Not Your Cinderella

by Kate Johnson

  “Nowhere,” said Jamie firmly. “You’ll stay here. As long as you need to.”

  The girlfriend opened her mouth, then shut it again.

  “I can’t do that,” Clodagh said, aghast. “I can’t impose on you like that!”

  “Nonsense. Of course you can. I have three bedrooms and I’m only using one of them. There’s a second bathroom along the corridor. The wi-fi is very fast and the coffee maker is almost usable.”

  He said the last with a faint smile. But he was just being kind, Clodagh knew. He didn’t really want her underfoot, getting in his way and being all common.

  But what was the alternative? Going back to her mum’s? With Whitney living two floors down and Kylie in the next block and Tony still at home and the twins constantly bitching at each other? With the constant soap operas, both on TV and in real life, the neighbour whose music was as loud as it was terrible, the woman upstairs who screamed at her dog whenever it barked, which was constantly? With her five nieces and two nephews and Peppa bloody Pig and Lego underfoot…

  She rubbed her face, which hurt. “I’ll go back to my mum’s as soon as,” she said. “Just let me get used to the crutches and I’ll be out of your way.”

  “It’s no problem—” Jamie began.

  “You’ve been very kind,” Clodagh said firmly. She suddenly felt quite appallingly tired. “But I don’t want to impose.”

  Prince Jamie narrowed his eyes a little, but he said, “Look, why don’t we leave you to rest? I have a lecture later but Olivia has promised to stay in so if you need anything,” he handed her handbag over, “give one of us a buzz. Can I have your phone?”

  “I won’t tell anyone I’m here,” Clodagh promised quickly.

  He smiled. “I’m not going to confiscate it. I’m going to program our numbers in.”

  Dazed, she handed it over and watched a member of the Royal Family put his phone number into her contacts while she desperately tried to remember if there was anything embarrassing on there he might see by accident.

  “Ooh what a nice picture,” said Olivia, peering over his shoulder, and Clodagh panicked until she clarified, “On your wallpaper. King’s College?”

  “Oh.” Clodagh relaxed a little. “Yes. When it snowed last year.”

  “Mmm. So picturesque. I have a picture of Allendale House in the snow somewhere. Mummy put it on the calendars this year. Very beautiful, but maddeningly impractical. Bloody dogs made such a mess everywhere. Oh, I’ve just thought, would you like me to call the pub and tell them you won’t be in?”

  “I’ll,” Clodagh began. If she told them she wouldn’t be in for a while they’d probably hire someone else. “I’ll do it.” She’d tell them she’d be off for a few days, because surely by then she’d be able to stand and walk a bit. If she put her weight on one leg she could probably stand behind the bar.

  Only not if she went home to her mum’s. It was just under an hour by train, but she had to get to and from the station at both ends, which would mean leaving the pub no later than about 10pm to make the last train. Impossible.

  Jamie handed her phone back. “I’ll see if I can find you a charger for that,” he said. “Get some rest, and when you’re ready come down and have something to eat. Give one of us a shout and we’ll help you with the stairs.”

  They turned to go, and then Jamie hesitated and looked back at her.

  “The police will want a statement from you, but maybe not until you’re feeling better. I can probably get someone to come round and take it.” He paused, then added, “He can’t hurt you any more, you know. You’re safe here.”

  Clodagh could only stare after him as he closed the door.

  Chapter Six

  Olivia was giving him a Look. She’d been giving it to him since he’d brought Clodagh home in the middle of the night, and she’d only stopped while they were in Clodagh’s room with her.

  “Stop it,” he said as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

  Olivia grinned. “I can’t,” she said.

  “Yes, you can. You are an Altringham of Allendale, you can school your expression to whatever you want.”

  “And right now I want to give you big cow eyes and make fun of you because you like her,” Olivia said.

  He rolled his eyes and flopped down on the sofa. “Are we schoolchildren? Teasing each other because of who we fancy?”

  “Firstly, you went to Eton, so there were no girls for you to fancy, and secondly: Aha! You do fancy her.”

