The Runaway Princess (10 page)

“Well, yes. But that’s only because if I get a couple of hours’ work in early on, I can have a bacon sandwich at ten and not feel guilty.”

“I have a similar arrangement with a danish pastry. I’ve found an amazing bakery round the corner from my office—I should send you some croissants.”

“I’d take a decent croissant over a Vietnamese house pig in diamond earrings any day,” I said. “I’m a very cheap date.”

Leo held my gaze, and I held my breath, wondering if he was going to lean over the table and kiss me.

He didn’t, but his eyes darkened and sent electricity tingling right through me, as his beautiful mouth curved in a smile. “That’s not cheap. That’s discerning.”

*

W
e tidied away the crockery in the sputtering candlelight—him washing, me drying—and when everything was packed up, he locked the summerhouse, and together we walked to where the car was parked. It still felt quite dreamlike, even though I had my flats on now. Leo didn’t comment on the sudden drop in my height. So gallant.

The Range Rover was waiting where we’d left it, and as we approached, I saw the driver hastily put away a newspaper and leap out to take the picnic basket from Leo. I felt sorry for him, sitting there doing the crossword while we ate dinner.

I felt Leo’s breath on my ear. “Don’t worry, I got Billy a sandwich too,” he murmured. “I’m not a complete slave driver.”

“Glad to hear it,” I replied. Not because it was very witty but because I wanted an excuse to put my lips as close to Leo’s ear as his had been to mine.

When he’d handed over the basket, Leo turned to me. “Amy, can I drop you home first?”

“Thank you. That would be nice.” It came out more stiffly than I’d meant. Now that I was facing the social obstacle course of ending the evening, I was nearly palpitating with fear of doing the wrong thing and ruining everything.

I gave Billy my address, and he drove there far more efficiently than most London cabbies would manage, using all sorts of cut-throughs I’d never known about.

Leo chatted but didn’t try to kiss me or put his arm round me; by the time we pulled up outside Leominster Place, the outside of Leo’s knee was only just resting against mine—damn those luxuriously wide backseats—but even so my heart rate had reached practically Olympic levels.

“Well, here we are,” I said.

Oh, God. How to leave? Handshake? No. Kiss? Bit forward. And which side first?

“Thanks for a lovely evening. And we never even got to talk about your garden!” I squeaked nervously.

Leo looked at me as if I were joking, then realized I wasn’t. “Amy, that
was
my garden. That’s where I live.”

“I mean your balcony garden. For your flat. The fig tree. The vegetable patch.”

“I don’t have a flat,” he said patiently. “I’ve got a house in the square. I want you to do something in
that
garden.”

I made a faint noise. That put a very different perspective on things.

Leo touched my hand. “Sorry we didn’t get round to talking about it. I suppose I’m going to need to see you again for that. Is that okay?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

He leaned forward, and for a dizzy second I thought he was going to kiss me; instead, he brushed his lips against my cheek, and I nearly fainted anyway, from the scent of him and his warmth.

“Good night. I’ll call you.”

I managed to splutter a good night back, and then let myself out of the car. It was a long way down and I nearly fell out, but managed to recover myself, say thank you to the driver, and stumble up the stairs.

I probably looked drunk, but I’d never felt more sober in my life. It was all the stars exploding around my head and in my blood that made me so deliciously uncoordinated as I tiptoed up the sweeping staircase to our darkened flat. And as I trailed my hand along the worn oak handrail, trying to not wake anyone up, I felt like winking at the naughty spirits of Leominster Place who’d once danced home with stars in their eyes and pearls around their throats. I felt like we finally had something in common.

I
didn’t sleep that night, thanks to the endless replay going on in my head, but I didn’t even feel tired when I got up the following morning and headed off to prune Mrs. Troughton’s wisteria in Chelsea.

Ted’s flat singing (he liked to dig to the sound of hymn tunes, not always with the right words) did not bother me.

Badger rolling around in a pile of fox poo at the bottom of Mrs. Troughton’s big garden did not bother me. (It did bother her, to be fair.)

