The Reluctant Royal

by Eleanor Harkstead

  “They’ve given you the family freak, Joe. You must see that?” She frowned and shook her head. “He’s not even really royal, is he? He’s the weird kid at school that we all feel sorry for!”

  Joe shook his head. “I’ve been given a principal who is in a lot of danger. I wouldn’t be given a case like this if they didn’t think I was good at what I do. I can’t tell you any details about it, but don’t call him a freak. You’re better than that.”

  She shook her head again, no longer listening. Then she looked up at the approaching waiter and hissed, “Don’t make a scene.”

  And for some reason he thought of Alejandro again. Today he should’ve been sitting in the studio being painted and instead he was in a sterile room with his wife, being forced to make an impossible choice.

  The plates were set before them and Wendy watched the young man depart, then said, “I’ll be honest, Joe, I find your job…awkward. I need a man who’s present, who’s heading in the same direction as me. I need a man who can stand beside me and give the right image for Clarke, Jolliffe and Kumar. I don’t need a meathead. Maybe if you could get a better royal or…I don’t know, maybe ask Patrick about something more strategic? He loves desk work!”

  “Awkward?” Joe’s appetite for Japanese cookery had dissipated and he looked down reluctantly at his plate. “You liked my job before. You liked it when we got married. When you thought, well, what did you think? That the Queen herself would become your client? I don’t give a flying one about the right image for your bloody law firm. I have a life too, but do you really care? I don’t think you ever have. And don’t call me a bloody meathead. I could snap Barnaby like a twig, but I’m too much of a gentleman to do it.”

  “You’ve never done anything to recommend us to the royal household, Joe, and you could. They get divorced, they start businesses and every bloody time, it’s one of our rivals.” Wendy snatched up her fork. “You’re the only man in England with a sense of bloody honour, do you know that?”

  And there it was. Plain as day. Every time Joe had lain awake at night after being booted out to sleep on the sofa, he had stared at the ceiling wondering why Wendy had wanted to marry him. Had pursued him and cajoled until Joe had thought, She’s keen, and at least my family will stop asking me about my love life. He was a networking opportunity.

  “Conflict of interest. I can’t recommend my wife’s law firm to my principal. Can you imagine what would happen if the press found out?” Joe tried a mouthful of food. It wasn’t too bad, but it didn’t make him want to go to Japan.

  “You didn’t even try. Even when you were in hospital, we have criminal lawyers at the firm, Joe, there couldn’t have been a better opportunity!” Wendy picked up her glass. “We could’ve gone after that nutter with the car. Did you ever mention our firm? No.”

  “There wasn’t a trial. He was placed straight into a secure hospital for everyone’s safety. Did you want me to sue him?” Joe chewed another mouthful but it was flavourless now.

  Did her eyes widen? Surely not. But they did, at the thought of a lawsuit, his wife’s gaze positively brightened.

  “You’d have to retire first if we were going to make PTSD stick,” she mused thoughtfully. “But shouldn’t you get some justice, even if that comes in the form of compensation? It isn’t my area, but I could ask Dhriti to look into it if you’d like, she’s like a Rottweiler.”

  “Stop being an ambulance-chaser, Wendy. It doesn’t suit you. I was doing my job. There’s no negligence anywhere. No one could’ve predicted that guy would’ve done it. There was no intel.” Joe winced as he remembered the sudden, violent slam of the car against his body. “I stared him in the face when I was the bonnet and no one was home.”

  “Somebody somewhere got something wrong. And someone should have to pay for that.” She tapped her finger on the tablecloth. “That guy who crippled Patrick, Iraqi or something back of beyond like that? Exactly the same story. A nice comfy cell, three meals a day, Sky Sports.”

  “Had to shit in front of his three cellmates, couldn’t go outside except into a yard once a day, scared to go into the showers in case he was beaten up by racists. Yeah, what a brilliant time he had up until the day he hanged himself!” Joe gritted his teeth and pushed his plate away. “You’ll love Japan, Wendy, they still have the death penalty there.”

