by Kate Johnson
“I am not your boyfriend. Look, even Granny asked me the other day if we were, and I quote, ‘walking out’.” She’d never asked that about Melissa or Serena or any of the others.
Olivia snorted. “Is that what they called it in her day? What did you tell her?”
“I told her I loved you like a sister—” possibly more than, he thought, because Olivia never threatened to rip his headphones off “—and had about as much expectation of marrying you.”
Not that he expected the Queen believed it, but he was guiltily aware that the rumour mill had had him and Olivia on the brink of an engagement since they were about four years old. Every time someone snapped a picture of him and Olivia together, one of the tabloids ran some kind of speculation on their wedding date. One had even gone so far as to photoshop poor Olivia into Jamie’s mother’s wedding dress.
“They will want their gossip. I mean little what’s-her-face’s christening—”
“Lucy, her name is Lucy,” Jamie said in exasperation. The poor child had barely left the Bow Room. Her face was still wet from the baptismal font. “You’re her godmother.”
“Darling, I’ve got eight god-children. Can’t blame me for not keeping them straight. I think I should get a new assistant, just for that.”
“I have fifteen godchildren,” Jamie reminded her, but kept to himself that he relied upon his private secretary to remind him of their birthdays.
“Show-off. Anyway, I meant a royal christening is one thing but it’s Isabella’s baby, darling, she’s so far down the line of succession you’d run out of bullets before you got to her.”
“She’s eighth,” said Jamie, “and ugh.”
“What I meant is no one really gives that much of a damn,” said Olivia. “Your dad’s going to be king one day. People want to see you get married. You’re a proper heir.”
“Ed is the proper heir,” Jamie said wearily. His brother had been born second in line to the throne, his sister third, and now they were both married and starting families Jamie was quite happy to be bumped further down the line of succession.
“You just need to find someone suitable, with an unembarrassing history, decent fertility, and very good hair, and marry her and everyone will be happy and remember why they pay for you in the first place,” was Olivia’s advice. “Not me,” she added automatically.
“Sure. A snap to find the perfect woman who can actually cope with all this bollocks, and happens to love me in return.”
“I’m sure she’s just around the corner,” said Olivia, and they both peered out into the reception room to come face to face with Melissa Featherstonehaugh.
“Not her,” Olivia said automatically, and once again, Jamie was in agreement.
Lee was there when Clodagh came home. She slipped past him as fast as she could, ignored Hanna’s pointed, “Hey, been shopping then?” and shut herself in her bedroom.
It wasn’t large; the bed took up most of it. Clodagh sometimes thought she should get a smaller bed, but then she reminded herself she was only here temporarily, and it’d be someone else’s problem soon. Soon.
She put the bag with a bunch of Hollee’s baby clothes down on the floor. Kylie had waited until they were all in attendance before making the big announcement that she was expecting a boy this time, and as an afterthought did anyone want all this pink stuff Hollee had grown out of. No one did, so Clodagh had brought it for the charity shop.
Did people still buy baby clothes in charity shops? Her sisters all shopped in Primark, and a lot of the charity shops around here sold much more upmarket second hand clothes. Maybe someone else would have it. One of the student unions had advertised a collection for refugees and—
Raised voices came from outside. Lee shouting at Hanna again. Hanna mumbling back in Polish, which always infuriated him.
She’d only known Lee a few months, but one look had told her who he was. Clodagh had grown up surrounded by men like that. Her mother had wasted years on men like that. She didn’t have to know Lee to know who he was.
She heard a thump, and flinched. You should go. Hanna always claimed she’d tripped over something and that was Clodagh’s fault for being a messy cow, but Clodagh knew the marks a man’s fists left as well as the ones his words did.
Fear made her hands shake, but resolution had her unplugging her hefty bedside lamp, the heaviest thing she could find, and holding it clear in front of her as she eased open the door.
“Everything all right?” she said, taking in Hanna cowering on the sofa with her hand to her face and Lee glowering over her, his fists still curled. He swung on Clodagh, who tensed.
