by Kate Johnson
“Ah, so it wasn’t the prince you were smiling at,” he said.
“Let him,” murmured Khan as Clodagh opened her mouth. “People believe what they want to.”
“Don’t you mind?” she asked, as they went out into the cold November air. The Christmas lights were already up, shining picturesquely against the old buildings. “That he thinks we’re, you know.”
Khan shrugged. “Not really. Why would I mind?”
“Well, because we’re not. I mean… do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend?”
“That’s a very personal question.”
“Pretending to be someone’s boyfriend is a very personal thing.”
He smiled at that. Olivia was right, he was handsome, but Clodagh didn’t fancy him in the slightest.
She was beginning to have a slight inkling as to why, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.
“I’m not pretending anything. I didn’t make the assumption. And besides. The way you and him talk to each other, look at each other? Won’t take long before someone makes the connection.”
“What connection?” Clodagh’s cheeks heated. “There is no connection!”
“You live together. You’re friends,” said Khan placidly.
“Oh.” Yes, of course. Yes, just friends. “Yeah, right, I mean… you’re right.” They didn’t want people to know Clodagh lived with Jamie. Not that there was anything going on between them, but people would assume there was. “Do… does his family know I live there?”
A fractional pause. “He—” Jamie was always ‘he’ in public, or ‘our mutual friend’— “made it clear to his family that he wanted to keep his private life private. We report nothing that happens inside these walls,” he nodded to the anonymous wall Clodagh now knew bordered the Master’s Garden. “Unless it’s a threat to security, of course.”
“Of course.”
She was still thinking about what Khan said as she let herself into the house and locked the door behind her.
“Clo?” Jamie’s voice came from the right, his study. It was a glorious room with mullioned windows and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Jamie’s computer equipment took up several tables in the middle of it. There was a whole separate staircase leading from it to his bedroom.
“Yeah.” She hung her coat in the cupboard and took off her ordinary shoe, swapping it for a carpet slipper. The floors were slate in the kitchen and got pretty chilly underfoot. The toes on her right foot, despite the thick sock she wore inside the walking boot, were frozen. “Thought you’d have gone to bed?”
“No, I had an idea,” Jamie said, “I just wanted to note it down.” He appeared in the doorway, hair even more dishevelled than usual, and blinked at her from behind his glasses. “And then I, er, started playing Minecraft.”
She smiled fondly. “You’re such a geek.” She headed towards the kitchen. “Was it your idea Khan should walk me home?”
“Yes. Hope you didn’t mind,” said Jamie anxiously, following her. He’d changed into jeans and one of his endearingly dorky t-shirts. “I just… last time you walked home alone…”
Clodagh looked down at the padded boot on her ankle and shuddered. The bruises had faded, the bone was healing, but the look on Lee’s face as he’d thrown her down the stairs—that would never go away.
“Yeah,” she said shortly. Then she looked up, and found a smile for him. “No, it was nice. Thanks. Except now Oz thinks he’s my boyfriend.”
She waited, gauging his reaction as she flicked the kettle on. Jamie’s brows went up, and he said, “Oh,” in a voice higher than usual. His gaze flickered down to the floor. “Really? That’s weird.”
“Is it? I mean, people will probably think he’s the one I’m living with.”
“Right.”
“So it takes any suspicion off you. I can just be friendly to you like anyone else who comes in the pub. It’s a sensible idea.”
“Yes. Yeah, sure. It is.” Jamie looked up, and smiled at her, and Clodagh wondered why she was waiting for him to say something else. “And he probably thinks it’s hilarious, Khan, right? Not that there’s anything hilarious about being your boyfriend, I mean anyone would be lucky, but I mean…”
The kettle flicked off, and Clodagh turned to drop a teabag into her mug. “You want a shovel? Keep digging,” she said lightly.
But she didn’t feel light, as she finished making tea and took it into the living room to watch half an hour of TV before she went to bed. She felt… disappointed, and she didn’t like why.