  “If he hadn’t come to our country and tried to blow up our cabinet ministers, he wouldn’t have been in a cell,” said Wendy, apparently missing the irony of her anti-immigration policy as she planned her move to Japan. “Perhaps that’s how they do things in Iran, I don’t know.”

  “Iran, Iraq… That poor bloke got around a lot, didn’t he?” Joe slugged the remains of his champagne and put the glass back on the table. “I’m not hungry anymore, Wendy. It’s time for me to go.”

  “You haven’t touched your food!” She refilled his glass. “Joe, you’d love it. At least say you’ll think about it?”

  “I have thought about it, and I don’t want to go.” Joe pushed back his chair. “Sayonara. Oh, so that’s three words of Japanese I know.”

  “There won’t be another chance.” Wendy speared a piece of chicken. “You’d better go. It might need someone to find the end of the Sellotape.”

  Joe didn’t reply. He strode out of the restaurant and took a short cut down a side street.

  A man wandered out from a shop wearing an extraordinary suit. The cut was smart but the fabric seemed to glow even though the side street was narrow and dark. Joe realised he’d just stepped out from a tailor’s that he’d never noticed before. He stood for a few minutes, admiring the different cuts and fabrics on display in the window.

  Then he went inside.

  Chapter Ten

  Joe got out of the car once it was in the secure area behind Buckingham Palace. He wondered how well Alejandro’s visit had gone.

  Does he know I’m still his CPO?

  Does he care?

  “Sergeant Bond!” Alejandro’s voice sang out across the courtyard. A moment later he emerged from a door, followed by one more man in a generic suit, who exchanged a nod with Joe. Peanut had been officially handed over from the palace to Sergeant Wenlock, and so had the neat white paper carrier bag that Peanut was carrying. “I’ve got a treat for us to share!”

  A thoroughly saucy thought presented itself to Joe at that moment, but he forced it away.

  Joe opened the car door for Alejandro. “Thank you, Mr Fuente. I hope you had an enjoyable visit.” Joe was smiling, he could feel it, and he made no attempt to hide it.

  “Splendid!” Alejandro slipped into the back seat as Joe held the door for him. He looked like a child on Christmas morning, Joe decided. He closed the car door and took his own seat beside the driver just in time for Alejandro to reach over his shoulder and drop his mobile into Joe’s lap. “It’s a Gaga kind of day. Can you make it come out of the speakers, Sergeant?”

  Joe glanced at the driver, who shrugged in response. A secret Gaga fan, perhaps.

  “If you like, Mr Fuente.”

  “I like!” He tapped Joe’s shoulder over the seat. “Come on, Sarge, I need my Gaga before I tell you what I’ve got for us.”

  Joe set up the phone and before the car had left Buckingham Palace’s gates, Lady Gaga was singing. Joe passed the phone back to Alejandro. “Have you smuggled out a corgi?”

  “Better!” He rustled the paper bag. “Abuelita gave me a piece of Stilton so big that I could hollow it out and live in it! Don’t tell Zak or no Stilton for you!”

  “I won’t say a word, Mr Fuente,” Joe said. “Straight home, sir?”

  “Can we swing by the studio?” The distinct odour of very strong Stilton filled the car and, at Joe’s side, the driver gave a valiant effort to hold back a cough, his eyes filling with tears. “Who wants some Stilton?”

  “Maybe later, when I’ve got my hazmat suit on.” Although Joe’s near-empty stomach betrayed him by rumbling. He tried not to laugh as he entered the studio’s add
ress into the satnav on the dashboard.

  “More for me.” And for the remainder of their journey, Alejandro alternated between eating his prized Stilton and singing loudly along to his playlist. And all the time, he was keeping the beat on Joe’s shoulder.

  He really doesn’t need coke.

  Joe didn’t swat Alejandro’s hand away, but he couldn’t reach back and hold it either. Not in front of a driver. After that hostile lunch with Wendy, Alejandro’s unbridled glee was a tonic.

  Once the car arrived at the studio, Joe scanned the area for anyone who might pose a threat. The pavement was busy, but the parking area outside was quiet, and Joe got out. Alejandro knew the drill.

  Stay in the car until we know it’s safe.

  He headed to the door, then froze, all his senses on alert.