“No, babe,” he told her. “My stupid girlfriend tripped again, didn’tcha Hanna?”
Hanna nodded and glared at Clodagh. “Yeah. You’re so messy.”
There was nothing to trip over.
“Whatcha got there?” Lee asked, eyeing the metal candlestick and the wire Clodagh had wrapped around her hand, plug swinging.
“Nothing. Just a lamp that wants fixing.”
“I’ll do it.”
“I can manage.”
“I said—”
Clodagh swung the lamp like a baton. “I can manage, thanks.”
They both glared at her.
“You working tonight?” Hanna asked.
Clodagh nodded. Thank God, away from this horrible little flat for a few hours.
“Good,” said Lee, eyeing her menacingly. “There’s no privacy when you’re here.”
“I pay my half of the rent. I’m entitled to my half of the space.”
“Unless you want to join us?” Lee stepped towards her, lazily swinging his fists. Clodagh gripped her lampstick so hard her fingers hurt. “I like… dark meat.” He gave a low, suggestive chuckle.
“You come any closer and I will hurt you,” Clodagh said. Anger made her eyes burn with tears. God dammit, she did not want to cry in front of him.
He took another step closer, leering mockingly, and Clodagh forced herself to take a breath. Her jaw clenched, and it was hard to get the words out.
“Touch me and I’ll wait until you’re sleeping then come in with a knife or my nail scissors or my own teeth and cut your balls off, do you understand?”
He came closer, she swung the lampstick, he made to catch it and she jabbed with her fist. Clodagh was out of practice but Lee was a coward, and he jerked back at her show of force.
“Ugly black slut,” he said, and Clodagh’s teeth bared themselves at him. But he backed off, which was the important thing, and headed for the front door. “I wouldn’t fuck you anyway.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said through sharp breaths, as he slammed the door and stomped off down the cheap, noisy stairs.
Clodagh waited until her muscles let her move, then crossed the room on shaky legs to the door, where she slid the deadbolt across. “You okay?” she said to Hanna.
“He does love me,” Hanna said, and Clodagh tried to keep from laughing bitterly.
“Yeah. Sure he does.”
“You can’t have him! You steal him and I’ll find you and I’ll cut you…” she trailed off into Polish.
“You can keep him, love,” Clodagh said. “Put some ice on that,” she added, and went back into her room, locking the door as she did.
She leaned against it, shaking, and looked around. Shit. This place was tiny and heating was terrible and the cafe downstairs was noisy and smelly, but they had unsecured wi-fi and it was a short walk into town, which saved on bus fares.
Slowly, she uncurled her clenched fingers from the lampstick and set it down. Plugged it in. And started to do her sums, once again.
She mentally counted up what she’d got left in her account and how long she had until payday. If she left now she’d default on the rest of the month’s rent, but she could probably cancel her direct debit and maybe go into hock on a new place, just for a month. Assuming she could find a new place. Cambridge was Cambridge, after all, and it was a seller’s market. She�
�d learned the hard way that students got the cheapest accommodation in a university city.
Her phone bleeped with a message. “4got 2 tell u Nevaeh want doll purple NOT pink!!! every1 has pink gud luck hun!!!!!!”
Whitney. Shit. So many bloody birthdays, and her sisters wouldn’t take ‘I can’t afford it’ for an answer. Clodagh would bet good money purple was an impossible-to-find colour for this particular doll. And it had to be this particular doll.
“Will do my best,” she texted back, and set to gathering her most valuable and treasured possessions into a bag she could leave at work. Hanna was the spiteful kind, and God only knew what Lee would do if he could break the lock.
That done, she sat down on her bed, tried to ignore the blaring gameshow Hanna was watching, and opened the property app on her phone.
Chapter Two
Historygal Blog: All The Work, None of the Rewards
If I’m honest, that title could correspond to about 90% of my blog posts. But anyway. Since I’m a woman who is striving (Oh, so striving) to study history at Cambridge one day, I’ve been delving into the history of women at Cambridge.
