Marrying Up (39 page)

It was Astrid’s private opinion that, given her talent for PR, Annabel was wasted being a mere aristocrat. Anyone, after all,
could have a title, but it took a particular skill to persuade Kelly Hoppen to decorate the rooms, Elton John to sing at the
service and Carlos Acosta to coach Florrie for the first dance. Nothing was being left to chance; the bride least of all.
The future Crown Princess was currently receiving training on everything from how to wave at her subjects to the correct way
to sit on the beach.

‘I am here instead of Lady Florence and it is I who will choose the jewels,’ Lady Annabel announced.

The Queen counted to ten under her breath. It had proved, over the years, a useful means of hiding shock or surprise. ‘I see,’
she remarked neutrally.

‘Actually, I’m rather busy myself . . .’ Lady Annabel added. She was shortly to take a conference call with various heads
of state, all eager to impress on her the advantages of a royal honeymoon in their territory.

The Queen seized the chance. ‘I am sure you are, Lady Annabel. Perhaps we can talk about this later.’

‘I meant,’ Florrie’s mother said, turning hard brown eyes on Astrid, ‘that we should look at the jewels straight away.’

Five minutes later, in the mahogany closet room filled with velvet-lined drawers and glass-topped cases, Lady Annabel had
swooped on the Queen’s biggest tiara and plonked it on her
head. She snatched up a matching necklace of platinum-set pearls and diamonds and then reached for the earrings as well. ‘Parures
in the springtime.’ Lady Annabel smiled, making the first attempt at a joke Astrid had heard.

‘I need to look quite magnificent myself you know.’ Lady Annabel was staring at herself assessingly. ‘As the Crown Princess
Mother . . .’

‘The . . .?’ It was not a title Astrid was familiar with.

Lady Annabel turned her glittering head to the Queen. ‘The Crown Princess Mother. It’s what you are before you are . . .’
she paused before adding, triumphantly, ‘The Queen Mother.’

Recognising that she was surplus to requirements, Astrid stepped away from the closet. Hippolyte slipped after her, his face
ashen.

‘Ma’am, I cannot apologise enough . . .’

The Queen placed a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘It doesn’t matter, Hippolyte.’

‘But to come bursting in like that . . .’ The press secretary wrung his hands in anguish.

‘Forget it, Hippolyte. It doesn’t matter.’ The Queen was bending down to a small cupboard and drawing out a bottle of champagne
and two glasses. She turned round with a smile. ‘Fancy a flute?’

‘Stand still, that’s it. . . .’ Florrie felt her eyes jerk from her sockets as the woman kneeling on the floor below her, mouth
full of pins, pulled the pale pink silk of the ballgown hard round her waist.

‘Does . . . it . . . really . . . have . . . to . . . be . . . this . . . tight?’ It was an effort to force the words out.

The woman looked up. She was small, dressed in black, and with a pointed, rather pinched face. It was, Florrie felt, rather
hard to believe that she was the linchpin of one of the most famous couture houses in the world.

‘You ’ave to suffer to be elegant, Madame.’

Florrie let out a peal of laughter. ‘Suffer?’ What an absolutely extraordinary idea.’

She was simply adoring the photoshoot. So much more agreeable to be photographed by
Socialite
for their front cover than it had ever been to work there. To work anywhere, for that matter. And now of course she wouldn’t
ever have to work again, unless you counted wearing divine – free – couture, eating delicious food and living in a fabulous
palace as work. Omigod, being royal was going to be such fun!

They were shooting in the throne room; the photographer, who had such great ideas, was encouraging her to sprawl across the
royal seat and stretch her legs up its purple-cushioned back, just pulling up that bit of her skirt . . . there, that was
it, just to
expose a bit more thigh. And for the next shot, perhaps on the throne, sitting up, but with her legs slightly apart in those
high heels and her skirt pulled up . . .? That was it. Yes, and if she could bite that piece of hair and sort of smoulder
. . . yeah, great. They were going to call the finished article ‘Is This The World’s Sexiest Royal?’

Florrie’s laughter rang through the room as she rattled off a succession of anecdotes. ‘. . . he giggles if you tickle his
beard . . . Beast of Blenheim . . . he looks fabulous in eyeliner . . . Zen weekend in Tuscany . . . then we all fell off
the yacht . . .’

The
Socialite
people, none of whom she remembered from her own time there, were all such fun. She might even do a column for them; she
wouldn’t need to actually write it of course, they would do all that for her . . .

