The Runaway Princess (29 page)

God. This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, and already it was giving me a stress rash.

“Yes, very nice. I’ll take it. Now, will someone help me out of this?” Mum waved her arms, and there was an ominous ripping noise from the bolero sleeve.

“We can fix that,” said Sylvia quickly.

*

M
um insisted on paying—by check, “no credit cards in our
family!”—
and we left the dresses to be adjusted by Sylvia’s team of seamstresses. I treated the four of us to tea in a country house hotel on the outskirts of the city, where the scones weren’t as light as Mum’s, and then Billy drove us home.

It took some determined coaxing from Jo to get Mum out of her introspective mood. I was no help, feeling thoroughly mixed-up myself, but Jo generously ran through her family’s catalogue of wedding disasters—how her uncle had set fire to an usher “not by mistake”; how her cousin had broken down outside the church and confessed she was in love with the bridesmaid; how her grandfather had sliced through the electrics for the Ritz hotel with the ceremonial cake sword—until eventually, by the time we were off the motorway and into the countryside again, Mum was almost back to her normal self.

“How did you face the neighbors?” she kept giggling, to which Jo deadpanned, “We bought a house on an island.”

I spotted her tensing up again as the GPS steered us through our old village, and realized too late that I should have given Billy different directions. Hadley Green looked idyllic. The Yorkshire in Bloom village competition was in full swing, and every cottage was adorned with cascading hanging baskets and decorative beds in a riot of reds and oranges. I could smell the sweet tang of mown grass even through the Range Rover’s air conditioning.

“Ooh, look at that house!” Jo pointed out her window. “Now, that is what I call an English country cottage! Look at those roses! And the adorable swing on the apple tree!”

“That’s where we used to live,” I said quietly from the front.

The whitewashed double front of our old house was bathed in early summer sunshine, and all the ice creams we’d licked on that rolling lawn flashed before my eyes. All the bee stings and daisy chains. All the sunbathing (Kelly) and the ladybug catching (me).There still wasn’t a dandelion speckling its bowling-green finish; Dad would be proud.

It was years since I’d been past here, and I wondered if Mum and Dad ever talked about it. I guessed not—our life Before the Kelly Business was never referred to. That was the biggest loss of all, not the money or the gardens. The fact that we’d had such happy times, but they were locked away, never to be spoken of.

“It’s like something from a Thomas Hardy novel.” Jo was leaning forward. She couldn’t see the warning look on my face. “Why did you move from such a gorgeous house, Pam? Downsizing?”

“Something like that,” I said hurriedly.

As we drove past, I caught sight of a For Sale board outside, and hoped Mum hadn’t seen it too. She’d gone very quiet again.

I
thought about Mum’s outfit constantly once I was back in London. I couldn’t forget the expression I’d caught in the
mirror—
horror mixed with an awful sort of resignation, as if she didn’t deserve anything better. I kicked myself; I’d got it wrong, and I should have whisked her round every boutique in Yorkshire till I found her something. Or I should have brought the dresses to her.

The trouble was, I was so busy that I didn’t know when I could get home again to fix it. I ran lots of situation-salvaging options through my brain as I followed Ted round the gardens of South London, tidying and pruning from morning till dusk. It was getting hotter and we were well into our peak lawn-nurturing season, as well as our garden-sitting watering service for regulars on holiday. The wild rooftop gardens where I’d planted some meadow beds last year were buzzing with honeybees, and the long grasses gave Badger a shady spot to cool his paws while we sweated away under our cricket hats.

*

A
few days later, I was driving back from a heavy afternoon’s pruning in Cheyne Walk, dreaming of a long cool shower and a glass of wine with Leo in his garden, when my mobile rang: it was Sylvia from the Wedding Warehouse.

“Good news!” she caroled. “I’ve got your dresses back for the first fitting. When can we book you in?”

“Already? I didn’t think it needed any adjusting,” I said, surprised. Zoë Weiss had taken two fittings for a dress that had hugged me like a second skin, but it had draping and a corset. The wedding dress had felt perfect to me.

