Chain Reaction (48 page)

Walter Mathews sidles up and a fawning crowd gathers immediately. The cameras flash, but everyone knows these pictures will circulate harmlessly among the in-crowd, there’s no real danger at a bash like this. The principal players, Jacy, Darcy and Cyd, whose day this is, are introduced to the Royal brothers and Jacy, already on a high, hits it off immediately, gooning and clowning around and slapping the backs of perfect strangers.

Talk naturally moves towards wedding bells and lack of future freedom. ‘At least I’ve done the decent thing,’ says Jacy, euphorically, ‘and Belle’s not the sort of woman you see every day.’

‘Belle is amazing,’ Walter chips in. ‘She’s going to do more for your popularity with the punters than any amount of songs you might sing. She’s got class, she’s a real little honey… It says a lot for your prowess in bed, getting hooked to a looker like that.’

‘Yeah,’ says Jacy happily, surrounded by the great and good. ‘And she thinks the sun shines out of my arse. Always has.’

‘That’s the kind of woman you want,’ says fat-cat Walter, nudging Jamie, familiar enough with the young man jovially to slap his brown leather cod-piece. ‘So how’s the horsy Lady Frances going to take to this overworked equipment?’

From the crowd comes a nervous snigger but the Prince knows the roguish Walter; he graciously takes it all in his stride. Splendidly self-confident and fighting fit, the ornament of the day, he takes another drink from the cutie with the tray and the tempting cleavage.

Walter points to the house. ‘There’s one little stunner in there who’s got the hots for you. She thinks it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.’

There’s so many, the Prince looks confused.

‘Does the name Peaches ring any bells?’

‘I say! Not Arabella?’

‘You’ve got it in one.’

‘There? Inside this house?’

‘Yep, a real little doll.’

The Prince frowns and his regal nostrils flare. ‘She’s caused me some real aggro.’

‘She’s a woman in love, for Christ’s sake. She’s blooming and broody and she’s still swearing to God that you are the one and only love of her life.’ Walter cracks a tasteless joke. ‘If you were a real man, you’d be taking her up the aisle today, side by side, with old Jacy here.’

‘What a laugh,’ giggles the little girl with the huge breasts and the colourful cocktails. ‘Wouldn’t they all go mad if they knew?’

‘Jamie daren’t even think about that,’ says his older brother, smiling grimly. ‘Even for a laugh, if it ever got out… And her people are nothing, really.’

‘Yeah, it’s a dream, that’s all it is,’ goads Walter, ‘much too risky to try even here.’

‘What a wheeze, though,’ says Jamie in the best of spirits, his nose rather red at the tip and his words slightly slurred. One of the worst criticisms of himself he had ever read was when some stupid columnist said he had a schoolboy humour, for Jamie prides himself on his humour and wit. ‘To do the real thing and then follow up with an out-take of me and Peaches… so wonderfully vulgar.’

‘The sad thing is that the little idiot would probably believe it was true!’ roars Walter, highly amused by this new thought. ‘She wouldn’t have the nous to know the thing was a set-up, a stunt!’

‘It would be mildly amusing,’ smiles the Prince, glancing with glazed eyes at his elder brother, defying him to interfere with his hard-won independence. In his fuddled, alcohol-fuming mind he senses that his pride is at stake and his vanity is wounded. ‘But far too risky. And anyway, she probably wouldn’t have the right sort of clothes to wear.’

He has said enough. So Walter smiles to himself and leaves the topic alone.

‘You’re married, Belle, and I still can’t believe it.’

‘But only so I can take him for all he’s got when we divorce.’

‘That doesn’t sound like you.’

‘Why not? I’ve always been a cynic, and now you’re going the same way. No longer the sweet and biddable Peaches and I don’t know if I can take the change. It’s far too extreme.’

‘These are extreme times,’ says Peaches. ‘You only have to read the papers.’

‘But can we do it? Are we strong enough to do as we promised? Walter was absolutely right, you know. We have both been used abominably, although we both went begging for it. This would be the perfect revenge. I can see his point, but oh God,
it’s so cruel.
And I never thought of myself as cruel.’