  The lock was smashed, parts of the door splintered. He glanced back at the car, then took out his phone and called Control.

  “I’m at Peanut’s studio. The lock’s damaged. I’m going in. The alarm isn’t sounding.” Joe took the can of PAVA from the holster inside his jacket and, covering his hand with his handkerchief to avoid smudging any prints, slowly pushed the door open.

  He slipped inside without making a sound and snapped on the light. Keeping his back against the wall, he scanned the studio. The chaos of masks, models, swags of fabric and pictures made it very hard to know if whoever had broken the lock was still inside.

  But something was wrong.

  A breeze came in through the partly opened door and something swung back and forth.

  Joe looked up and there, dangling from a metal beam that ran across the width of the room, was a rope. And from it, there swung a wighead as though it had been hanged.

  * * * *

  The noise from upstairs as Joe spoke to Patrick on the telephone seemed rather too much to be made by one slender drag queen. Lady Gaga’s music thumped out, a vacuum roared and Alejandro stomped back and forth, furiously cleaning the bedroom that Joe had tidied. He had said nothing on their journey home, simply disappearing upstairs once the Stilton had been safely stowed in the kitchen.

  “Peanut’s not very happy,” Joe told him.

  “I don’t think this is our Leviticus,” was Patrick’s conclusion. “Smashing down doors? More likely someone who just wanted to get in on the drama. The CCTV on the door going down was unforgivable though, I can’t apologise enough for that.”

  “So there’s nothing? Someone made a threat like that, and there’s nothing?” Joe paced back and forth through the living room. “So if it’s not Leviticus, do we think that whoever would do this would launch a firework at Peanut too?”

  “I’m not brushing this under the carpet,” the commander assured him. “There’s the option of a safe house, of course, but we simply can’t make him disappear. I’ve got officers front and back, panic alarms throughout, but have you stopped to think, if our Leviticus can get so close, why they haven’t just made their move? There’s some thinking here that this person is getting all they need from the thrill of terrorising him.”

  “I hope that’s the case, but that firework could’ve killed Peanut. Could’ve killed me too.” Joe swept his hand back through his hair and hissed out his breath. “Maybe they didn’t realise how dangerous it was. Thought it’d scare Peanut, didn’t realise it could’ve been so much worse.”

  “That’s beginning to be our prevailing feeling. It’s what the psychologists are telling me.” He heard the sound of Patrick’s cup landing on its saucer. “But our security will remain on high alert until we’re sure we’ve got him in custody, you can count on that.”

  “Okay, Patrick. Thanks. I better go up and check on Peanut.” Joe made his way upstairs, the music and the Hoover louder with every step. He tapped on the door to his bedroom. “Hey, Alejandro. You okay?”

  Alejandro pulled the door open, looking rather as if he’d just finished an intense workout. Changed into the skinniest jeans Joe had ever seen and a neon pink T-shirt though, he made even housework look flamboyant. He took a moment to catch his breath then said, “Come and see, Osito, your newly refurbished quarters!”

  Joe left his shoes on the landing and came inside. The gay icons and the rainbow flag had gone, replaced with framed prints, and the only posters now were the sort of tasteful ones sold in art galleries of paintings that weren’t too confrontational.

  “As much as I’ll miss the sultry men with bulging trousers, this is really nice.” Joe patted Alejandro’s arm. “Thanks for doing this for me.”

  “I still have the bulging gents if you want them back.” Alejandro took his phone from his pocket and with a swipe of his finger, the music grew quieter. “Were you very angry with me for invoking the power of the mamá?”

  “I’m glad you did,” Joe said gently. “I didn’t want to leave, you know that. I only tried to because I felt I should, but Commander Holloway didn’t want me to and neither did your mother. So here I am.”

  “And what happened? I know there can’t be an us,” Alejandro told him softly. “But that doesn’t mean I have to pretend I don’t like you. But you’re married and I don’t want to get into all that again and you definitely don’t, I guess. So what did your commander say about my studio?”

  Joe didn’t want to tell him that Patrick didn’t think Leviticus was behind it. Two people messing up Alejandro’s day seemed rather harsh. “They’re looking into it.”