“Well, normally it would take a lot longer, but as you say, your dress didn’t need much doing to it. And of course, we need to have your lovely mum and friend back too, for theirs!”

Mum’s dress. That needed to be just right, for her to feel confident. And I had to be there too, to make sure she knew how
wonderful
I thought she looked.

“Let me get my diary.” I pulled my bag out from underneath Badger, who was curled up on it in the shady footwell of the van. “Um … I’m quite tied up with work until …”

My diary had gone from being completely empty apart from Zumba to blocks of “trainer,” “dance class,” “Italian lesson,” “dinner with Leo?” all the way through to the Coronation Ball in October. Which was only nine ballroom dancing lessons away now. I flipped the pages quickly.

“To be honest, while we’re talking about your mum’s dress …” I could virtually hear Sylvia biting her lip.

“What about it?”

“We might have to think about another color. We can’t get another bolero in her size, as they’re not making them anymore, and …”

Sylvia carried on talking, but my head was filled with the haunting image of my pretty mother, squeezed into a dress that did nothing for her, not objecting because she didn’t like to make a fuss. On a day that should be a happy family occasion.

That did it. I had a credit card, didn’t I? Mum didn’t have to have that outfit. I could get her one that actually suited her.

“Sylvia, let me get back to you with dates,” I said. “I need to get hold of my bridesmaid and see when we can come up.”

And then I put my Tom Ford sunglasses on and drove to Sloane Street.

It went against the awkward stance I’d taken about chucking money at problems, but if there was one situation where it was worth breaking my own rules, this was it.

I just needed to put my conscience on hold for a bit.

*

T
he doorman at the Zoë Weiss shop almost didn’t let me in, such was my end-of-day aroma. Admittedly, I didn’t look like a classic Zoë Weiss customer, if the two skinny, capri-panted women browsing in the dazzling white shop were anything to go by, but maybe my surge of panicky confidence convinced him.

I walked over to the mirrored counter in the corner, positioned between two dummies wearing Zoë’s trademark halter-neck satin evening gowns in scarlet and turquoise, and wished I’d worn at least one of the expensive key pieces Sofia had made me buy. I didn’t even have the handbag, just my leather work satchel.

“Is Zoë here, please?”

The assistant looked me up and down and drew her own conclusions.

“No,” she said, patronizingly. “This is just her shop. Do you go into Armani and expect to see Giorgio in the back running up a little skirt?”

“She does spend some time here,” I insisted. “She was here a few months ago.”

“Did you read that in
Grazia
?”

“No, I know it because I saw her. Here.”

The assistant stared back at me, twice as hard as I was staring at her. To be fair, she’d achieved a level of precision grooming that even Sofia would applaud, and I was intimidated.

I made myself think of Mum. And the hideous bolero. I couldn’t let her try that on again. She’d back out of the wedding.

“Do you have a number for her, then?” I went on. “I need to speak to her. Tell her …” I hated doing this, it really wasn’t me, but the assistant was talking over me. I made myself channel Sofia. “Tell her it’s Amy Wilde.”

“I don’t think she’s—”

I raised my voice. “Or Amy Wolfsburg?”

“—offering work experience to—”

I hated doing this, but I carried on, louder. “Liza Bachmann’s future daughter-in-law.”

“—students at the moment, and—”

I reached into the inner pocket of my bag and pulled out Liza’s business card, the one she’d given me with all her contact details on, and put it on the desk.

Silence. I tingled with a mixture of triumph and embarrassment. Had I really done that? Had I just pulled the “do you know who I am?” thing? Oh, God. That was so … Rolf.

But it worked. The assistant’s eyes widened, and she gulped visibly.

“One moment, please,” she said, and hurried off.

I pretended to look at some tiny shoes while the two other women in the shop pretended not to look at me.

A long minute passed during which I felt my armpits becoming less fragrant by the second, and eventually the assistant returned with an incredulous look on her face.

“If you would like to follow me,” she said in an undertone, and now the two other shoppers really were gawping.

*

Z
oë was upstairs in the all-white studio above the shop, sitting in a white egg-shaped chair with a tiny white espresso cup in her hand, while three assistants scurried around as she snapped orders and jabbed at things with her tiny red nails.