It’s not long, nor is it pretty (insert your own actress/bishop joke there).
Cambridge was founded in 1209, but there were no colleges admitting women until 1869, when Emily Davies founded Girton College. Hussah for Emily Davies! But while her students were allowed to study, sit exams and have their results recorded, none of them were awarded a degree. Female students didn’t achieve parity with males until 1947. Nineteen-forty-frickin-seven!
Think about that for a moment. Despite doing exactly the same work as the male students, they got none of the reward…
“It’s the Master’s Lodge, Your Royal Highness,” said the bedder, who’d nervously admitted to being called Lenka, “so it’s the finest the college has.”
“It’s got three bedrooms, sir,” said Major Peaseman, who’d never allowed Jamie to call him by his first name, “and more importantly a study.”
“It’s very secure,” said Geraint, who didn’t care what he was called as long as Jamie let him do his job, “there’s a garage at the porter’s lodge which we’ll have manned twenty-four seven, a door direct to the college over there, and the team and I will occupy the rooms overlooking the garden.”
Jamie looked up at the Elizabethan building, its windows leaded and its herringbone redbrick carefully preserved, the late roses blooming under the windows and the gargoyles at the edges of the roof, and said, “It’s beautiful.”
Lenka beamed. Peaseman checked his official binder. Geraint checked lines of sight.
The house had its own garden, beautifully tended, with mulberry trees and an abundance of roses. In the summer, when term had ended, the Globe put on Shakespeare productions here. Jamie wondered if they’d still go on doing so when he’d vacated for the holidays.
“I will show you around, Your Royal Highness,” Lenka said. She produced a large ornate key and unlocked the door.
“That’ll need to be changed to a more secure lock,” said Geraint, who’d said the same of every property they’d looked at.
“He means in addition,” Jamie assured the bedder, who looked somewhat alarmed at the idea of someone chiselling through the old oak to put a modern lock on it. “Something discreet, right Geraint?”
Geraint frowned in response.
“This furniture will have to go,” said Peaseman, wrinkling his nose at the shabbiness of the old dark bookshelves and faded velvet sofas.
“I like it,” said Jamie, who was fairly ambivalent but could see Lenka was very proud of the place. “We can sort out furniture later, Peaseman.”
“There is a kitchen: will Your Royal Highness be bringing your own chef?” asked Lenka.
Peaseman looked at him enquiringly.
“No, I can manage by myself. I did when I was at uni the first time,” he reminded them.
“Bloody nightmare, you being in Halls,” Geraint muttered.
“I just want some privacy,” Jamie said.
“Your Highness has privacy at Kensington Palace,” Peaseman said politely.
Yes, along with pretty much every other member of my family. “But Kensington Palace is rather a long way from the Cambridge Faculty of Computer Science,” Jamie pointed out, equally politely.
He allowed Lenka to show him around the pleasant little house, while Peaseman made notes on everything and Geraint’s sharp eyes assessed even more.
Two weeks, he thought. Two weeks and this will be mine. Just mine. Not an apartment in a palace I share with my parents, my brother and sister and about a million tourists every day; not a five minute drive from my grandmother; not even anywhere near Peaseman.
He’d negotiated a weekly meeting with Peaseman, who would remain based at Kensington. The freedom from daily meetings with his private secretary was so tantalising it nearly made his mouth water.
Geraint, of course, would remain with him, as he’d remained with him since the day he’d left Eton. Geraint had organised Jamie’s security when he went to UCL and had, in fact, been one of the reasons he’d been allowed to live on campus in the first place. Geraint had accompanied him to Sandhurst, where he’d scared the bejeesus out of people whose job it was to scare the bejeesus out of everyone else. He’d been an essential part of Jamie’s security detail when he’d done his stint in the Army, in the Navy, and in the RAF. Jamie hadn’t even had to ask if Geraint was coming with him to Cambridge.
“I think we’ll need drones,” Geraint said, as they went back outside. The sky was so blue. Spotless, offset by a few waving rosebushes. It was paradise.
