by Emma Grey
Tilly is not about to confess her mortifying former superfan status to Reuben Vaughan now that she is finally sharing the same air as him, in person! Not here, on the steps of the V&A Museum walking into a charity ball, in front of the world’s media. She has changed since she was thirteen years old. She has been one hundred percent over that whole Reuben situation for years. Ugh! The fangirl phase! Couldn’t be more cringe. She takes a very deep breath and instructs herself to behave like the calm, rational, eighteen-year-old PR intern everyone is expecting here. How hard can it be?
Reuben is standing two steps below her, looking absolutely perfect. Precision-styled blond hair, dancing blue eyes, designer tux and – holding her shoe.
‘I thought this was meant to happen at the end of the night,’ he says.
Tilly can’t believe he’s actually speaking to her, like she’s a real person. And like he’s one. Nor can she believe he’s holding an item in his bare hands that was, until seconds ago, on her foot. The intimacy of it!
Stop it, Tilly.
Grown-up intern.
Professional, etc.
‘Drove past you in the street just then,’ Reuben elaborates calmly. ‘Running towards the museum, barefoot. And now you lose your shoe on the steps outside the ball. Isn’t this all backwards?’
Flashes of light explode nearby, illuminating his gorgeous features. Something is all backwards, Tilly thinks, and she suspects it might be her. She is known for her way with words – it’s how she landed the internship in the first place. Yet she can’t seem to retrieve any right now to answer him. Her brain appears to be scrambled by jet lag and sleep deprivation . . . and from being swept up in some sort of upside-down Cinderella fantasy while Reuben Vaughan, of all people, inspects her footwear predicament and appears, unbelievably, to be brainstorming a solution.
‘I’m Reuben,’ he says, placing his hand on his chest in introduction, as if she doesn’t already know exactly who he is, plus a whole heap of bonus personal trivia:
Middle name: Edward.
Birthday: 15/09, like the passcode in her phone.
Most embarrassing moment: The time he was locked out of the change rooms at the school gym in his underwear . . .
More flashes explode like fireworks around them. Tilly can’t for the life of her remember how to act when a pop star picks up your broken shoe and inserts himself, quite charmingly, into your increasingly surreal existence. The longer her silence goes on, the more ridiculous it seems, and the more embarrassingly mute she becomes.
Despite her total verbal incapacity, Reuben persists in holding her gaze, which, to be fair, isn’t at all hard to hold, especially as he appears to be slowly undoing his bow tie, pulling it through the collar of his crisp white shirt and slipping it free of his neck. Then he undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, and Tilly’s knees go physically weak in that way she’d always assumed was purely for dramatic effect in books and old movies, and never actually happened to real people . . .
Is she being pranked? What is going on? And why is it going on here, with Tilly in the hot seat and the world’s media ready to capture her reaction to his performance? She hopes these cameras aren’t equipped with infrared heat-seeking technology . . . OMG, how embarrassing that would be on the cover of OK! magazine. So much worse than being locked out of the gym in your underwear. Stop thinking about Reuben Vaughan in his underwear!
Oblivious to her mental rambling, Reuben is threading his tie through the broken straps of her shoe, bringing the frayed ends together. What a genius hack! He’s like the Bear Grylls of the red carpet. How will he technically be in ‘black tie’ now, she wonders, if his tie is on her ankle? And why do things like this always happen to her? Well, not exactly like this, obviously. Actually, nothing like this has ever . . .
‘May I?’ he asks, seemingly unfazed by his breach of the dress code as he kneels at her feet, ready to slip the shoe back on underneath all of her skirts. A pack of media prowls hungrily around them, poised to devour the Cinderella moment.
There’s no way around this. Up close and doing the whole Prince Charming thing, Reuben Vaughan is ridiculously stunning. Not only is he more than welcome to approach her foot and examine the remnants of glittery polish that remain from her pedicure for the formal, but Tilly decides he can do anything else that he pleases while he’s at it. Anything at all. Except . . . OH. MY. GOD! Just as she starts lifting her skirts to grant him access to her foot, she realises she hasn’t shaved her legs! Not since the formal, because she’s been obsessed with writing her novel, and that was weeks ago! He’ll need a whipper-snipper just to locate her ankle! She cannot expose an extremely hairy leg to REUBEN VAUGHAN. And with half the world’s cameras already trained on her foot with their telephoto lenses!