Florrie whirled and twirled in front of the camera, basking in the admiration of the assistants and the fashion director.
They kept telling her how famous she was going to be, which sounded like such amazing fun, omigod, just incredible.

The great double doors now creaked open and Giacomo stuck his handsome blond head through. He blinked slightly as he saw Florrie
on his mother’s throne in a pose Astrid would never have struck in a thousand years. But Florrie looked stunning; young, beautiful,
exuberant and somehow innocent, for all the exposed leg. She was so high-spirited. Last night they had eaten KFC flown in
from Monaco and served by footmen off silver plates in the Great Dining Room. Omigod, Florrie had kept giggling. Omigod! This
is crazy! This is cool!

Florrie now looked over and saw him; the hair dropped from her mouth; she gasped and bounced on her velvet cushion. ‘Jack!
Omigod, you’re so naughty! You’re not supposed to be here!’ Her eyes were sparkling; her squeal was that of an excited child.

There was a frisson of excitement among the magazine people as the Crown Prince slipped through the great tall doors, went
up to Florrie and pulled her to him. He was looking quite devastatingly handsome in a white shirt, sharp dark suit and
black loafers without socks. As he kissed his fiancée, long and lingeringly, the girl assistants sighed enviously.

A familiar large, sweating figure now appeared and hurried across the throne room carpet. Giacomo was still busy with Florrie.
Her arms were wrapping around his neck, drawing him down into the purple cushions.

‘Ahem.’ The private secretary cleared his throat. Seeing him redden, the assistants giggled.

‘If your Highness will permit me.’ Embarrassment made Hippolyte’s tones louder and more pompous than he intended. ‘May I remind
you the Archbishop of Sedona is anxious to speak to you about the service. And His Majesty’s tailor is anxious to measure
Your Highness’s inside leg for trousers. And the Colonel of the Royal Sedona Household Regiment wants to measure Your Highness’s
outside leg for a sword . . .’

Hippolyte was panicking. He had scoured the entire chateau for the Crown Prince; Giacomo was forever slipping out of his reach.
So was Florrie; he got the impression that both the Prince and his fiancée thought that hiding from him was funny.

A royal wedding, Hippolyte had imagined, would solve all his problems. He was now discovering that it had only increased them.
His phone was ringing off the hook with excited royal correspondents seeking accreditation. Hippolyte had never appreciated,
never even begun to imagine, just how many royal correspondents the world contained. Not to mention photographers, documentary
crews and international news teams from Bangkok to Bradford.

‘Look, Hippolyte,’ Giacomo had reluctantly torn his lips from Florrie’s and was looking around in irritation. ‘It’s not convenient
just now, OK? Apart from anything else . . .’ he looked back at Florrie, who giggled, ‘I’ve got a meeting about the stag night.’

As Max was going to be worse than useless at organising anything sufficiently high-octane, Giacomo was taking personal charge
of this most crucial aspect of the celebrations. His favourite option so far was a weekend of blindfold driving with a bevy
of
glamour models. Transport to and from would be provided by the royal plane – dubbed Heir Force One by the irrepressible new
Crown Prince.

‘Very good, sir.’ Hippolyte bowed and withdrew.

Giacomo, meanwhile, slid on to the throne beside Florrie; his father’s. He swung his legs over one of the ornate arms and
grinned engagingly, tipping his head back over the other arm so the gold of his hair touched that of his fiancée’s. The delighted
cameraman carried on snapping, knowing these pictures would be syndicated around the world.

Yeah, Prince Giacomo de Sedona told himself. Together he and Florrie were going to shake up this monarchy. Really put it on
the map. He drew Florrie on to his knee for the next shot and put his fingers in bunny ears behind her unsuspecting head.

Being Crown Prince was cool, basically. He couldn’t understand why Max always had such a problem with it.

The blue summer air resounded to the yells, bells and cheers of the ecstatic multitude. Flashing in the sun’s rays were the
lenses of the thousands of TV cameras from all over the world that had converged on the royal wedding.

Jason Snort of PapPixRiviera shook his red quiff in the sunshine and adjusted the lens of his camera. He’d never seen Sedona
so crowded. People seemed to be squeezed into every nook and cranny; not just excited locals, but people from all over the
world. Each balcony and window that had even the suggestion of a view of the proceedings was stiff with gawping observers.

