“Or a drag queen,” he said, then went back to the painting. “I wouldn’t laugh at you. I’m not that much of a bitch. Whoever gets to be the first is going to be a lucky and gorgeous Spanish makeup whizz.”
“I’m sure with practice I’ll get the hang of it!” Joe laughed. “I wasn’t too bad at landing on top of you yesterday, was I? But in future I’ll try to avoid breaking your shoes.”
“I’ve forgiven you for that. Keeping my head on my shoulders beats snapping a heel.”
Joe patted Alejandro’s arm. “You didn’t get any bruises? Those steps are quite high.”
“I landed on Paloma’s bum,” he said. “She’s well padded.”
“Just as well!” Joe followed Alejandro’s brush from the corner of his eye as it skated over him. “How am I looking, makeup maestro?”
“Stunning. You’re quite a model!” He turned back to his paints. “Now still and silent, Sarge, so I can work on that handsome face of yours.”
Joe closed his eyes, and let Alejandro’s brushes stroke his face like the promise of kisses to come. For a long time, Alejandro painted on in silence, the fragrance that he and Paloma shared as heady as his proximity as he worked so closely to Joe, as focussed now as he had been frenetic before. Occasionally he murmured to himself in Spanish or hummed one of his melodies but there was no other sound, not even traffic passing outside. Finally, he stood back and looked at Joe with a critical eye, chewing his lip.
“Keep your mouth closed and your lips straight, or you won’t get the impact. We’re ready!” He moved to the back of the chair and took it in his hands then, with an exclamation of “Ta-daaaa!”, spun it back to the mirror.
Joe struggled to keep his mouth closed as his reaction was to gasp. He didn’t look like himself any longer, but had been replaced by…by… He was some sort of living cartoon, a Lichtenstein come to life. He was square-jawed, his face a mass of dots like cheap comic book printing, with black lines for contours, shaping his face to make him look like someone else. It was incredible.
Keeping his lips together, he pointed to his mouth, his eyebrows raised in a question.
Can I please speak?
“Opinion, please. Be honest!” Alejandro watched through the mirror, his hands to his face in trepidation. “Then photos. If you think it’s good enough.”
“Good enough?” Joe hopped up off the chair and leaned closer to the mirror. “This is amazing! I-I’m stunned. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve seen photos of people trying to get this sort of look, but this is better than anything I imagined. It doesn’t even look like me! Thanks so much, Alejo.”
“Can I take some photos? Chest up, paint only. I won’t Insta them, don’t fret.” He took his phone from the back pocket of those ridiculously skinny jeans and waited.
“Yeah, of course you can. The question is, though, how long do I keep it on for? Until bedtime?”
“Lips together!” Alejandro gestured Joe to take a step to the right, so his background was the dark red of the room’s thick curtains. Then he began snapping photos, committing that remarkable make-up for posterity. “Keep it on as long as you like. I won’t be offended it you’d rather wash it off, don’t worry. Sometimes, when Paloma’s been out on the town, I can’t wait to be barefoot and bare skinned again.”
“I’ll keep it on. If Leviticus pays a call, they’ll be so stunned when they see this on my face that I’ll collar them once and for all!” And that would certainly be an intriguing new technique to use when immobilising felons.
Chapter Eleven
It only took a couple of days for Joe and Alejandro to fall into a comfortable domestic routine, albeit one that involved Alejandro rehearsing for the party at Windsor Castle. Joe had even taken time to repaint the scorched panel of Alejandro’s door where the firework had burst. Wendy sent three texts a day without fail, still insisting that Joe accompany her to Japan, and when she rang up, Joe kept the calls short, the word ‘No’ prominent whenever she brought up her relocation.
And Joe and Alejandro behaved themselves. It wasn’t easy. Joe found himself hugging his principal more often than he should, but even with Alejandro’s beautiful dark brown eyes on him, Joe resisted the temptation to wrap his arms around him and kiss him. They were friendly hugs, that was all.