“No drones.”
“We’ll need to make sure no one else has them,” Geraint said. “All these computer types about, I don’t trust them.”
“Geraint, I’m one of those computer types,” Jamie said, dizzy with excitement. It was like Christmas as a child, the anticipation almost too much to bear.
“All the more reason not to trust you,” Geraint said darkly.
Jamie squared his shoulders. “Lenka, it looks wonderful. I’ll be delighted to move in. Shall we say the twenty-fourth? Excellent. Major Peaseman will talk about the details with you.”
There was a sudden flurry of ‘Your Royal Highnessing’, which Jamie stopped with a raised hand.
“I will be moving in,” he said pleasantly, in the voice he’d learned at Nanny’s knee and honed at Sandhurst, “on the twenty-fourth of the month. I will be bringing my own desk and computer equipment in addition to my personal effects. The rest is up to you to negotiate, Major. Geraint, I leave the security details in your capable hands. Lenka, would you be so good as to direct me to the nearest pub, please?”
“Pub?” said Geraint, a vein throbbing on his forehead.
“Short for public house. A hostelry, inn, bar, licensed to serve intoxicating liquor for consumption on and off the premises,” Jamie explained, enjoying himself. “Who’s on today? Cutter? Farquerson?” Those two liked a drink. Or at least, they could give a decent facsimile of people enjoying a drink whilst remaining alert to danger at all times.
“Khan and Morris, Your Highness.”
Even Geraint was Your Highnessing him now. Jamie didn’t care. “Khan and Morris, then. Give them a ring, will you? Lenka, what was the name of that pub?”
Clodagh was still shaking a bit when she reached the Prince’s Arms that afternoon. Bloody Hanna and bloody Lee! She’d called the police on her way to work, more in hope than expectation. Hanna would answer the door, tell them she’d tripped over something her flatmate had left out, ask which ‘anonymous caller’ had tipped them off, make up some reason she and her boyfriend had been shouting, and send them away. If she didn’t press charges there wasn’t much they could do. Not today.
But maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next time.
Clodagh pushed into the warmth of the pub, noise hitting her like a wave. Smiled in a distant way at whoever said hello to her. Got behind the bar, swung open the
big door into the cellar, and dumped her heavy bag in the corner.
“What you got there?” asked Oz, glancing up from where he was changing a barrel.
“Oh, just some overnight stuff.” Keep it vague, that was what she’d told herself. Don’t get pushed into making up lies.
“Going somewhere nice?”
“No, just got back from my mum’s.” That was true, at least. She’d been bitching about it all last week.
“Ah. Nice time?”
“Yeah, not bad.” That was a lie. She’d shared a bedroom with a seven-year-old niece who watched cartoons in bed. “I mean… you know. Family.” She rolled her eyes at him and hung up her coat. “Where d’you want me?”
Oz didn’t react to the line. He’d heard it too often. “Top bar, my love. Kronenbourg will just be a minute.”
She expected a queue when she got there, but the regulars were all facing away from the bar, watching as a couple of men in black looked around the place with blank faces.
“What’s going on?” she asked Stevo as he sipped his bitter.
“Dunno. These two fellas just came in and started poking about. Marte asked what they were after and they took her aside. Reckon they’re spooks.”
“Nah. Mafia, innit,” said Paulie. He groped blindly at his packet of pork scratchings, watching the two men as if they were in a movie.
“Cambridge mafia? You right in the head there, boy? They’re just having you on.”
The men bantered back and forth, exchanging conspiracy theories in voices quite loud enough to carry. Clodagh glanced back at Oz, who’d just come back out of the cellar.
“Don’t ask me,” he said. “They’re talking to Marte.” Marte was the manager appointed by the brewery, hoping to take over as landlady one day, so Clodagh supposed that made sense. “Probably cellar inspectors.”
“It’s spooks, I’m telling you,” said Stevo, plonking down his empty tankard with finality.
“Spooks? In the Prince’s Arms? Do me a favour. Same again, Stevo?”
“Please.”