“This is the only place I’ve been where all the glitter didn’t look out of place.”
Jamie smiled at the petite woman with the glossy hair and sparkly dress. She was dressed more conservatively than she did on Strictly Come Dancing, but he figured there was some contract clause that they had to wear sequins at all times, or risk disqualification.
“It’s not even the grandest room in the palace,” Jamie said. “You should see the White Drawing Room. It’s just over there,” he waved vaguely. “Not sure why we call it White, it’s mostly gold. There’s even a gold piano.”
The dancer’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”
“Well, gilt anyway. Painted with cherubs and the like. Claw feet. As a child I thought it would chase after me on them.”
She smiled. “Maybe you should think of it dancing instead.”
Jamie thought of the three-legged grand piano attempting the tango and laughed out loud. “What a brilliant idea! I’ll remember that. Thank you.”
She beamed, and looked to be saying something else, but Jamie was led away by an aide.
“She’s very pretty,” said his mother, materialising behind him. Jamie tried not to jump.
“Well, they all are. Haven’t you seen the show?”
“Every week, darling.” The reception had been her idea. “My money is on Debbie McGee. Have you seen her legs? Extraordinary. Wish mine looked like that. But do be careful, darling.”
“I’m not going to start doing the splits.” Jamie was not one of life’s natural athletes. He’d been taught to dance, of course, they all had, so he wouldn’t embarrass himself at state occasions, but he’d embarrass the hell out of himself on Strictly.
And royals didn’t do things they knew would embarrass them.
“I don’t mean the splits,” his mother said, eyeing the dancer, who was now talking to one of the charity guests. “I mean the girl.”
Jamie knew exactly what she was implying, and he resented it. He put on a quizzical expression.
“French dancers were what nearly did for your great-grandfather,” she said.
“But they didn’t,” Jamie muttered, because Great Grandpa had been safely married off to someone suitable the minute he started to get too serious about someone unsuitable, “and she’s not French.”
“Her nationality isn’t important,” she hissed as an aide came to lead her off somewhere else. “You know what is.”
Yes, yes, of course. She was a dancer. She shook her bum in sequins on prime time TV. She wasn’t minor royalty, like Ed had married, or aristocracy like Victoria had married. His cousins had married military officers and bankers and the exceptionally well-educated children of very rich foreigners.
“The Crown Princess of Sweden married her personal trainer,” he muttered under her breath.
“Indeed, sir,” murmured the aide at his elbow, and Jamie swore under his breath. “If you’ll follow me, sir…”
He chatted and laughed and applauded the obviously carefully planned ‘impromptu’ performances, and just when he’d had enough of being festive and cheerful the guests were guided away. He went back to the ante-room where his mother was changing into her carpet slippers and handing her earrings to a dresser.
“I’m tired just watching them,” she said. “Do you know, I’ve just been invited to watch the filming of the Christmas special?”
“How exciting. Will you go?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. It’s a big chunk of time and
one is so busy leading up to Christmas. We’ll see if things can be rearranged. Thank you for doing the Royal Variety, by the way. Edward didn’t want to go by himself.”
“No problem.” Jamie rolled his shoulders and tugged at his bow tie. His eyes felt dry from wearing his contacts too long. “Where’s Vincent?”
“He popped out to fetch some antacids for your father. Apparently Jeremy has run out.”
Concern shot through Jamie. His father always seemed to be in such good health—but then, wasn’t that the image they all presented? “Is he okay?”
“Oh yes, you know how he is, sneaking naughty little snacks in.” She put a hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Jamie. The doctor says it’s nothing to worry about.”
But he did worry. He worried as his father strolled in and assured him he was fine, he worried as Vincent let him change out of his gladrags to go home, he worried as Peaseman updated him on his schedule next week.
