Little Lady Agency and The Prince (26 page)

‘You really believe that?’

Oh, God, this was one of those moving-walkway conversations: you get on with a reasonable comment, and before you know it, you’re being swept away to Recrimination City, with no means of getting off.

‘Sort of,’ I said bravely. ‘Can we do something fun this weekend? As well as looking at the offices? Please?’

Nicky was now standing right next to me, so close I could smell his musky aftershave.

Jonathan didn’t reply, and when I heard him say, indistinctly, ‘Oh, Solange, you’re a miracle worker,’ I realised he was multitasking, even as he was trying to convince me the romance hadn’t gone from our relationship. That ratcheted my irritation back up to annoyance.

‘Jonathan?’ I demanded.

‘Melissa, please don’t get whiny. You’re at work, I’m at work, let’s talk later, OK? OK.’

My mouth dropped open at the sheer nerve of it, but before I had a chance to snap back with something appropriately tart, he’d hung up.

‘Mr Capricorn, I assume?’ asked Nicky. ‘He does speak to you like you’re a little girl, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ I said, so cross I was really talking to myself. Jonathan couldn’t talk to me like I was a baby while at the same time insisting I help him with these ‘vital’ business arrangements. One or the other! ‘He does. Sometimes.’ I gathered myself. ‘Only when he’s busy. And he’s really busy right now. And anyway, you shouldn’t be listening to private conversations.’

Nicky looked sympathetic. ‘You look very stressed out, Melissa.’

‘Honey.’

‘You look very stressed out, Honey.’ He leaned forward and subtly straightened my wig. ‘If you weren’t in charge of my morals, I’d offer to massage it out of you. Feet first. But can I get you a drink?’

I stopped wiping the muddy grass off my ruined heels and looked up at Nicky. There was a genuine air of concern on his face. Somehow that only made me feel more defensive.

‘Are you really bothered about my stress, or have you found some cute waitress you need to get back to?’ I asked.

He raised his hands. ‘I know you think I’m some kind of skirt-chasing lech, but I don’t like to see damsels in distress. And I definitely don’t like to see that horrible frown you do when you’re tense.’

‘When have you seen my horrible frown?’ I demanded, flushing.

‘At the dinner, when Piglet was showing off. When I nearly got thrown out of the Blue Bar the first time we met. In Huntsman, when I asked if they could do me a Playboy print lining in my lounge suit. Want me to go on?’

I must have done it again, because he added, with what I hoped was a self-deprecating wink, ‘I only notice because you look so edible the rest of the time. I can only assume it’s something I’m doing. Which . . .’ he increased the wink, ‘is either deeply upsetting or rather flattering.’

Deep breath, I told myself. Deep breath. Do not say the first thing that comes into your head.

The first thing that came into my head was: Nicky is easily the sexiest man I have ever met, he has a previously undiscovered sense of humour, and I am developing a hideous crush on him. But fortunately I was saved from making a total idiot of myself by the arrival of a policeman.

‘Excuse me, sir, madam,’ he said, gently steering us around, ‘could you step this way? We’re clearing the area temporarily.’

I looked round and realised that play had stopped on the pitch, and herds of thin women in fluttery dresses were being marched towards the safety of the car park, closely followed by their red-trousered companions, all making furious calls on their mobiles.

‘Oh, God, what’s happening?’ I asked.

The policeman looked shifty and said, ‘We’ve had a security alert, suspicious package in the pavilion. Just to be on the safe side, we’re calling in the bomb squad. Can’t be too careful, what with Prince William here today.’

‘
And
me,’ said Nicky, pointing at himself.

The policeman stared at him.

‘He’s a prince too,’ I explained. ‘Prince Nicolas of Hollenberg.’

‘Oh, right,’ said the policeman, unimpressed. ‘Well, if you could move along . . . Should all be sorted out in no time.’

‘Oh, my God!’ said Nicky, as we hurried towards the car. ‘This is terrible! I should phone my grandfather. What if it’s an assassination attempt by the government, to stop me inheriting?’

‘I hate to break this to you, Nicky,’ I said, ‘but I think your inheritance is somewhere beneath parking tickets in Cowdenbeath, as far as the government’s concerned.’