‘I’ll do it!’ she screams, dropping her skirt and snatching the shoe right out of Reuben’s hands.
He lets it go and stands up, confused, then watches her hopping around on one leg attempting to do up the makeshift straps while wrestling with all the wayward tulle, etc.
What. Is. Happening? And which is worse? Exposing hairy legs or corset cleavage? Despite having instructed herself not to do so under any circumstances, even circumstances as dire as these, she crouches in front of him, fishes in underneath all the material and yanks the two ends of his tie tightly around her ankle. There.
Reuben is standing over her, gobsmacked, either from her entirely unpredictable behaviour or from the pushed-up eyeful she’s unintentionally dishing up for him, as if on a plate, spectacularly illuminated by hundreds of flashes from paparazzi who’ll no doubt sell versions of this shot to practically every tabloid known to humankind, despite this being absolutely not her usual style, and something that will totally mortify her mother. She staggers to her feet, slightly light-headed from all of this, and from him, and possibly from the corset, and blurts out what surely must be the worst opening line in the history of first impressions.
‘I’m absolutely wrecked,’ she explains. ‘I’m so exhausted I don’t even know who I am anymore.’
He’s charmed, she’s sure. He smiles, and looks like he’s about to utter something suitably heroic when —
‘Tilly Maguire,’ a voice says, further up the steps, as if filling in her missing ID details. ‘Still making your entrance, I see?’
It’s that guy from the car. He is so smug. He frowns at Reuben, who frowns back.
‘Vaughan.’
‘Guthrie.’
What is this? Some sort of pretentious boys’ school reunion?
‘Thanks,’ she says to Reuben. ‘For the . . . er, shoe help.’ Shoe help? She can barely use words . . .
‘Any time, Maguire,’ Reuben answers with a glorious smile. Entirely out of speech, she turns and sweeps up the stairs, trying hard to nail that delicate balance between hiking your skirts high enough not to trip over them, and keeping them low enough to outwit the personal-grooming police. This whole thing is going well so far.
Chapter 3
Inside the museum, Tilly is instantly transported into a parallel universe inhabited by people whose shoes never fall off, and who have actually done their hair. Not personally, of course – they’d have swarms of assistants buzzing around, making life easier, telling them where to be and what to wear and do. She can only imagine how much better her life would be if she wasn’t expected to dress herself and figure out how to behave in public —
‘Matilda?’ A petite, scary-looking woman is scanning Tilly from head to toe with eyes that might as well have red laser beams shooting out of them, her expression is so cutting. Tilly recognises Henrietta from the Skype call. ‘We were assured that global roaming was added to your company iPhone. How is it that you’ve ignored my last three messages?’
Think, think.
‘I saw you just now on the steps outside, romping with Reuben Vaughan.’
‘I wasn’t romping! My shoe . . .’
‘Yes, I saw your shoe. We all saw it. I should hardly have to explain that
employees of Roche PR do not arrive at functions, which are being attended by princesses, wearing non-approved, attention-seeking attire, tardy, barefoot and fawning all over the nearest pop star.’
Fawning?
‘Reuben is one of our clients. He is therefore completely off limits, so whatever schoolgirl fantasy you’re harbouring —’
Tilly tries to object, but the only noise that will come out of her mouth is an affronted splatter of random consonants, which probably makes her look super guilty of all the romping and fawning and schoolgirlish fantasising, if ‘schoolgirlish’ is even a word – she can’t figure it out, now. She’d need to write it down . . .
‘Matilda!’ Henrietta snaps. ‘Did you hear me?’