And when Alejandro wasn’t rehearsing, he was in Paloma’s room at his sewing machine, creating the costume for Windsor. As Joe sat on the comfy sofa beside the desk where Alejandro worked, reading or chatting or just listening to the world outside for any sign of the suspiciously silent Leviticus, he realised that it had never occurred to him just how much work went into Paloma. He had envisioned a fortune spent on designer gowns and shoes and nothing more arduous than trips to Oxford Street but instead, he saw now that Alejandro preferred to be a bit more hands-on that that. As the hours went by, what seemed like acres of white fabric passed beneath the needle, with occasional breaks for those forbidden carbs.
It was during one of those industrious afternoons, the remains of the royal Stilton on the makeup table, Alejandro’s sewing machine whirring and Beyoncé balladeering from the speakers, that the buzz of a vibrating phone disturbed the peace.
Joe checked his, but there weren’t any updates. “Is that yours, Alejo?”
“Probably.” The sewing machine stopped and he picked up his phone, tutting. “Oh no, I had this little bit of hope that Zak had forgotten all about me after I neonised his vision!”
So had I.
Joe leaned back on the sofa, trying to hide his curiosity. “So what’s old Zak Su up to?”
“Do you know Slim Frost?” He turned and met Joe’s gaze. “He’s terrible. Rapper, though, so I’m probably not the girl to ask!”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of him.” Joe scrubbed his hand through his hair. “While I was recuperating, I spent a lot of time channel-hopping on the sofa, and there’s some music channel I ended up having on in the background. Slim Frost was on it. Bit of a tit, by the look of it.”
“Zak’s best friend. From the wrong side of the tracks, innit?” Alejandro flicked his wrist, giving something that Joe guessed was supposed to approximate a suitably street gesture but instead looked a little too balletic to pass muster. “Zak shot Slim’s new video over the summer and it’s launching tonight. I wasn’t invited but now, because P is suddenly infamous thanks to Fuckface and something about me knowing the queen—who would’ve thought that was a big deal for a rapper—he wants me to go to the party. Well, not me. Paloma.”
Joe drew himself up from his casual slump on the sofa. “And you want to go?”
“Zak wants me to go.”
Joe caught Alejandro’s gaze. “And do you?”
He gave a long sigh and admitted, “I have to, Joe. What you saw on Halloween… He’ll move onto someone else one day but until then— Zak’s my mistake, the one I have to live with.”
“But you don’t,” Joe said softly. “People like him are the reason that restraining orders were invented. And you’ve even got your own bodyguard! If he comes towards you threatening violence, I’m allowed to spray him in the face with PAVA. And if he’s really being a prick, then the Taser can come out. Alejandro, he can’t hurt you anymore.”
Alejandro leaned across and patted Joe’s knee. Then he said, “Why don’t you choose a dress for Paloma to wear?”
Joe had to satisfy himself knowing that at least he would be able to stick to Alejandro’s side throughout the evening. But the can of PAVA was definitely coming along with him.
“Okay, I’ll choose a dress. And has Zak told you the name of the venue? I’ll have to inform Control.”
“Ministry of Beats.” He screwed up his face. “Brilliant. Full drag and a hot nightclub, just what every girl needs! We can use Fuckface as an excuse to keep to the VIP area though. I’m not going onto sweaty dancefloors in geish. I’m twenty-six, I’m far too old for that!”
“See, you’ve got the hang of this now. Stick to the VIP area.” Joe winked, then he w
ent over to the rack of dresses, looking for the perfect dress for Paloma to wear that evening. “Oh, and dare I ask where Paloma keeps her GPS?”
“Somewhere very safe indeed.” Alejandro rose to his feet and joined Joe at the rack. He slipped one arm around his shoulder, the gesture just platonic enough. “And very warm too.”
Joe’s face was turning rather warm as well. “Erm…how about this one? Black sequins. Is that slit up the leg okay? I suppose it’s nightclubby. Look, I honestly don’t have much of an opinion when it comes to dresses!”
“My aesthetic is so not nightclubs. I should be in Zédel’s or somewhere exotic and Cuban, not a heaving club.” Alejandro took the black dress from the rack and held it up, scrutinising it. “Good choice, Osito, at least I’ll look classy, even if everyone else looks like they’ve crawled through a hedge. I’ll wear an updo, at least it’ll keep my shoulders cool. Maybe a feather or two. What will you wear?”