‘Not your government, the government of Hollenberg!’ He raked his hands through his hair. ‘Mama always said they were Mafiosi. And I’m not saying I’m a
cad
, but some girls haven’t taken it too well when I’ve broken it to them that—’

‘Look,’ I said, to humour him, ‘we’ll call your grandfather.’ I took my phone out of my pocket and dialled the emergency number. While it was ringing, I started to get one of those nagging things in the back of my mind, beneath the general bomb-scare panic. Something wasn’t right. What was it? I racked my brains.

‘Nicky,’ I said, mentally running through any last bequests I had, should the bomb go off – Nelson would get everything, and would distribute it with meticulous fairness between the donkey charity I supported, and the RNLI, ‘I refuse to be blown up without fresh lipstick. Where’s my bag?’

‘Your bag?’ said Nicky.

‘Yes.’ Panic was rising in me now, spreading like a bad smell from the squeaking women in the Audi parked next to us. I noticed Prince William being rushed past by a crack troop of protection officers, still in his white polo jodhpurs, his blond hair ruffled where he’d removed his helmet. He didn’t look all that bothered, to be honest. I guessed this sort of thing must happen to him a lot.

My attention was drawn back to my phone as it suddenly stopped ringing.

‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice answered, and I assumed it was Alexander’s secretary.

‘Hello, may I speak to Prince Alexander? It’s Melissa Romney-Jones,’ I asked politely.

‘Melissa, darling! It’s me!’

‘
Granny?
’

‘How are you?’

‘Fine, fine!’ I said, somewhat startled to get her on what I assumed was Alexander’s direct mobile line. ‘I do need to speak to Alexander quite urgently. Is he there?’

‘Darling, I’ll just get him.’ I heard her calling, ‘Alex! Alex!’

Where were they? And was that a seagull squawking in the background
?

Nicky, meanwhile, was thinking. I could tell by the way his mouth was moving slightly as he hauled thoughts around in his head.

‘Well?’ I hissed. ‘Where’s my bag? Don’t tell me you checked it in at the cloakroom? I’ll never get it now.’

‘I didn’t check it in,’ said Nicky. ‘I put it down while I got some more champagne. Oh, come on!’ he said. ‘You didn’t expect me to be seen carrying a
handbag
, did you? I put it in a safe place,’ he added, seeing my face turn purple. ‘Behind a flower arrangement type thing.’

I almost dropped the phone. ‘What?’

‘It was heavy!’ he moaned. ‘What the hell have you got in there? A spare polo pony in case William breaks all of his?’

‘Where exactly did you leave it?’

‘By the champagne table. Near where they’ve sealed off the tent . . . Oh.’

We stared at each other as the extent of the whole truth dawned.

Predictably, Nicky recovered first. ‘Oh, come on,’ he said, with a wink and a nudge, ‘at least it’s livened things up! Life’s too short to watch an
entire polo match!
’

‘Your life may end up being a lot shorter than you realise!’ I hissed furiously, just as Alexander came on the line.

‘Hello? Melissa?’ He sounded worried. ‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’

I glared at Nicky, but tried not to let the stress show in my voice. At least Nicky hadn’t done it on purpose.

Or
 . . . hmm.

I swallowed. ‘Hello. I’m frightfully sorry to disturb you, but I just thought I should let you know that we’re at the polo match, and there’s been a bomb scare. But there’s nothing to worry about. It seems to be all in hand, but I didn’t want you to hear from anywhere else.’

I could hear the panic in Alexander’s cultured voice, although he was clearly making an effort not to distress me. ‘Good Lord, are you sure? Are you safe? Get in the Bentley – it’s armour-plated, you know. I had it from one of the sheiks.’

Nicky was sloping off slowly, but I grabbed him by the sleeve. ‘Just to put your mind at rest, here’s Nicky.’ And I handed him the phone, and grabbed the binoculars hanging from his pocket.

While Nicky was blathering on about hitting the deck and making the area safe, I trained my binoculars around the ground. Ponies . . . tall men in tight white trousers . . . burly royal protection officers with headsets and moustaches . . . There – the pavilion. Sure enough, the police were taping off an area around the side entrance, where we’d been downing Krug only ten minutes earlier.

I thought as fast as I could. My bag was full of stuff. And not just the usual purse, keys and make-up – there was a spare pair of shoes, tights, knickers (M & S size 14–16), a notebook with all kinds of potentially embarrassing facts about half of London’s single men, Alexander’s credit card, a note from my father shamelessly asking me to pretend I’d been on the Cheese Diet, all with my own name on!

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

I had to get it back before they blew it up or, worse, looked inside.