Not as such, no. She’s trying to work out how to operate the English language. And she’s people-watching, taking so many mental notes for her writing she’s literally tuned out everything Henrietta has just conveyed. Henrietta, she notes, has don’t-mess-with-me, white-blonde hair, ironed dead-flat, with a ruler-straight, blunt fringe. She’d make an excellent villain for a novel – dark blue eyes, squinting, constantly seeking something new to criticise. Tilly, in this instance. But where could she possibly have gone wrong in the five minutes that have elapsed since the last disaster?
‘Stop staring! We’re here in an official capacity. Drop the innocent act.’
It’s not an act. She really is this innocent. She’s only ever met one famous person before and even then he was just one of the extras on Neighbours. He wasn’t even a real extra. He was on work experience with the crew and they roped him in because the proper extra was sick.
‘Do you realise how unusual it is for us to actually be in a room with these people?’ Henrietta snaps.
Yes?
‘The palace is sponsoring this event and they’ve chosen us to manage the comms. We’re completely responsible for it all. Promotion, media, invitations, RSVPs, security arrangements, media kits, interviews with VIP guests, red carpet, private photo ops – everything. This is our one opportunity to really turn people’s heads!’
Tilly is definitely doing that. She’s overachieving, in fact.
‘Our mission here is to make an impression. Roche PR: professional, innovative, responsive.’
Right. Don’t stare. Act experienced. Turn people’s heads.
‘Any questions?’ Henrietta asks.
So many! But Tilly isn’t going to voice them. Not when she’s already been accused of too much innocence. It’s time to pretend she knows exactly what she’s doing.
She’d read her instructions a hundred times on the plane: ‘At the ball, you are to post three photos with accompanying captions per hour. We need some hip, young social media traction. You were selected based on your quirky Gen Z style. Stick to it. No photos of the princess.’
I’ve got this, she thinks, lying to herself in case it helps. Couldn’t be simpler. Time to play it super smooth and together and totally at ease, just like . . . hmm . . . She searches the room for a random example of professional togetherness upon which to model her own behaviour, and her gaze snags on her former future husband. Reuben is perfectly relaxed and exchanging seemingly hilarious banter with a crowd comprising every woman under thirty on the guest list. Except Tilly, obviously.
Not that she cares who Reuben Vaughan cavorts with! She hasn’t cared in years. His tielessness is artificially elevating his level of cool, anyway, she decides. And that’s technically her doing. Perhaps she’ll make a PR hotshot yet.
Now that she thinks about it, she feels his tie brush the skin of her leg. It’s like an ankle monitor, but instead of alerting authorities to her whereabouts, it alerts her to his and gives her goosebumps.
‘Cold?’ a voice interrupts to her left. It’s that Guthrie guy.
Before Tilly can answer, Henrietta is barking, ‘Look at that!’ She pushes her glass into Tilly’s hand and starts tut-tutting. ‘That’s one of our clients over there, talking to another of our clients, whose contract stipulates that they’ll never be seen together. Stay here, Tilly. Keep out of trouble for three minutes, will you?’
Henrietta sweeps off, self-importance personified. Tilly tries not to look too relieved as she takes her iPhone out of the clutch, supposing this is as good a time as any to do her job, but really just using it as a crutch to look busy and avoid people. How weird is it that we’re allowed to bring phones to something like this at all, given who’s here? Apparently, it’s something they’re trialling – trying to make the Royal Family more friendly or something . . .
‘We got off on the wrong foot, I’m Jack Guthrie,’ Jack says, eyeing the pebbled skin on her arms, courtesy of Reuben. Is he teasing her now about her shoe debacle? She is acutely aware of Reuben watching them from the other side of the room. Maybe he’s sizing up his competition —
Tilly! As if Reuben Vaughan cares who speaks to you! Look at those girls and look at you, in your heinous green dress and everything!
Reuben’s posse notwithstanding, he’s undeniably glancing her way every so often. The idea of it makes her breath catch. Seriously, the hairs on her arms leap to attention like a tiny army preparing for battle. No, not battle. Gawd, that’s a hugely unromantic analogy . . .
‘Tilly?’ She realises she’s ignoring Jack. Being rude to other guests is not exactly in Roche PR’s playbook.