Term ended this Friday, which meant he’d have to work hard tonight to get the term-end report he’d promised his PhD supervisor. He’d missed a seminar today, which had been damn awkward to get out of, but in the end Peaseman had managed to persuade the speaker to hand over her notes for Jamie to study.
In the car on the way home he read the speaker’s notes and emailed her a few questions. Tomorrow he’d have a full day at the lab, and then on Friday too, despite everyone else planning to skive off and go to the pub early.
Where they’d get to talk to Clodagh, and watch the way her teeth flashed when she laughed, and admire the muscles of her arms as she pulled a pint, and smile at the very thought of her.
“Oh God,” he groaned, head falling back against the seat rest. This, this was why it had been a bad idea to invite her to live with him. Sure, he wasn’t going to do anything about it, but it was there now, and he couldn’t ignore it.
And here she was, allowing Khan to pretend to be her boyfriend. He should have asked Benson, who was gay, or Phillips or Martins, who were female. Not Khan, who was young and handsome and personable.
The car parked up in the garage at Lady Mathilda College and Jamie made his way across the softly-lit rose garden to his front door. It wasn’t late, but it was cold and dark and lights were on in the living room. Through the old leaded windowpanes he could hear faint music.
Clodagh went across the room and turned up the volume on the radio. Well well. A closet Ed Sheeran fan.
He walked in to the chorus of Sing, toeing off his shoes and hanging up his jacket quietly, watching through the dining room as she danced to the beat.
He’d spent the afternoon with a dozen professional dancers, and here was Clodagh balancing on one crutch, eyes closed as she sang along, and he knew who he’d have given the perfect score to.
He wandered closer, watching her, and leaned against the doorway, as she yelled, “Sing!” and then, to his astonishment, rapped the whole middle eight.
“You can rap?” he said, and she spun on her heel, losing her balance and stumbling. Jamie darted forward to catch her, and for a moment she was in his arms, breasts heaving, lips parted, and oh God he wanted to kiss her.
She straightened, and he stepped back, and she turned the music down. Jamie drew on ten centuries of breeding and thirty years of living to keep his expression politely neutral.
“Course I can rap,” Clodagh said, tugging at her sweater in a way that drew his gaze to her thighs. “All black people can.”
Jamie opened his mouth, then shut it again. Clodagh grinned at him, then she tilted her head and said, “You said you like Hamilton?” Jamie nodded.
Clodagh took a breath, then she launched into the show’s signature song, My Shot. It was a hell of a tour de force, Alexander Hamilton’s cry of ambition. A bright, eloquent boy born to the most desperate of beginnings, burning with the desire to better himself. He even wanted a scholarship to King’s College, for God’s sake. And from this he’d risen to become one of the most influential men in the early days of America.
And Clodagh not only knew this and understood it, but rapped it better than the soundtrack.
I am so into you.
She broke off at the point where the company joined in the song, her chest heaving, and reached for her drink.
“That was amazing,” Jamie said into the sudden silence.
Clodagh shrugged, her gaze dropping. “Told you, all black people can rap.”
“Don’t try that on me. Where’d you learn to do that?”
She shrugged again, and headed towards the kitchen. “Mis-spent youth.” She snorted. “Not much to do but hang around listening to music and memorising it. I went with a guy once who wanted to be a rapper, so I got a lot of practice.”
“He ever make it?”
“He made five years for armed robbery.” She quirked an eyebrow at him as she set a plate in the sink and glanced at her watch. “I have to go. Work.”
He nodded, a little discomfited by her rendition of the song. “Me too. But of the not-leaving-home variety.” He had a night of making notes and writing reports.
Clodagh nodded and plucked her phone from the charger. “See you later,” she said, and hobbled off to fetch her coat. A minute later she was gone, and Jamie made himself sit down at his desk and open the email today’s speaker had just sent him.
He glanced at the iTunes icon on his desktop. He had the Hamilton soundtrack, but he wasn’t going to listen to it. He was going to work.