  I do. “I don’t. I think she’s pretty, and I like her perfectly well as a person, but that’s not the same as fancying someone.”

  “Stay as long as you need to, Clodagh,” Olivia mimicked. “Let me give you my phone number, Clodagh…”

  “Oll, stop it.”

  It was silly, because he was allowed to have a little crush on someone, wasn’t he? It didn’t mean he was going to do anything about it. He and Clodagh were very different people with little in common but a postcode, and besides right now she was hurt and vulnerable and he refused to take advantage.

  He opened his mouth to say as much to Olivia, but the glint in her eye stopped him. She’d just tell him he was protesting too much.

  “Fine, think whatever you like,” he said, and picked up the textbook he was supposed to have finished reading last night. “I’m just helping out a friend. I’d do the same for you if your boyfriend beat you up.”

  Olivia gave him a look that said no boyfriend would ever dare.

  “Have you read the dossier on her?” she asked.

  “You know I haven’t.” He paused. “Why? What’s Geraint been telling you?”

  “Not a thing.” Olivia looked innocent. “I asked Davood.”

  “Who?”

  “Davood Khan. Really Jamie, you don’t know their first names?”

  “Not unless they tell me. They’re personal protection officers, not mates. And I don’t want to know. If there’s anything really important she’ll tell me.”

  Olivia laughed as if at a private joke. “I bet she won’t. Jamie…” She trailed off, looking suddenly serious. “Look. I would love to tell you that your personal life is your own business, but we all know that’s not the case. I can just imagine the tabloids if you take up with a mixed-race barmaid from Essex.”

  “Well then, it’s a good job I’m not, isn’t it?” Jamie said, trying to concentrate on his textbook. But Benson’s words from earlier this morning kept echoing round his head. ‘I wouldn’t let a dog live in a flat like that.’

  Olivia reached out and touched his arm. “Just be careful, darling. For all we know she might have staged this whole thing simply to get in your house.”

  Jamie snapped the book shut on his thumb. “Oh, sure, she got her boyfriend to throw her down the stairs just so she could see what kind of toilet paper I use. Don’t be ridiculous, Oll.”

  “I’m not! Don’t you remember that girl who faked a broken leg just to get in a photo with Edward? And Victoria had someone feigning mental illness or something, didn’t she?”

  “PTSD,” Jamie sighed. “Yes. All right, I take your point, but I was there with her in the hospital with Clodagh. I saw the X-ray. She hasn’t faked that part. And besides, what on earth was the likelihood of me inviting her to stay? I don’t do that with everyone I meet who’s broken their ankle. I’d fill up Buckingham Palace.”

  “So why did you?” asked Olivia. “Ask her to stay?”

  Jamie thought about Clodagh sitting there on that hospital bed, looking so small and fragile and broken. He’d seen people in much worse states. Hell, he spent half his time in hospitals and convalescence wards.

  Because when she touched my hand, something happened that I can’t explain and I need to get to know her better so I can prove to myself it doesn’t mean anything.

  “I just did,” he said, and refused to be drawn any more on the subject.

  Clodagh hadn’t meant to go back to sleep, but she did anyway. The room was in semi-darkness when she
woke, horribly thirsty and desperate for the loo.

  This time she took it more carefully, not really willing to be found by the prince and his perfect girlfriend on the floor in a puddle of her own wee. The crutches had been left closer to her bed, and she used one of them to support herself as she hopped along the corridor in search of a bathroom.

  The upstairs corridor was lined with shelves containing leather-bound books of the variety which could only be called ‘tomes’. A window at one end held a bust of a moustachioed gentleman and the stairs at the other end had exposed wooden beams hung with oil paintings.

  A door stood partly open to a bedroom with a fabulous leaded bay window, overlooking a rose garden artfully lit by Victorian streetlamps. It was pin-neat and impersonal, with only a couple of complicated-looking textbooks by the bed to give a clue that it was actually occupied.

  Clodagh didn’t dare venture inside. It would be a terrible thing to be caught snooping. What if she were accused of stealing?

