by Wendy Holden
Alexa looked at him guiltily, knowing it would be pointless to say that even the most dedicated gold-digger occasionally had needs that could not be ignored. That woman could not live by social ambition alone. It sounded ridiculous even to her. He was right; what had she been thinking? Well she had better put it behind her now.
‘Oh lay off, Barney,’ she tried to josh him. ‘If I look a bit scuffed, that’s all to the good, surely. People are paying a fortune for it all around us.’
A stuffed female deer was up under the hammer now. ‘Great deal of interest in this,’ the auctioneer reported excitedly. ‘Two online bidders . . . ooh, we’re seeing some serious mouse-on-mouse violence here.’
The audience tittered.
‘Surely there’s someone else I can go for,’ Alexa wheedled, as Barney continued to glare at her.
‘No there bloody isn’t. Bream was our only chance. I can’t believe you took your eye off the ball like that.’
Hardly the mot juste, Alexa thought, remembering with a mixture of fury, regret and wonder what had sprung out of Ralph’s trousers.
‘Come here, where I can keep an eye on you.’ Barney grasped her arm hard and led her to a seat beneath the rostrum just as the hammer came down on the deer. ‘Two thousand pounds, all done at two thousand pounds. A lot of doe, that,’ the auctioneer quipped, to groans from the audience.
At a right angle from the end of the aisle where they sat stretched the platform on which the row of people from the auction house were handling the telephone bids. Alexa’s eyes ran avidly over them. Who was on the other end of their phones? Sheikhs? Oligarchs? Old money?
She suppressed the urge to pull a phone from one of their hands and yell ‘Marry me!’ into the receiver.
‘All done at two thousand pounds for the stuffed pike,’ beamed the patrician auctioneer, banging down his mallet to conclude the sale of a large and mournful-looking fish. ‘The price has gone off the scale!’
Chapter 34
She had tried to avoid him, but Jake made it impossible. He had been assigned his own area of the site by Neil, but was constantly coming over to hers.
‘Go back to your own pit,’ Polly told him, her teeth gritted. ‘But I like yours,’ Jake replied easily, grinning up at her from where he squatted at the edge of her trench, his eyes narrowed in the sun.
Polly pressed her lips tightly together. She had no intention of getting into conversation. After that first night in the pub, where surprise and manners forced the exchanging of a few words, she had tried not to speak to him at all. The site was big enough for the both of them, so long as Jake kept to his side. Which, so far, he wasn’t.
‘It wasn’t quite working out in France,’ was Jake’s breezy explanation of his sudden appearance in their midst. ‘Too many cooks and all that. They’d slightly over-ordered on the expertise.’
‘What about Miranda?’ Polly had said coldly.
‘Still there, I believe,’ Jake said airily, poking idly at an uncharted corner of Polly’s trench. ‘Shagging the balls off someone, most probably,’ he added casually.
Polly did not reply. That Miranda and Jake had split was not necessarily a surprise. What was was that he seemed to expect them to pick up where they had left off. ‘Come on, Poll. I made a mistake with Miranda, OK? It was just a fling, a moment of madness,’ he pleaded.
Polly continued working in her notebook, saying nothing.
‘The main reason I left the French dig was because I heard you were on this one,’ Jake added hopefully.
Bloody liar, Polly thought. She knew this to be the case because Marcus, who along with Sam resented the way Jake had breezed in and grabbed all Rose and Amber’s attention, had been making enquiries on the archaeology bush telegraph.
‘Well of course I have,’ he defended himself to Polly. ‘I’m an archaeologist. I delve.’
Marcus’s delvings revealed the real reason for Jake’s exodus from France. ‘Bit of a tomcat, basically,’ Polly learnt. ‘I mean, obviously fieldwork means bed-hopping,’ he added, giving Polly a meaningful look. ‘But Jake was hopping like a frog with a bomb up its arse. Bad for morale, in the end, because some beds are just not hoppable. Like the site director’s wife, say.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. And the wife of the director of the local museum.’
‘He was sleeping with her?’
‘I’m not sure how much sleeping they were doing.’ Marcus gave her a cryptic grin. ‘But the site director didn’t dig it anyway. He sacked Jake and so he got posted here. Apparently he’s too brilliant to be wasted,’ Polly’s informant added with a derisive toss of his dreadlocks.
Marcus and Ben, Polly could see, particularly resented the withering manner in which Jake treated those he considered less gifted than himself. This category included just about everyone. Polly, used to it, was less affected; besides, as she knew, Jake, academically at least, was every bit as good as he thought he was. His outward carelessness, even dilettantism, was just a show. As Sam had discovered only yesterday.