He wasn’t going to sit here thinking about the first time he’d met Clodagh. It was hardly the battle of wits from the song. She’d stared dumbly at him and he’d talked to the other bartender. Not exactly the stuff of ballads.
But then that day on Midsummer Common, that morning, when she’d looked so helpless and he’d just tried to be kind and somehow, somehow she’d turned the tables on him. A bright, eloquent girl born to the most desperate of beginnings, burning with the desire to better herself… That was how they’d met. Really met. That was when he saw Clodagh Walsh for the first time.
When she held his hand and the whole world went away.
Jamie realised he’d been staring into space for five minutes. He straightened up, nudged his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, and read his emails.
And then he put the damn soundtrack on anyway.
Chapter Twelve
There was an end-of-term spirit amongst the students tonight, despite officially having two more days to go. Clodagh served their drinks and laughed at their jokes and tried not to think about the way Jamie had looked at her when she’d rapped that stupid song. What was she thinking?
Sure, Hamilton had risen to greatness, married above his station and become instrumental in the founding of the United States, but then he’d been shot dead in a duel and left his wife—and sister-in-law, if the musical was to be believed—heartbroken at his loss. Hamilton was loved by powerful women. Clodagh was… a roommate. People like Jamie didn’t date people like Clodagh, they dated people like Lady Olivia.
Olivia was the daughter of a duke. Clodagh didn’t even know who her father was.
Crab bucket.
“You seem pensive,” said Khan as he walked her home.
“No, I’m just…” Clodagh curled her cold toes in their walking cast. “Hey, you’ve read my file. I live with a prince and I’m a nobody, aren’t I?”
“Define nobody.”
“I’m an illegitimate barmaid with no education.”
“You’re still somebody.”
They walked in silence a while longer. Clodagh shivered; the temperature had plummeted. The forecast talked about snow next week.
“Can I ask you something?” Khan said, and she looked up in surprise.
“Sure.”
“When I get an evening off, can I take you out somewhere? A drink, or a meal?”
Clodagh stared blankly at the street ahead. Khan was asking her out on a date? Jamie’s bodyguard was asking her out? This was surreal.
“I mean, you say no
and that’s fine, I won’t bring it up again, but—”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He was nice, he was good to look at, and God knew she’d be safe with him. “Yeah, why not? You know which days I work. Let me know.”
He smiled, tentatively at first, and then wider. “Cool.”
“One condition though. I can’t keep calling you Khan. What’s your first name?”
“Davood.” He held out a hand for her to shake. It was bare, so she stripped off her glove to shake it. His fingers were cold, but there was no spark from them.
Spark isn’t everything. Spark is dangerous.
“Nice to meet you, Davood.” They’d reached the gatehouse now. “Call me.”
Jamie’s office door was shut when she went in. She took herself directly to bed, not wanting to speak to him for reasons she didn’t care to identify.
Christmas gathered pace once December arrived, and Jamie’s break from studying was crammed full with official engagements. He ping-ponged between the Home Nations and near Europe, every other day on a plane or long train, every day full of smiling and polite conversation and half a dozen different suits that all looked the same to him, every night a grand hotel or palace or some other exquisite lodgings he was too tired to even notice.
There were Christmas lunches and dinners and drinks receptions, so many of them that by the time the extended family lunch rolled around he never wanted to see a Christmas pudding again.
“And everyone wants to do their own bloody twist on it,” complained his cousin Isabella as they made their way along the Marble Hall, along with anyone else within three degrees of cousinship of Her Majesty. “I’ve had saffron turkey, spiced turkey, roast goose, roast partridge, three bird roasts, five bird roasts…”
“Sprouts with chorizo, devils on horseback in a salad,” her brother Anthony added, scandalised.
“A salad? With Christmas dinner?”
“You should see the vegetarian options,” Anthony said glumly. Jamie had a dim recollection he was dating a model with ever-changing food habits.