Even getting home and discovering, (a) a four-foot teddy bear from Rolf lolling suggestively against our door, and (b) our postwoman storming down the stairs from Dickon’s flat, clutching her regulation jacket firmly to her chest, and (c) another overdue gas bill on the post table did not bother me.

Nothing bothered me because I was happier than I could remember being in London. Or, in fact, anywhere. The last time I’d been this happy was the summer I did my GCSEs, before Kelly screwed everything up and we moved and … all that.

Badger ran into the flat ahead of me, looking for Jo and/or food. I left the gas bill on the kitchen table and the bear sprawling on the sofa, and after I’d fed Badger, I waltzed into the bathroom for a long soak, with my phone propped up against the window for best reception in case Leo called.

While I was submerged in the warm water, I replayed various key moments from the previous night, lingering over the bits where Leo’s eyes had locked with mine or our hands had brushed, in the car, in the club. I didn’t have to edit out any cringe-worthy faux pas or fast-forward over awkward pauses. I wasn’t struck too late by much wittier things I should have said. I’d
never
had a date like that.

I guessed it was a bit like what my dad used to say about playing cricket with the one decent pro cricketer Hadley Green CC ever had—Dev Bhattacharya was so talented with the bat that he made everyone else play better too. It was the same with Leo. He was so charming and natural he made it easy for me to be natural too. Even quite charming.

As I twiddled the big brass hot tap with my foot to top up the cooling water, the front door opened; I sank back into the bath and waited for Jo’s screech of horror at the enormous teddy to echo round the flat. I knew her routine: come in, drop bag, wail skyward about the ineptitude of builders, check answering machine for invites (many) or calls from her agent (fewer), ask if there was any wine needed finishing up for economy reasons, and so on. But tonight Jo walked straight in and hammered on the bathroom door.

“Amy? Amy, are you in there?”

“Yes. I’m
relaxing
.”

“So you should be—what time did you get in last night?”

I sat up in the bath, surprised by the urgency in her voice. “Not late. About half twelve? What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, I was worried. I didn’t know where you were.
Badger
didn’t know where you were.”

“Neither did my mum, and she isn’t ringing me up to give me the third degree.”

I knew that was my guilty conscience talking.
You should have phoned,
I reprimanded myself.
I told you you should have phoned.

“Hello?” I could
hear
Jo’s incredulous expression through the bathroom door. “You’re normally in bed with your electric blanket on by ten! I was a whisker away from ringing round the hospitals! And you were up and out before my alarm even went off this morning. I only knew you’d come back in because there was no milk left in the fridge.”

Oops.

There was a pause.

“Can I smell your good bath oil?” Jo demanded. “Are you
really all right? You’re not … trying to wash away a bad experience? Because you can tell me. Amy? Amy!”

Jo had a very vivid imagination. If I left her to guess, it would escalate fast, and she’d have Dickon breaking the door down before we knew it.

Although that might take some time.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Honestly. I’ve been pruning all day, my back’s killing me.”

“And the bath oil? You usually use that hideous muscle relaxing one when you’re knackered. Not that expensive one Grace gave you for Christmas that you’ve been eking out like truffle oil for two years.”

Reluctantly—the water had reached the perfect temperature—I hauled myself out and pulled on the fluffy dressing gown Jo had pinched from the last boutique hotel she’d stayed in. It had stop: thief embroidered on the back.

“Oh no, don’t get out of the bath on my behalf,” came the wounded response through the door. “I’m only your
flatmate
.”

I opened the door and saw Jo standing there in her leopard-skin coat, with her arms folded and a hurt expression barely covering her blatant curiosity.

“So?”

“If you must know,” I said, unable to stop myself smiling, “I was on a date.”

Jo’s jaw actually dropped. She’d done a course in mime at her drama school and reverted to it at times when words were not enough.

“Don’t look like that,” I said. “It was more a work consultation that sort of turned into a date.”

“No, no. Stick with date. It sounds good. Where? And who? Who? Do I know him? How do you know him? It is a him, right?” She was steering me into the kitchen, and toward the table. We chewed over most of our problems at the kitchen table. It was handy to the fridge. “Sit. Is there any wine needs finishing up?”