  He nodded, then patted Joe’s arm. “Shall I make us something nice to eat? I was going to paint you today, wasn’t I?”

  “You still can. Not at the studio, obviously, but…” Joe’s voice trailed off. He didn’t need to remind Alejandro. “Might help you unwind? Don’t let them win, Alejo. I mean, Alejandro.”

  “Let’s have some royal Stilton and lovely bread.” He took Joe’s arm, just as Paloma had. “Then can I paint you? We can use my drag room. Paloma’s room!”

  “I’d love you to paint me.”

  “I can’t concentrate if your tum keeps grumbling.” He led them along the landing. “Stilton, then paint. And I refuse to think about that wighead. I’m having an officially good day. No Fuckface is going to ruin it.”

  Royal Stilton had the edge on supermarket Stilton, that was for sure, Joe decided. Although he was so hungry after his failed lunch that he would’ve happily eaten an old shoe stuck between two pieces of bread. Almost.

  Once they were finished, Joe was introduced properly to Paloma’s room. Now he knew its purpose it took on a different perspective, becoming the dressing room of the glamorous creature Alejandro conjured from make-up and clothing, the exotic femme fatale who resided inside him. He could picture her here before the mirror with its border of bright Hollywood bulbs, applying her lipstick as she prepared for a night on the town. The night they’d met, for instance.

  Joe picked up a large hair bow from the dressing table and stroked its soft satin finish. “So, where do you want me?”

  “Stripped to the waist and in Señorita Picante’s chair, please!”

  Stripped?

  Joe froze, halfway out of his jacket. But it had to be done. He shrugged it off and hung it on the back of the door beside sequinned garments and marabou feathers, then threw his tie after it. He untwisted his cufflinks and put them in his pocket, then turned his back on Alejandro as he unbuttoned his shirt. Then he unfastened the Velcro on his covert vest and took that off too. Once he’d cast it aside, he sat down in the makeup chair and stared at his bare chest in the bright lights cast by the bulbs around the mirror.

  ‘I don’t need a meathead.’

  Joe chased the memory of Wendy’s words away.

  “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr Fuente!”

  Busy at the table stacking paints and brushes, Alejandro turned to look at him. He didn’t even try to hide his appreciative gaze but instead said, “You really, really are, Osito!”

  Joe scratched at the sandy-coloured hair on his chest which occupied the space between his nipples. It was inconspicuous
and very far from luxuriant but at that moment, Joe was so conscious of it that he wondered if he should’ve tended to it with a blow-dryer and styling spray before revealing it to Alejandro.

  “Should I— Is the chest hair all right?”

  “I can’t paint over it, no.” But Alejandro didn’t sound disappointed, Joe noted, though he seemed to keep looking at it. “I didn’t— I should’ve thought, of course you’d have— Well, why wouldn’t you? You’re you.”

  “I could shave it off if you wanted me to? I don’t mind.”

  “Oh no, definitely don’t do that!” He gave a flustered laugh, patting one hand to his own chest. “It suits you far more than it does Paloma!”

  “Do you shave then? Not just your face?” Joe relaxed and rested his arms on the chair’s rests. “I mean, you don’t have to answer that if it sounds a bit prurient, I’m just curious, that’s all.”

  “I used to wax but shaving is so much simpler.” He turned back to his paints, then back to Joe. “And I moisturise. Head. To. Toe. It’s a bit slippery but my skin thanks me for it.”

  Joe blinked as he tried his best not to think too much about a slippery, naked Alejandro. “Maybe I should do that too. I’d be nice and smooth.”

  “Don’t you dare shave!” He wagged his finger at Joe. “And if you start tucking, we shall have strong words!”

  “Someone mentioned that at lunch today. Put me right off the sausage!” Joe grinned. “I hope it doesn’t hurt, though. You know what I’m like, diving in to protect you. I doubt you’d want me bursting into a dressing room to say, No tucking, Mr Fuente!”

  “The first time, it was murder, then I decided that I wanted the world’s tightest tuck. Then I got a blister. Now, I think, I’ve got it just right.” He took his phone from his pocket and for a moment Joe wondered exactly what he was about to see. “Do you want to see baby Paloma?”