Sam, who had a poor opinion of Jake’s capabilities, had made some derogatory remark. Jake, in reply, had lit a cigarette and let fly a lengthy broadside about the newest wave of post-processual theory and its implications for research. Sam had almost reeled backwards, and returned to his pit in silence.
While Polly felt that Jake had used a sledgehammer to crack a nut, she also, more worryingly, felt a sneaking admiration. Jake’s looks had always attracted her, but in the heat of their affair, it had been his brains that had excited her the most.
Even so, there was no possibility that she was getting back together with him. He could come to her pit and gaze up into her eyes all he liked. It would make no difference. Max might yet come back. And even if he didn’t, Jake’s own past conduct was warning enough. She would remain oblivious to the charms now turned up to full wattage and trained with all their power on her.
‘Come out to supper with me, Poll?’ Jake wheedled now. He didn’t give up easily, she had to give him that. No doubt he just wanted to override her resistance. Women never refused him normally; she was a challenge.
She could see, glancing over, the rest of the dig looking in their direction. Sam and Marcus were making thumbs-down signs.
‘No thanks,’ Polly said to Jake, gathering her tools together. She felt sticky and hot; the thought of a long, cool shower at home was tempting. Afterwards she would write up her notes. It would be dull, but safe. Being with her charismatic, treacherous former boyfriend, on the other hand, seemed increasingly dangerous.
She noticed now that, for practically the first time since he had come over to her trench, Jake’s attention was on something other than her. He had been working absently on a corner as he spoke and was prodding excitedly.
‘What is it?’ Polly crouched down beside him; carefully, they dug the object out. It was both longer and wider than she had anticipated; a piece of concrete, a fragment of wall?
‘Decorated on the underside, with any luck,’ Jake said. ‘Then we’d have a palace on our hands.’
Such a discovery would, of course, be completely typical of Jake, Polly remembered. As well as being clever, he was lucky. Whatever pit he dug always yielded the best artefacts; he seemed able to charm them to the surface, as he charmed everyone else.
They were both on their knees now, working rapidly. They looked up simultaneously; Polly, staring into handsome eyes full of excitement and suggestion, finally felt her suppressed desire for him break through. Jake saw it, and grinned. ‘Like old times,’ he murmured, brushing the tip of his nose against hers.
The large piece of concrete was now almost completely out. Would it have a fresco on the hidden side? Heart thundering, Polly helped Jake clear away the last few centimetres of earth. They eased it out, she felt it give and they lifted it into the air.
Avidly they inspected it, brushing the dust carefully off each side. ‘No fresco,’ Polly said, disappointed.
‘No, but what’s t
his?’ Jake’s long fingers were tracing what looked like scratches on the other side.
Polly peered. ‘Is it writing?’
‘Looks like it. Done with a knife. Latin.’
They crouched over it, heads together, puzzling it out. ‘Marcus hic . . .’ Jake began.
‘Marcus was here,’ Polly gasped out the translation.
‘No I wasn’t,’ came the indignant riposte from a few feet away. ‘I stick to my own pit, thanks. Unlike some people.’
‘I’ve got it!’ Jake squeezed Polly’s hand. ‘Marcus cacavit bene. Marcus had a good shit here.’
‘I bloody well did not, you bastard.’
But Polly was not listening. She was laughing into Jake’s excited face. ‘It’s graffiti!’ she exclaimed. ‘Graffiti from the loo!’
Chapter 35
Max twisted his neck within his stiff collar and looked down at his white starched shirt front. Across it stretched a pale blue ribbon supporting the elaborate gold and enamel device of the Ancient Order of Swedish Fish Picklers. His father had honoured him with it at breakfast; the intention was to flatter the countess from Bergen who was coming this morning.
Pinned just below the top button was the glittering pendant of the Star of Sedona, a courtesy title given to all crown princes on their twentieth birthday. What seemed to Max an entire constellation of other, smaller stars were attached elsewhere across his torso, positioned according to some mental decorations map that the elderly Lord Chamberlain, who had officiated in the robing room, seemed to carry in his head. Elsewhere were rows of gold buttons, pearl shirt studs and a row of medals almost a foot across. Max felt like a Christmas tree in a tailcoat. He also felt ridiculous – and very bad-tempered.
The valet came running in with a large white portable telephone, the sort, Max always thought, you never saw anywhere apart from sixties films and the chateau of Sedona.
‘Max, my friend. Do you have five minutes?’ It was Etienne. ‘I need your help.’
‘I’m a bit busy,’ Max said shortly, thinking without affection of Etienne’s pink and silver palace of canine pampering. No doubt one of the spa assistants was sick and Etienne needed someone to bath a tortoise or paint a guinea pig’s toenails.
‘Please, my friend. It is an emergency.’ Etienne’s usually relaxed and assured tones were almost unrecognisably strained.