“Silver hotpants and a tight white T-shirt?” Joe flashed him a grin. “Erm…a suit? I’m not sure I could get away with a tweed jacket, could I? But that’s my usual out-on-the-town outfit. Because apparently I’m channelling my grandad.”
“I think you look gorgeous in your tweed jacket. I couldn’t believe what you were real when you stepped in between us.” Alejandro’s arm squeezed Joe’s shoulders. “You looked like my dream British gent. All broad-shouldered and chivalrous.”
“Then I’ll wear that tonight, for you.” Joe slipped his arm around Alejandro’s waist. “If Zak gives you any hassle, I’ll be there, and I’m ready to step in again. Don’t worry.”
Joe gazed at Alejandro and all of the emotions that had rushed through him when he had first kissed Paloma returned to him. He forced himself to look away.
“I’ll call him back. Speakerphone, just in case he’s a shit to me?”
Joe nodded. “Do it.”
So Alejandro held the mobile between them and the sound of Zak’s phone ringing somewhere filled the small room. Alejandro’s arm still encircled Joe’s shoulders, his grip firm even as Joe saw the hint of a tremble in the phone he held.
“Don’t worry, I’m here,” Joe whispered.
At that moment, Zak’s voice filled the room. “Al! You got my message then?”
No hello, darling, or words of affection. Joe bit his lip.
“Where’ve you been?” Joe wished that Alejandro didn’t sound so hopeful, so perpetually ready to be kicked back down. “Are you excited about the launch? I bet you are!”
“Yeah, obviously!” Zak cackled, a mocking laugh that suggested Alejandro was stupid for asking. “And you are coming, right? As Paloma? Famous drag queen and all that?”
“Just choosing the perfect gown. Something classy for a premier,” he replied. “Are we seeing you there or will you come here first?”
“We?” Zak’s voice was cold. “Oh, fuck’s sake, you’re not bringing that pillock with you, are you? We can’t have coppers at this! I’ve invited some very important gangsters.”
Joe rolled his eyes.
He heard Alejandro draw in a deep, shaky breath, caught the trembling bravery in his voice when he announced, “I can’t come without him.”
“Well, you’ll have to!” Zak whined. “Can’t you tell him you’re going to see one of the princesses or something? You don’t have to tell them your every move. You’re not much of a rebel, are you?”
“It’s both of us, or no Paloma.” Alejandro winced, waiting. Then, when there was no answer, he added, “I’m sorry, I can’t. Jo— Sergeant Wenlock has to be there.”
“I don’t have any choice, then, do I?” Zak groaned. “And all because you’re chickenshit about some banter on Insta. Fuck’s sake!”
“They shot a firework at me.” He looked at Joe, his face crumpled into unhappiness all over again. “And I haven’t told you this but someone broke into my workshop and hanged one of my wigheads from a noose. It’s not a joke, Zak.”
“That’s just someone messing with you! Being a dick! You’re not scared of that, seriously?” But Joe detected a change in Zak’s tone. The slightest whiff of fear behind his grating bravado.
“Not when I’ve got Sergeant Wenlock looking out for me, no.”
“Well—” Zak was about to say something but seemed to change his mind. “Yeah, but you are coming, aren’t you? Bring the copper, but don’t bring the weirdo ‘cos I don’t want my video launch ruined by some cock throwing fireworks around!” Zak cackled, the fear Joe had heard vanishing once more behind his blokey façade.
“We’re coming. Shall we see you at the club?” He glanced to Joe, as though for approval. “I can’t imagine you want to rock up in a chauffeur-driven armoured car! Not super street!”
“Nah. I’ll see you there. VIP room. Laters.” And the phone went dead.
* * * *
The car dropped Joe and Alejandro as close to the VIP entrance to the club as it could manage. Control hadn’t sounded pleased at such a last-minute trip out, but Joe suspected that because there hadn’t been anything from Leviticus in the past few days, the feeling was that the risk to Alejandro was shrinking.
I bloody hope so.