  The bathroom was the next door along, clearly recently and expensively refitted with a rolltop bath and those tumbled marble tiles that were meant to look ancient. The towels were fluffier than a Persian cat. The soap was probably made from real rose petals. Even the toilet paper was luxurious. It was thicker and more quilted than Clodagh’s own duvet.

  Those tiles probably came from Pompeii, thought Clodagh glumly, recalling the mildewed grouting at her old flat.

  She recoiled from the sight of herself in the mirror. One eye purple with bruising, her hair a tangled mess, a livid scrape on her arm resulting in a mess of dried blood. She washed frantically at the sink, casting longing looks at the shower over the bath. Probably not wise to risk that when even standing upright was a liability.

  Back in her room, she hauled the plastic bags onto the bed and looked through them. A few changes of underwear, some t-shirts and leggings, a pair of jeans she probably couldn’t fit over the padded boot on her leg. After some internal debate and a quick Google on her phone—Jamie was right, the wi-fi was fast—she removed the boot in order to get dressed. Her ankle was swollen up and an even worse colour than her eye.

  “Well, at least you don’t need to worry about Jamie finding you irresistible,” she muttered to herself as she fastened the boot back on. Her hair was a snaggled, snarled mess, tangled round the studs that marched up her earlobes. The one thing from her past she’d held on to were those piercings, and they were still causing her grief.

  Clodagh did the best she could with the comb in her handbag and thanked her own foresight in hiding her good conditioner in there too, where Hanna couldn’t spitefully nick it or wash it all down the sink.

  The stairs posed a problem. Steep and winding back on themselves, with a carpet runner and stair rods that were just begging to snag her crutches and send her headfirst into some priceless artwork.

  Clodagh chewed her lip for a while, then remembered the time her brother Scott had broken his leg playing football and had to go up and down stairs on his bottom. Well, it wasn’t dignified, but neither was going A over T all the way down.

  Inevitably, Olivia appeared when she was halfway down, foot in the air, blowing her hair out of her face and scowling at the world in general.

  “Oh, there you are, darling.” Jamie’s girlfriend looked immaculate, dark hair gleaming, skin peachy pale, posture perfect. “I heard you moving about. What a clever way to get down the stairs. Shall I take those for you?”

  She took Clodagh’s crutches without waiting for an answer, slotting her arm in and hopping experimentally. She managed to look elegant even while doing that.

  “Lord but these are exhausting,” she said. “Mind you, probably marvellous for toning one’s bingo wings. Not that you have any, darling. All that pulling of pints has toned you up beautifully. I’m so glad you found something to wear. I was going to try ordering you something but do you know, Cambridge doesn’t have Amazon Prime Now. It’s like living in the middle ages. All these advances in technology and you still have to wait twenty-four hours to get anything delivered. Ugh.”

  She gave a theatrical shudder then reached out and helped Clodagh to her feet at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Now. Are you hungry? Cup of tea, maybe? Or coffee? I think the machine here might run to a cappuccino.”

  “Tea is fine,” said Clodagh. Of course Prince Jamie had a machine that made cappuccinos. “And I could eat, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “None at all, darling, none at all! I mean I’m a terrible cook but I could probably whip up a sandwich or something. Jamie’s out, by the way. Lecture or lab work or something. What can I get you?”

  Memories of a certain bacon sandwich came back to Clodagh. “It’s fine. I can make my own.”

  “No, you can not! You’re a guest here. You don’t make anything. You sit down, relax, recover, and let us take care of you.”

  The stairs had led right into the living room, a handsome space with exposed beams and a beautiful brick chimney. There was a large bay window with leaded panes looking out onto a rose garden, and one side of the room had no wall between the beams, so that a large dining table and even larger inglenook fireplace were visible. I’ve lived in flats smaller than that inglenook.

  Olivia fussed over settling her on a large leather Chesterfield, asked if she’d like the fire lit, placed some magazines at her elbow, and wandered off to make her something to eat.