‘. . . will be fine. Yup. Cheers. OK, bye, then. I will. Bye-bye. No, really, I heard you the first time. Bye, now. Hang on, I think we’re going into a tunnel, I might get cut—’ And Nicky hung up on his grandfather.

I glared at him. ‘He
knows
you’re not going into a tunnel.’

‘Whatever.’ Nicky shrugged. ‘When do you reckon the camera crews will get here? Should I change my shirt?’

‘No,’ I said, closing my eyes and trying to machinate as Honey-ishly as possible. What would Honey do? It was an emergency.

I opened them. ‘We’re going to get the bag back,’ I said with more confidence than I felt.

‘We?’ Nicky raised his eyebrows with such incredulity that they almost disappeared into his hair. ‘But there’s a bomb over there . . . Oh, right. I get you. No, I don’t.’

‘Come with me,’ I said, setting off with a determined stride. ‘Keep up!’ I added over my shoulder.

‘And get in front of that wiggle? Absolutely not. It’s like two puppies fighting in a sack!’ said Nicky, ogling my rear end.

I covered my arse with my hands, self-consciously, though I had to admit I was a little bit flattered. ‘Now is
not
the time.’

‘Tell me when the time’s going to be!’ Nicky bounded after me. ‘And tell me what we’re going to do!’

I could feel my stockings against the inside of my thighs and not for the first time marvelled at how my brain suddenly seemed to whir into a higher gear as I walked.

As we got nearer the pavilion, I was pleased to see that despite the police’s best efforts to clear the area there were still quite a few female guests flapping around, and more than a few ex-army chaps with reddening faces, offering the police advice on what they should be doing. That would give us a bit of cover.

‘Right,’ I hissed in Nicky’s ear, ‘I hear you’re good at getting out of nightclubs through toilet windows.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicky, looking proud of himself. ‘Not to mention the odd bedroom window, at short notice.’

I gave him a disgusted look, but carried on. ‘Right, there’s a door the caterers were using round the back – sneak in there while I distract the policeman, grab my bag, and get out here as soon as you can. Throw it over the hedge if you have to. In fact, that might be a good idea.’

‘Can’t I run out with it? Like a hero?’

‘Don’t overdo it,’ I said, my brain racing. ‘We want to make you look brave and trained in security issues, because you’re a modern prince. You don’t want to look like a complete cretin with foolhardy risk issues. Get in, get the bag and get out.’

Nicky put his hand on my shoulder. His hand was warm and his long fingers caressed my neck. Out of habit, I reckoned, rather than anything else. ‘Melissa,’ he said, gazing deep into my eyes, ‘don’t you think I’d look wonderful on the front of
The Times
, having saved your life?’

‘Just save my handbag from being detonated,’ I said, preparing myself for the loss of my favourite-ever bag. It was a massive Kate Spade scarlet-leather number Jonathan had bought me in New York, and nothing had ever touched it for versatility, style and sheer capacity. But it would be a small sacrifice, I told myself. And in a good cause. Nicky was right: one prince saving the life of another would make a great story. When the initial fuss died down.

‘You know what this means, don’t you, Melissa?’ said Nicky.

‘What?’

He slid an arm around my shoulders, and flicked playfully at my wig. ‘You’ll have to spend the rest of your life, following me round, saving my bacon.’

I fixed him with a glare. ‘Your bacon’s still raw, Nicolas. Get a move on.’

True to his word, years of vanishing from places he shouldn’t be had given Nicky a cat-like slinkiness and I watched as he slipped unnoticed around the back of the pavilion. I didn’t even need to distract anyone. Covering his exit, though, would be more tricky.

I took a deep breath and strode towards the policeman nearest the door I hoped he’d emerge from. The one nearest where I hoped he’d left my handbag.

‘Gosh, officer!’ I said, fluttering my eyelashes shamelessly. ‘What’s happening?’

‘I’m not at liberty to tell you that, miss,’ he said. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, though. You’d be much safer standing by your car. If you wouldn’t mind moving along, please?’

I peered over his shoulder. No sign of Nicolas. ‘Um,’ I said, racking my brains for something to say, ‘I know you’re very busy but I did hear someone in the car park mention there was some funny-looking package by the welcome tent too?’

He gave me a hard look. ‘I’ll get someone on to that.’ But he made no move to investigate.

‘It might even be drugs,’ I added hopefully.

‘Let’s deal with this package first, miss.’ Another, more impassive, look.