Joe showed his warrant card before the bouncers on the door could frisk him. They seemed unimpressed that he was there, but Joe wasn’t worried, and kept close to Paloma as they went up to the VIP room. She wore the dress he had chosen, accessorised with a red silk wrap and gloves that was utterly, wonderfully out of place among all the eye-wateringly pricey sportswear and denim. Even on the rarefied VIP staircase it seemed as though every other step involved a pose for a photo from someone in heavy gold chains and sunglasses, and Joe never left Paloma’s side. They might all be pre-invited, maybe even famous, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
As they ascended the stairway, Slim Frost glowered down from enormous posters proclaiming him the voice of a new generation, touting the premiere of South Estate, a film by Zak Su. And in case the emphasis of ‘estate’ was lost, vast, soulless tower blocks looked over the rapper, his hands balled into fists at his sides, his face set in an expression of venomous rebellion.
The hulk of a man on the door opened it without any pause and Paloma swept through, followed by her bodyguard, straight into the capital’s hottest party.
It was safe to say that Joe was the only person there wearing tweed. But he had a job to do, and with no further thoughts about his choice of jacket, he scanned the room. Everyone was trying very hard to look cool, which apparently meant exuding terrible boredom. The music was so deep with booming bass that it made Joe’s eardrums throb.
He couldn’t imagine Leviticus wanting to come here, but still Joe was on the lookout, discreetly shielding Paloma from everyone who approached until he was satisfied that, as far as he could tell, they weren’t a threat.
Presumably because he was so busy being cool, Zak didn’t make himself known at once, but he finally emerged from a shadowy corner as a cloud of dry ice cleared. Like Jack the Ripper in a tracksuit.
“Paloma Picante, my bae!” He draped his arm possessively around Paloma’s shoulders. “S’pose you want champagne?”
“I’d love some.” And there was that kiss again, aggressive and engulfing, forcing Paloma to back away just a little. She met Joe’s eye and gave a smile as the kiss ended, small and awkward.
“Bet you can’t have one, eh, Mr Plod?” Zak laughed. “I can’t drink on duty, that’s what they always say on telly, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I avoid alcohol while on duty.” Joe scanned the room again. Then he saw Slim Frost and his coiffured blond hair hove into view. Another tracksuit, Joe noted. With sliders too. Alejandro certainly wouldn’t like that.
“A’ite,” he greeted them, exchanging a complicated handshake with Zak. “My man Zak Su, my visionary friend and his lady. And her Fed, right?”
“Paloma and her Fed,” Paloma agreed, stooping artfully to air-kiss his pale cheek. As she straightened up, she glanced to Joe and mouthed, “Foundation.”
Joe hid his face behind his hand as he tried not to snort with laughter. Foundation didn’t seem very street. And calling him a Fed seemed a bit silly.
“Yeah, my boy Al is, as you know, very famous and very important.” Zak smacked his lips as if he were casually chewing gum and about to blow an enormous bubble. “Gets his own heavy dressed like my grandad to follow him around.”
Zak narrowed his eyes at Joe. For a second, it looked as if Zak were about to ask him something, but the moment passed as Zak was distracted by a tray of champagne glasses drifting by.
He nearly remembered. Joe was sure of it. But if Zak now dosed himself liberally with champers, that memory of a man in tweed interrupting a row between a couple would be buried once more.
“Chillin’ wit’ da popo,” Slim drawled, nodding. “Keepin’ bae safe, yeah?”
“He does,” Paloma said. “Every queen should have one.”
And it wasn’t just champers they were enjoying, Joe guessed as he looked around at the other guests. Half this room was probably powered by marching powder. Slim Frost’s eyes were rolling already, struggling to focus on the towering drag queen before him.
“Niiiice,” he concluded after another moment.
Everyone, Joe and Paloma included, had apparently underestimated the fascination that this suddenly famous queen held even for these icons of London cool. As Zak and Slim toured the room, knocking knuckles and slapping backs, the room paid pilgrimage to Paloma Picante, snapping photographs, asking about hair and clothes and jewels and generally, it seemed, basking in the wonder of the otherworldly, elegant figure in their midst. It was like accompanying the duchess all over again, Joe decided, though even the Duchess of Albany hadn’t gone out in sequins slit up to her thigh and heels so high she was virtually en pointe.
“Can you just…stand behind me a bit?” Zak stared at Paloma, his pupils dilated, and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “This is my premiere, not yours.”
The Reluctant Royal Page 15