‘Think of the fun we’re going to have after it’s all over. Just keep your mind fixed on that. Back to the flat with Mags and Charlie until we can find somewhere bigger and posher, and I don’t think that’s going to take too long. We’ll be richer than we ever dreamed! And we’ll be together in the marquee, we won’t have to brave it alone, that long walk under the roses with the cameras flashing and the music playing. Jamie and Jacy think life’s a game and people exist to be used and dumped when they feel like it. They deserve all they’re going to get, both of them. Walter is quite right.’

‘You’re more determined than me!’ says Belle, bewildered by the sudden change in the gentle, kindly Peaches, no longer cowering in the closet but pulling out all the stops in preparation for her wedding day. And she looks nothing short of a princess, Walter has seen to that, in a magical dress like that of the Disney Cinderella, as outrageous and as over-the-top and as classic as her lover’s disgraceful behaviour.

‘Can you blame me? After hearing that the man I love is prepared to take me down the aisle for a joke?’

‘Poor Peaches.’

‘No, I’m
not
Poor Peaches,’ she says, settling the sparkling tiara in her hair and adding the final touches to her glamorous appearance. ‘Not any more, not ever again. And that’s exactly why I’m perfectly happy to do it. At least the child will be recognised. There’s no way the randy idiot is going to get out of that!’

Belle, already dressed for what she now regards as the sacrifice, watches Peaches fiddling around with her curls, and sighs. ‘By the time my ordeal is over, I bet you’ll have changed your mind. I bet you don’t follow on down the aisle like Walter says you should, arm in arm with the Prince of your dreams. I bet you collapse in tears at his feet before the ceremony even begins.’

‘Well, you’ll have to wait and see then, won’t you.’

‘I’m longing to see Jamie’s face when he realises that the marriage certificate is perfectly legal.’

‘What about his mother’s face, then? And Sir Hugh’s, and Dougal’s, and the whole damn lot of them!’

‘Trust Walter to find a willing priest. Trust him to cut straight through all the red tape. If you want anything done in your life, Walter’s your man. He’ll do it.’

‘He must have had one hell of a grievance against that slimy Sir Hugh.’

‘He did. That terrible man fouled up his whole time at school, poisoned his entire adolescence.’

It’s a scene straight from a magical setting. The world’s cameras follow the progress of Jacy, lead singer of Haze, and his enchanting bride, two beautiful people both decked in bridal white as they glide towards the dreamy altar.

And after that is all over there’s a breathless pause as Prince James takes his intended Princess on his arm and bows low, if unsteadily, before proceeding down the golden carpet of flowers towards the floral cross.

Smiling broadly and winking to his knowing friends.

You could almost believe the priest was a real one, with his
‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost,’
and with all his genuflections. He reads the service so beautifully, like an expert, not merely some old actor who has found himself on the glitzy American circuit. Choristers from the Cathedral, crystalline and sugary as if off a Christmas cake, sing with their sweetly-cold little-boy voices; not a wrong note is struck.

Two perfect weddings. Two perfect brides.

Almost before the two new wives have left the stage, shrieking with laughter and heading, still in their outlandish gowns, straight for the helipad where a jubilant Walter is waiting, the priceless pictures of the day’s events are well on their way to Fleet Street.

M
ISS BENSON CAN HARDLY
speak for excitement and jubilation. ‘She’s on her way, my dear, I just heard the news two minutes ago and thought I ought to give you due warning so you could spruce yourself up, choose something special to wear.’

‘Oh, Miss Benson,’ cries Irene, flabbergasted. ‘I have to admit I never truly believed any of this would come to pass. My hair is a mess, I can’t reach to do it myself…’

‘Just push it all up under a net and it’ll be fine. And why don’t you wear that blue dress with the daisies, the one you wore at the Shire Horse Centre. It suits you so well—and don’t bother with any makeup, Mrs Peacock, you really do look so much better without.’

‘Just a touch of powder perhaps,’ calls Irene, now in a total panic, wondering if she’ll even manage to dress herself at all she is so overwrought. ‘How long have I got?’

‘The official announcement was made this morning and apparently She is flying down from Scotland as we speak.’

‘Miss Benson, answer me truthfully. Have I done the right thing, causing all this dreadful trouble?’