‘It’s my first time,’ she hears herself saying inanely. ‘At a ball with royalty, obviously. Not speaking to someone like you . . .’ What are these words?
‘Someone like me?’ he asks.
Of course he does. As if he’d allow her to fade into the antique furniture like she wishes she could. It’s like she’s studied a book titled 1001 Ways to Embarrass Yourself in High Society Before You Die and she’s working determinedly through every suggestion.
‘What is it that you do, Jack?’ she asks. Surely that’s a perfectly safe question. Isn’t it what people always ask each other in this kind of company, at this sort of function? It’s a conversation with no fresh holes for her to stumble into.
‘I have a publishing company,’ he explains.
‘You work at a publishing company?’ As an aspiring writer she’s instantly engrossed.
‘My family owns it,’ he clarifies, and she turns to face him square on.
‘You own it? The entire publishing company?’
He seems amused. ‘Every last bit of it, Tilly. What is it you do – when you’re not interning in upper-class faux pas, a very long way from home, by the sound of it?’
She blushes, and laughs, and glances at Reuben to check that he’s seen her blushing and laughing with Jack, even though prior to this very moment she has never been the game-playing type, and she’s instantly ashamed of herself. This environment is messing with her head! Reuben, in any case, has an exquisite-looking girl draped against him, like he’s some sort of leaning post for exhausted models. Tilly’s amateurish flirtations don’t register a single blip on his radar, and why would they, compared with that?
She turns back to Jack, determined to rescue any impression he might be forming that she’s a naive Australian gap-year student, just off the last flight, even if that’s both literally and figuratively true. ‘I’m a writer, actually.’ Not that she’s ever said that aloud before.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Now we’re talking.’
They are? He takes her by the arm and guides her to the side of the room, where there’s a quiet spot with chairs. Is he about to offer her a publishing deal? Don’t be ridiculous, Tilly! He hasn’t read a word that you’ve written!
‘Tell me what you’re writing,’ he insists.
If there’s a scarier question than that, Tilly doesn’t know what it is. She feels blindsided. Suddenly, the story she’s been creating since she finished school – with the characters she’s fallen madly in love with – seems totally lightweight. It’s not. There’s depth! But how to articulate that depth intelligently . . . to a bona-fide publisher no less. Whatever she says next could t
otally make or break her entire future career.
She stares at Jack. Is she attempting to communicate with him telepathically? It occurs to her that there’s been an inordinately long pause where a lucid description of her plot should be . . .
‘Oh, God. Here we go . . .’ Jack says.
Is he anticipating something totally amateurish? How insulting! She might be only eighteen, but she got As for English. Well, there was that one B for the unit on Macbeth, but there was so much gore in that play, she couldn’t stand all the marauding and murdering, and didn’t pay attention . . .
Jack isn’t paying attention to her anymore, either. She follows his gaze and realises he’s talking about Reuben, who appears to have broken free of his glamorous squad and is heading purposefully across the dance floor towards them. Why?
Her unspoken question hangs, unanswered, because Reuben only makes it part of the way over before he’s artfully swept off course by none other than the princess who is hosting this occasion. Tilly watches in awe as Princess Isabelle falls into his arms mid-dance. She is divine! A brunette Grace Kelly, in flowing, pastel pink. Not High Street pink. French couture pink, designed specifically for Isabelle, for this occasion, never to be worn again, despite being completely gorgeous.
‘Wow,’ Tilly mutters. She’s impressed. And envious.
Jack says something under his breath that she doesn’t catch.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing,’ he explains. ‘Just a situation that’s been playing out since we were all at school together.’
She drags her focus away from The Perfect Couple and back to Jack.
‘The official story is they’re “just friends”,’ he says, leaning in conspiratorially. ‘Look at them, Tilly. What do you think?’
She thinks she’s suddenly way more jealous than she has any business being about Reuben ‘Let Me Fix That Shoe For You’ Vaughan, who’s probably forgotten she even exists. How could he think of anyone else in the presence of someone as magical as Isabelle, who looks like she’s waltzed straight out of the pages of a fairy tale?