  Clodagh looked around. She wasn’t much of an expert, but she reckoned probably every item in this room was more valuable than everything she’d ever owned in her entire life.

  A small sob escaped her when she realised that pretty much all she owned now was her phone and the clothes she wore. There was the bag she’d left at the pub, of course, with a few keepsakes and important documents in it, but aside from a ring she’d been given on her twenty-first birthday there was nothing in there valued at more than about twenty quid.

  She glanced at the watch on her wrist, which had been cheap when she’d bought it off a dodgy stall in the market and utterly worthless now it had a smashed face.

  A book lay facedown on the side table, bits of coloured paper sticking out of it. The title on the spine was incomprehensibly long and complex, full of what Clodagh assumed to be computing terms.

  The price was visible. It retailed at nearly forty pounds.

  Clodagh looked from it, to her watch, and burst out laughing.

  “Darling, are you all right?” said Olivia when she came back in, carrying a plate.

  Clodagh nodded and swiped at her eyes, trying to calm her giggling fit. “Sure. I just noticed this book cost nearly forty quid.”

  “Did it?” Olivia said with absolute disinterest.

  “That’s half a shift’s pay for me,” Clodagh explained, and watched Olivia’s perfect face dissolve into shock.

  “But… that’s impossible! Isn’t there a minimum wage?”

  “Yes, and I get paid it,” Clodagh said.

  Olivia gaped at her.

  “What do you do?” Clodagh asked politely.

  “Oh… PR. More or less run the Allendale PR myself… Seriously, you make eighty pounds a shift?”

  Clodagh nodded patiently. “I’m guessing that’s closer to your hourly rate?”

  Olivia looked baffled. “I have no idea, darling, I’m salaried. Eighty pounds? I’m floored, darling, I really am. I genuinely didn’t know you could live on that.”

  Clodagh snorted. “You more or less can’t. Did you see my flat? No, well you didn’t miss much. I kept trying to move out but I couldn’t find anywhere else I could afford. It’s expensive around here.”

  “Yes, I know, when my sister came here Daddy bought her a flat and it was way above the national average.” Olivia didn’t seem to really realise what she was saying. Clodagh attempted to keep smiling. “Well. I’m so sorry, it’s terribly rude of me to pry like that. Here. I made you a sandwich.”

  It was plain cheese. Wondering how it could tak
e anyone ten minutes to make a plain cheese sandwich, Clodagh accepted it and took a bite. There wasn’t even any butter in it.

  “Is it all right? I’m so terrible in the kitchen, really darling. Oh, I was going to fetch you a drink. What would you like? Tea or coffee, or there’s some orange juice or some cans of fizzy pop… I don’t suppose you could have a cheeky G&T, could you?”

  Right now that sounded amazing, especially with her mouth full of dry bread, but Clodagh thought of the painkillers she’d downed and shook her head.

  “Probably not. A can of fizzy pop would be nice, though.”

  It was real Coca Cola. Not the fake supermarket-branded stuff her mum bought, which always tasted weirdly of cardboard. Clodagh drank half of it in one go, and Olivia promptly brought her another without asking.

  She curled up on the sofa, elegant as a Siamese cat. “Now, you must tell me all about yourself. Jamie’s mentioned you once or twice but he hasn’t told me an awful lot and I’m terribly nosy. Where are you from? Did you grow up around here?”

  Clodagh was saved from trying to explain Harlow to her by the sound of the front door being opened and closed again. Through the open wall to the dining room she saw Jamie entering from what was presumably the front hallway, taking off his jacket and setting down a laptop bag.

  “Clodagh!” His face lit up with a smile that was the most genuine she’d seen from him. “You’re up. How are you feeling?”

  She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

  “Head any better? And your ankle?” Here, it’ll be better if you elevate it.” He fetched a footstool for her and placed her ankle on it as if she was made of glass.

  “Painkillers are doing the trick. No need to take me back to A&E.”

  “I am glad,” he said, and seemed to mean it. “Has Olivia been taking care of you?”

  “I made her a sandwich,” said Olivia proudly.