When she saw me, she shrieked in delight and pointed at me.

“It’s my lady gardener!” She wagged the finger. “I saw you in that magazine with your jeans and your tiara and your handsome prince. What happened to the fabulous evening piece I heard Elie Saab was making for your big shoot? Didn’t you like it?”

“It didn’t fit me,” I confessed. I didn’t know who she was talking about. “Nothing did. That’s why I wore the jeans.”

“What?” Zoë looked surprised. “But that’s extraordinary. Who was supposed to be arranging your wardrobe for that? Liza spoke to Elie and Giorgio and—”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said blushing. “I wore that beautiful ballgown you made me for the formal portrait—which was very special for me, because I wore it the night Leo proposed. That’s the one that’ll be on the stamps eventually, not the jeans one. I think.”

“Oh, how darling.” Zoë held out her cup to be refilled with coffee and clasped her hands together. “Have you come to show me?”

“No, I’ve come to ask you a favor.”

“You want me to make your wedding gown!” Zoë spun round in her egg chair in delight. “How fabulous! Of course I will!”

“Um, I’ve already got one,” I said awkwardly. “But I’d like you to make a dress for my mother.”

I paused, unsure of how to lay it out so Zoë wouldn’t laugh me out of her studio. “She’s … she’s quite a large lady, and I can’t find anything that suits her, and I thought maybe if I gave you her measurements and some photographs of her—”

“Darling, bring her down here. Bring her to my studio.” Zoë waved to an assistant for her big desk diary. “You’ve put one of my designs on letters going all over the world, it’s the least I can do.”

“I can’t. She wouldn’t come, she’s so shy.” I blinked back tears. I wasn’t sure what had come over me, but I suddenly felt incredibly emotional.

Zoë looked at me, and sucked her teeth. Then, with a discreet flick of her hand, she dismissed her assistants and patted the white leather sofa next to her egg chair. I sank down with a thump.

“I know it sounds daft,” I gabbled, “but if you could make something for her, I can pay for it. Me personally, not Liza or Leo. Please don’t let her know how much it costs, but if you can make her feel good about herself on my wedding day, it’ll be worth whatever you’d charge. As long as it’s not over the limit on my card.”

Oh dear. Had I said that aloud? But I had no idea how much Zoë charged for dresses.

“You made me look like a model in that ballgown,” I pleaded. “I know you can make my mum look good.”

There was a long pause.

“Of course.” Zoë sounded relatively somber for once. “My mother is somewhat zaftig, but she is a goddess. She made me want to design better clothes. I like making clothes for real women—we’ll make her look like a million dollars.”

“Really? Thank you!” I felt a weight lift from my shoulders for the first time in days. “That would be so kind.”

“Kind? Darling, I don’t think you realize what a favor you’re doing for me,” said Zoë. “You’re going to have a lot of cameras on you from now on. Liza Bachmann’s daughter-in-law, Prince Leo’s wife … And you’re a beautiful girl, a real girl. Not a skinny Minnie like Duchess Kate. I like breasts, and some junk in the trunk. Makes things hang better! Don’t tell Liza I said that, though. She has a junkless trunk.”

I turned red. “I hope there won’t be too many cameras. … I don’t really like having my photo taken.”

Zoë laughed, as if I’d said something funny on purpose. “Did you miss the royal wedding? Haven’t you noticed there’s a worldwide shortage of princes getting married? And you, my darling, are such an English rose!”

“No, not really. I get so spotty, and my hands are …”

Why was it so hard to take compliments? I wondered. Why did I automatically bat them away?

Dodgy Chris, said a glum voice in my head. Dad, and his dire warnings about people who told gullible girls what they wanted to hear. Kelly was a right sucker for a compliment, and look where it got her.

Zoë picked up a green pencil from the desk and twirled it round her fingers. “You come back to me in two years’ time, when you’re on the cover of every magazine with that mermaid hair and those big green eyes, and tell me you don’t like having your photo taken. Now, let’s talk about your mom. …”

I smiled, but I had more faith in Zoë’s design ability than her fortune-telling.