Should Miss Benson share her suspicions, and the suspicions of the very well-informed people around her, busily faxing and mumbling into their phones, that the reason the Queen has agreed to do this is more to do with desperate measures than any personal empathy she might feel towards the old lady? The incredible pictures of the Prince’s shotgun marriage have been flashed all over the world and nobody’s talking about anything else. In Mustique, his former fiancée, the stalwart Lady Frances Loughborough, is stiffening her large upper lip and saying nothing. Nothing that could possibly be reported. Her humiliation might well be horrendous but it is a transitory thing, and her short engagement to the Queen’s youngest son will do her prospects nothing but good in the long run. Her parents rush to her side in order to console her, and one of the Queen’s best friends, the Countess of Loughborough, is a friend no more. Sad—but there we are. Such is life.

The general and immediate view is, ‘Gawd blessim, he’s done the right thing.’ Agony Aunts from across the land are rushed into television studios to give their opinions of the likely success, or otherwise, of the unexpected union. Is throwing yourself at the feet of the man you love a sensible and profitable course of action, bearing in mind that it certainly worked for Arabella Brightly-Smythe, now elevated to the position of Princess of the Royal House? There are mixed opinions on the subject, lack of pride being the main objection, but others speak up and say to hell with pride when you’ve got a kid to bring up on your own, and if you’re madly in love why not go for it?

Staunch monarchists hold a different view. They see the outcome of this as pandering to blackmail and media pressure. After all, Arabella’s family, while perfectly respectable middle-class people are certainly not out of the top drawer. Hell, not even titled. Although, of course, they soon will be.

The thing that really sticks in the craw, is the tasteless type of ceremony, and the sight of the Prince, his curls springing under his feathered hat like a latterday Robin Hood, in that ridiculous outfit! That, and his secrecy, and the fact that this ‘Royal Wedding’ followed on behind a hyped-up piece of advertising for a degenerate trio of pop musicians, Jacy Smedley of Haze getting hitched to his artful piece.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
my foot. The affair was a pretentious sham, held in the gardens of some country house in the middle of Lancashire, not a cathedral spire in sight, not one tasselled robe, just a congregation of publicity-seekers and a questionable old priest to lead the service.

So far there has been no comment from The Palace.

So far no statement has been made by either the Prince or his bride. In fact, there is a rumour that the new Princess left in a hurry straight after the ceremony, roaring with laughter. In spite of early attempts to trace her, and vast offers of money in exchange for a tip-off, Peaches’ whereabouts remain a mystifying secret.

Although most people seem to think the Prince was right to marry the mother of his unborn child, the opinion polls are still giving the Royals their worst showing ever.

Under these circumstances it is obvious that the Queen’s advisers will feel a public response to the Siege of Swallowbridge is the necessary, indeed the only move to make. Thus the official announcement that Her Majesty is on her way. Thus the confused excitement of the old woman at the centre of the whole controversy. Irene Peacock’s liver-spotted hand shakes as she struggles to put her teeth in. She cannot possibly meet her Sovereign with grinning pink gums.

‘Sir, your mother is absolutely livid.’

‘I know, Hugh, I know. No need to rub it in.’

‘What on earth did you think you were playing at?’ the other man groaned.

‘It seemed like a good idea at the time. Quite a jolly jape, actually. How was I to know that the whole bally thing was a set-up—and all because you bullied some wretched toady at school, instead of venting your spleen at me, perhaps it would be better if you wised up to a few simple facts. Wouldn’t it have been sensible to quiz this character, Mathews, before opening your heart to him? Didn’t that even occur to you? Had you forgotten about the time you hung the poor fellow over the school parapet minus his trousers?’

‘I had forgotten about that, actually,’ confesses the broken Sir Hugh.

‘Well, he hadn’t, unfortunately for us,’ says Jamie, enjoying the upper hand for once, but with angry flecks of amber sparking round the pupils of his eyes.

‘I have to inform you that your mother now knows all the ghastly ins and outs surrounding the whole affair. She has decided to continue with the purchase of The Grange rather than cause unnecessary inconvenience to all those innocent people involved in the chain.’

‘Come on—she’s no need to do that!’

‘She has her reasons, but is not prepared to discuss them with us.’

‘I didn’t like the house anyway,’ Jamie sulks.

‘That is beside the point. The main problem facing us now is how to extricate yourself from this latest mess. A message has already been received from the Princess to say that she wants an instant divorce. The only reason she married you was to legitimise her child.’