“You know there isn’t. Just open a bottle. You might as well, because I haven’t replaced the milk, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about the milk. You’ve been on a date! I should be popping champagne! Ooh! Shall I open one of the ridiculous bottles Rolf sent?”

Jo’s tone had changed completely: she was genuinely excited for me, like a father in a Russian play whose eldest daughter has just found a gnarled suitor who also owns all the orchards in town.

She opened the fridge door to reveal the magnums of champagne Rolf had been sending. They nestled next to normal bottles of wine like giant babies. There wasn’t much room for anything else in there.

“Normal wine is fine,” I said.

Jo had two glasses in front of us in seconds, and was leaning across the table before I’d had time to blink. “So? Spill the beans! Who is he?”

“Well, his name’s Leo,” I started shyly.

“Leo Hendricks?”

“No, Leo—” I stopped, and suddenly realized that I didn’t know Leo’s surname.

He must have mentioned it at some point, but I’d been too embarrassed to ask him again, in case it sounded like I wanted to Google him. I thought I’d heard the waiter say something like Mr. Prinz or Preece, but hadn’t liked to check.

“What?” Jo scrutinized my confused face. “You don’t know his name? What sort of business consultation was this?”

“I …” Oh, my God. I’d got into a car with a man whose surname I didn’t even know. Dad would pass out.

Note to self: Never tell Dad.

It didn’t seem to faze Jo. “Okay, we can work this out. Where did you meet him?”

“I met him at the party, here. Last weekend.” There was nothing for it, I was going to have to come clean about my 180 degree turn on the posh boy thing. “He’s a friend of Rolf’s. Blond. Quite tall. Works in the City.”

She stared at me. “Leo Wolfsburg?”

“I don’t think so. He doesn’t sound German.”

“He isn’t German. He’s half-Nironan.”

It vaguely rang a bell. “Is that a description? Like Sagittarian?”

Jo seemed to be vibrating with excitement. “Was he quite serious? Amazing blue eyes? Incredibly wealthy? Hotter than a
nuclear
fondue set?”

“Er … yes to the eyes. We went to a members’ club for drinks, so … I guess quite wealthy? We didn’t really talk about that. We mostly talked about trees, and gardens. And London.” I turned red. It was hard to remember exactly what we’d talked about, but I knew there hadn’t been a second’s pause in the conversation all night.

“Don’t say it,” I warned her. “I know he’s quite posh. But he’s also normal. He agrees with me about the ludicrous social kissing situation.”

Jo threw her head back and laughed. She hit the table a couple of times for emphasis—again, the mime classes.

When she’d got it out of her system, she straightened up and grabbed her wine. “You are the funniest person I know. Amy ‘I don’t like rich guys, I have nothing to say to them’ Wilde. Ha!”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, you had dinner with a prince and you didn’t even notice.”

“Leo’s not a prince, he’s a fund manager.” I grinned at the rare chance to correct Jo on a point of social standing. “
Rolf’s
the prince. Duh.”

“Well, duh yourself. Leo’s Rolf’s
older
brother
.”

“He’s what?” I was so shocked, it didn’t even register as shock. More disbelief. “No. They don’t look anything alike.”

“Neither do Prince Andrew and Prince Edward, but you try telling them they’re not brothers.”

My brain furiously tried to process clues that Leo might have dropped, but I couldn’t remember a single one. I wasn’t
stupid
. I’d have picked up on it.

Wouldn’t I?

More pressingly, distinct memories of some of the things I’d said about
his own brother
swilled back like flotsam. “Oh, my God.” I put my hands over my mouth. “I was so rude about Rolf.”

“Forget about it. Everyone is. Leo’s the rudest of all. So, where did he take you? The Ritz? Nobu?”

“We had a picnic. In a private garden.”

Oh, that had been a clue right there. You’d have to be a member of a royal family to afford a house like that. I must have looked like such a yokel. What else had I said? I moved my hands up from my mouth to cover my whole face. It was hot to the touch.

“You’re so sweet,” said Jo. “You really had no idea? Who did you think he was?”

