can tell you all about triolets. She could just hear him saying it.

  There was no doubt what she would do really. It was just a question of how long she was going to make him persuade her.

  And then she thought: I’m on the edge of something huge. This is no time to play games. So she didn’t.

  When and where?

  Almost as soon as she’d sent it, her phone rang. It was Richard.

  ‘Are we OK?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bella said honestly. ‘I hope so.’

  She heard him give a long, relieved sigh.

  ‘You are a wonderful woman. And we really can meet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘About five hundred yards from the Ritz. I just got me a real job.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ His voice was warm. ‘Tell me all about it when I see you.’

  ‘Which will be where?

  ‘Take a cab to the Chelsea Embankment. I’ll see you by the dolphin statue at the foot of the Albert Bridge.’

  ‘OK. When?’

  He was plainly astonished. ‘Now, of course.’

  He was waiting for her. He made a lonely figure, standing by the statue as cars came to a stop at the traffic lights or swooshed past along the river road, speeding home. There was hardly anyone else about, just a couple of people hurrying over the bridge. They were hunched against the cold, anxious to get home. An edging of fairy lights picked out the struts and pretty gothic towers of the bridge, turning it magical. But everyone shot past, intent on their own affairs. It was, she realised, a good place to meet if you didn’t want anyone to notice.

  Richard was wearing an old fisherman’s navy jacket with toggles on the front and an obviously torn pocket, stamping his feet against the cold. As she climbed out of the taxi Bella almost didn’t recognise him for a moment. Almost.

  He was looking across the river and didn’t see her as she crossed the road. She hesitated. Last time they’d met she had run into his arms. But that didn’t feel right this time, and anyway it needed to be mutual. She cleared her throat.

  ‘Um—’

  He turned.

  She said the first thing that came into her head. It was idiotic. ‘I’ve never seen you wear a jacket like that before.’

  ‘I borrowed it. Don’t you like it?’

  ‘Borrowed it from whom?’

  ‘Well, more inherited it really. I don’t have to wear it again if you don’t care for it.’

  ‘Inherited it?’

  His voice was warm with laughter. ‘Come and see.’

  He held out his hand. She took it. And, as simply as that, everything was all right again.

  He walked her along beside the dark river, their hands entwined. Eventually they came to a collection of houseboats, bobbing gently on the tide.

  ‘This way.’

  Stunned, Bella followed him down on to the dock and then a walkway over the water. It all seemed very domestic. There were even garden planters on some of the decks. There were lights on in a couple of the boats but mostly they seemed dark. It didn’t seem the place for a restaurant, even a super-discreet one. She said so.

  ‘You’re right. Not another restaurant. Tonight I’m cooking.’

  ‘You have a houseboat?’ She couldn’t believe it.

  ‘A share in one. Here we are.’

  It was one of the smaller boats. At first Bella thought it was in darkness too, but as he led the way on deck, she saw that there was a sort of porch light above a door. He opened it and held out his hand to her again.

  ‘Welcome aboard – and mind the step. We go down the companionway and then we’re home.’

  It was like stepping into another universe. The companionway was not much more than a spruced-up wooden stepladder at a sixty-degree angle, painted white. She stopped halfway down, looking round, trying to get her bearings.

  It was more like a large friendly wooden tunnel than a boat. There were soft lights at waist-height set into the walls and skylights set in the ceiling. To her right, at the end of the narrow space, she saw a small kitchen, clearly already in use, with vegetables waiting on a chopping block. Between cupboards and the companionway, there was a table, old and well polished, with a motley set of bentwood and bar-room chairs set round it. Bella counted nine. To her left there was built-in seating, a beaten-up armchair that had clearly seen better days and a small desk. There seemed to be bookcases in every corner that could be found, but everything was wonderfully neat.

  ‘This is yours?’

  He beamed with pride.

  ‘Like I said, I share it. My godfather left it to me and all his other godchildren when he died. We decided to keep it on. We run it between us. It’s a bolt hole very few people know about. None of my family has ever been here but I love it. Come and talk to me while I cook. You can even have a seat.’

  He pulled out a tall folding stool and set it for her with some ceremony. He gave her a glass of wine and returned to his interrupted cooking. Bella watched, fascinated.

  ‘I didn’t have you down as a cook.’

  He flashed her a smile. ‘You had me down as a useless Royal who couldn’t even dress himself.’

  She blushed but said with spirit, ‘Can you blame me?’

  ‘Not after my last performance, no. I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘Yes, you said. It’s forgotten.’

  He put down his knife briefly, leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. But he did it, she noticed, rather carefully, as if he wasn’t quite sure how she would take it. Well, good.

  ‘You’re a forgiving woman.’ It wasn’t quite a question, but he wasn’t absolutely sure of himself, she saw.

  But Bella was more shaken by that casual caress than she wanted to admit, or even to think about. So she just said, ‘Aren’t I just?’ and dived into her red wine.

  Richard went back to slicing courgettes. He was very fast.

  She said curiously, ‘Have you trained or something?’

  He smiled. ‘Imagine you’re a child, in a draughty castle you don’t really know, which is full of adults being terribly serious. It’s too wet to play outside and people keep telling you n
ot to run around or disturb your parents because they’re sad. Your nanny is looking after the little ones and says a big boy like you ought to be able to keep himself amused. What would you do?’

  ‘Run away to sea,’ said Bella flippantly.

  ‘Right. I ran to the kitchen. And a wonderful ex-army chef, who had no stupid ideas about keeping small boys away from knives, taught me how to chop vegetables and pluck and draw a pheasant.’

  He diced carrots, with equal expertise. Then onions, with no sign of eye-watering.

  ‘The skills have stayed with you, then.’

  ‘When I start something, I like to finish it. And do it properly, too.’

  ‘I can see that.’ She sipped her wine. ‘When was this grim time?’

  ‘When my grandfather died. My grandfather the King.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He took chicken thighs out of the fridge and dusted them lightly with seasoned cornflour.

  As he worked, he said, ‘When girls ask what it’s like being a prince, of course, I don’t know, because I don’t know what it’s like not to be one. But I do know what it’s like suddenly to realise you’re King. I watched it happen that week. I was nine. I saw it all. My mother went on doing what she always does: looking on the bright side, being constructive, doing the next thing. My father – froze.’

  It was a desolate little world he was describing. Bella had a sudden vision of the isolated nine-year-old and his grieving, overwhelmed parents.

  ‘Was it unexpected? And were they close, your father and your grandfather?’

  He didn’t answer, turning on the small oven and putting a casserole dish in it to warm. Then he poured oil into a pan and heated it up. When the oil was smoking, he picked up the chicken joints and placed them carefully in the pan. Minimum splatter, Bella noticed. He was right: what he did, he did properly. More than that, he did it with attention to detail and precision. Bella did not cook much, but whenever she did something like this she regularly coated every flat surface with a fine spray of oil or fat. She looked at him with increasing respect.