You could say, Jason thought wryly, that there was a fair amount of interest in the wedding of Lady Florence Trevorigus-Whyske-Cleethorpe
to His Royal Highness Prince Giacomo de Sedona. Who was now the Crown Prince, his brother Maxim having apparently passed up
his right to the throne so he could shove his arm up cows’ arses for the rest of his life. Crazy, Jason thought. On the other
hand, who cared. He didn’t have a view on what these insane royals did. Apart, that was, from the one down his long lens.

The Marchioness of Dymchurch, sister of Lady Florence, sat in the aisle of Sedona Cathedral. Above her, the ancient stone
arches met and mingled; beside her, at the end of the pew, stood a herald in red tights, a red feathered bonnet and a stiff
tabard
embroidered with the Sedona royal coat of arms. There were twenty of these heralds in all, reminding Beatrice irresistibly
of the farcical trial scene from
Alice in Wonderland
. The heralds stood, backs rigid, eyes rigid, their long silver instruments fluttering with the royal standard pressed to
their lips, ready to play the welcoming fanfare as the new princess-to-be arrived. It all felt very old, very traditional
and not very Florrie at all.

And yet it
was
Florrie, or would be. She had done it. She really was about to marry into the royal family. Not the original intended royal
family, admittedly, but royal nonetheless, and with much better weather.

Beatrice smoothed the apricot silk and tulle of her bouncy little skirt, teamed with a violet jacket and lime-green heels.
‘Spirit-lifting’, her personal shopper at Liberty had described it, and yet Beatrice’s spirits remained uncooperatively low.
She had, after all, been bested by her sister, despite her own brilliant marriage to a marquess, albeit one unavoidably absent
on this occasion due to an as yet unexplained accident involving a fruit bowl and a plastic bag at the home of a nightclub
hostess in Mayfair. She would deal with that, Beatrice thought grimly, when she got back to England.

Next to her and behind, the whole Trevorigus-Whyske-Cleethorpe family had turned out for this most auspicious day in their
history. Beatrice glanced at Topaz, one of her many half-sisters, and wondered if the best foil for her huge shoulders and
beefy back was the clinging eau de Nil bandage dress she had chosen. Within the family, Topaz was famous for having an edgy
take on fashion, but in Beatrice’s view it was an edge she sometimes fell right off.

Only Lord Whyske was absent; he had, as at Beatrice’s own wedding, suspended hostilities with his ex-wife and was currently
accompanying Lady Annabel in one of the bridal procession carriages.

An ancient acquaintance of her mother’s, Honoria, Duchess of Crewe, sat beside Beatrice. Her three strands of hair had been
drawn back, curled round into a pair of fat ash-blond sausages and squashed beneath a tiara that looked like a positive fence
of diamonds. ‘So wonderful, isn’t it?’ Honoria breathed noisily.

Beatrice could not see why anyone might imagine that having her feckless, selfish sister as their ruler was a good thing.
She had walked up the cathedral steps through a black plastic forest of long lenses, television cameras and microphones, all
jockeying for position. At the bottom, great crowds had been holding up their mobile phones to take pictures, laughing, chatting,
some even singing. Many had small Sedona flags in hand; others grasped bunches of flowers, doubtless intended for the royal
bride-in-waiting. The very air seemed to crackle with excitement.

‘Here they come!’ wheezed Honoria excitedly.

There were TV monitors in the cathedral; squinting at the one nearest to her, Beatrice spotted the royal procession. The crowd
cheered madly and waved their flags.

Beatrice stared at the screen: the gleaming carriages, the red coats of the straight-backed outriders and the gold braid of
the postilions flashing in the sun. She could not suppress a certain awe. All this – for her sister? She imagined Florrie
inside her state coach looking out at the crowds, and wondered what she was thinking. Probably nothing, knowing Florrie. Not
even now.

There was a hush outside. The crowd, Beatrice could see on the monitor, was standing almost entirely still. The clippety-clop
of hooves and the jingle of the harness came into the cathedral from outside; it sounded merry and irreverent.

The first carriage stopped. The po-faced postilions jumped down, surprisingly light on their feet, and swung open the coach
doors in unison. Wild cheers greeted the King and Queen of Sedona. The Queen was serene in silver as pale as her white-blond
hair, the King’s colour heightened from the confined and airless space of the carriage on such a hot day. They were holding
hands tightly, Beatrice saw.