“I thought he was just Rolf’s mate,” I wailed from beneath my fingers. “I thought he was the sensible friend idiots like that usually have in tow to stop them driving Rolls-Royces into swimming pools, you know, like a butler or something. …”

I trailed off. Leo was clearly
not
a butler.

“Rolf could do with a butler.” Jo topped up her wine. “Suggest it to Leo. See if you could get him a Jeeves. Or even a Nanny McPhee.”

I sat up and gave her a straight look. “Jo, are you having me on?” I demanded. “Just because I don’t know anything about this sort of thing …”

“Royals don’t walk round with crowns on all the time, you know.”

“So why aren’t you giving me the big lecture about not touching royalty with a ceremonial barge pole? How come Rolf’s awful and Leo’s not?”

“Because, off the record, Leo Wolfsburg is the one royal personage I’d make an exception for. He’s nearly a normal.” Jo narrowed her eyes so I’d know she was making a big concession. “Nearly. But he has a cocktail named after him at the Casino Del Rois, and he’s something like the twelfth most eligible prince in the world, so not normal in the usual run of things. Haven’t you Googled him?”

“Of
course
I haven’t.”

Jo pulled a “what are you waiting for?” face and flipped open her laptop. She pushed it over to me with a wicked grin. “Go on, type his name in and see what comes up.”

I hesitated. I didn’t like Google. I was the only person I knew who’d never Googled herself, because after the whole thing with Kelly, even though it was years ago, I didn’t want to see what came up about me or my family. I’d never even told Mum about Google; she’d have been straight back on her anxiety meds. Ted said Google was like walking into a room where everyone was bitching about you, but they didn’t stop bitching when you opened the door, and that was enough for me.

“Fine. I’ll do it,” said Jo, and started to take the laptop back, but I hung on to it.

“No.”

I took a deep breath, struggling with the idea that if Leo had wanted me to know any of this, he’d have told me himself.

But then he hadn’t, pointed out the chippy voice. He
let
you make a complete arse of yourself.

“I feel like a stalker,” I complained, typing Leo’s full name into the search engine. “What if I find something I don’t want to know?”

“Leo’s family pays good money to make sure that can never happen.” Jo scooted her chair round to get a better look.

“Even for Rolf? Have they got someone working round the clock with a big Internet red pen?”

“Liza Bachmann has a full-time press agent,” said Jo darkly. “There’s an incident with two racehorses and some pink paint in Dubai that I don’t think ever made the papers. Anyway, no need to be squeamish—it’s perfectly sensible to check your dates out online first. I do. It’s when they
don’t
have any history that you want to start worrying.”

“Isn’t that a trust issue?” There was plenty Jo didn’t know about me, for a start. “That maybe you should wait till they tell you?”

She didn’t respond because the screen had loaded with page after page after page, all about Leo. Some had photos, and his shiny blond hair caught my eye. I was transfixed despite myself. Was this why he felt familiar? Had I seen him before in the papers?

“Oooh, look,” said Jo. “Is that the Little Black Book eligible men list? Open that.”

I clicked on the fourth link down. It was some society gossip site called YoungHot&Royal.com, featuring a list of the World’s Most Eligible Young Royals. Leo was at number nine; there was a photo of him smiling broadly and shaking someone’s hand with an explosion of flashbulbs around him. He was with an older man who looked like a film star and one of those glamorous, sharp-clavicled Hollywood women whose faces set at forty-four and don’t change until they die. She was wearing an impressive diamond tiara in her tawny hair, and she too was working the
adoring
crowd like a pro.

Rolf was lurking in the background, also in black tie, but with his hair slicked back in a style that even I knew was really only
acceptable
on superyachts.

“His parents,” said Jo helpfully, although there was a caption. “Prince Boris of Nirona and his lovely wife, Liza Bachmann, who is so famous she tends to be known as that rather than Princess Eliza.”

I wasn’t listening. Now I knew, Leo really did look royal. That was the man who’d shared a bag of crisps with me last night, in a glorified garden shed. And then washed up. And I’d more or less accused him of being a date abductor.