‘What’s the matter?’ Max asked sardonically. ‘Run out of pet perfume?’
‘Not quite so bad as that, my friend.’ Etienne, for all his faults, at least had a sense of humour. ‘No, I have a cow case.’
‘I thought you didn’t do cows any more.’
There was a deep sigh from the other end. ‘I try not to,’ Etienne groaned. ‘But sometimes there is no getting away from them. The usual vet is ill, apparently.’
‘What’s wrong with the cow?’ Max asked, as the valet twitched at his white tie. ‘Milk fever? Mastitis?’
Etienne sighed. ‘That’s just what I don’t know, my friend. But I can’t go – I’ve got a poodle with Stockhausen syndrome – although I could drop you off at the farm on my way. And pick you up,’ he added beseechingly.
‘But I’m not qualified,’ Max pointed out. Inside, however, the excitement was mounting. A cow. A real big farm animal. His favourite sort. ‘And I’ve got to meet someone,’ he added dolefully, thinking of the forthcoming reception in the throne room.
‘Max, I need you,’ Etienne pleaded. ‘A suffering animal needs you!’
‘When?’ Max heard himself saying. ‘Now. I can come and get you? It’ll be quick, I promise.’
In her golden crown and ermine-trimmed robes of state, Queen Astrid looked utterly serene. She felt, however, the opposite. The chateau throne room, where she sat awaiting the entrance of the Crown Prince, was, with its thick red carpet, blazing chandeliers and great plump velvet thrones, the hottest room of the hundred-plus in the building. And especially so today, with the temperature outside in the eighties.
But still it hadn’t stopped the band. Nothing ever did. Even though the throne room was at the back and faced over the gardens, she could hear them thumping and blaring away, murdering ‘The Skye Boat Song’ in their usual sensitive fashion. It was incredible that they could function at all, given how the heat must be frying their brains inside their helmets. On the other hand, Sedona’s armed forces had never been known for their brains. Nor had anyone else in the Sedona establishment, least of all the royal family. It was Max’s misfortune to have been born with at least twice as many brains as usual; brains with a pronounced scientific bent, into the bargain.
Astrid’s heavy crown felt heavier even than usual; perhaps the gold had expanded in the heat. The fur trim on her cloak, pressed against her by the weighty gold tassels, made her feel she was either about to melt or else spontaneously combust. Beneath the cloak, her full-length white satin dress was hot and sticky.
She looked despairingly at the four household staff who stood upright against the tapestried walls, staring stiffly into the middle distance. If only they could make themselves useful and wave some fans about. She considered suggesting it, but desisted. Waving fans had never traditionally been a duty of the palace household staff, and in the Palace of Sedona, if it wasn’t tradition, it didn’t happen.
Red-faced and perspiring under his own crown, Engelbert wore the ceremonial uniform of the Royal Sedona Guards, of whom he was commander-in-chief. His sky-blue cutaway coat, fringed epaulettes and white breeches were set off by a sea-green silk sash and an enamelled badge shaped like antlers. This was the Ancient Order of Norwegian Reindeer Smokers (3rd Class), which had been presented to him many years ago on a state visit to the Scandinavian countries. The ties he had forged then had brought forth today’s visitor.
The countess from Bergen sat at right angles to the King and Queen in a smaller gilded throne against the wall. The girl was pretty, Astrid thought, but bored-looking. She had been unimpressed with the chateau. ‘But where are the gym, the spa, the treatment rooms?’ she had exclaimed. ‘At home we have a heated horizon pool and a Pilates studio.’
Astrid shook her head slightly and fingered her own Royal Swedish Order of the Golden Cod (2nd Class) anxiously. If this particular fish was to be hooked, she was relying on Max’s glamour and reserved charm to do it.
And he would, his mother knew, look particularly glamorous today. Max in ceremonial uniform was a thing of beauty: tall and straight, his wide shoulders narrowing to neat hips and long legs, his dark colouring and sculpted face set off wonderfully by all the white and gold. His obvious loathing of what he wore only enhanced his glamour; his dark blue eyes narrowed resentfully under his brows. There were photographs of Astrid at state occasions with her parents, wearing exactly the same truculent look.
It was, she remembered, this very expression that had caught the attention of the handsome student with whom she had fallen in love all those years ago. He had been fascinated by her unease with her position. The Reluctant Royal, he had called her . . . How times had changed, mused Astrid, forcing her thoughts back to the here and now. No one watching her this morning, in the throne room, would suspect she had ever been anything but the most dutiful and content of consorts.
‘Where is the blasted boy?’ grumbled the King. He consulted his fob watch, bringing it right up to his eye to squint at it.
The Queen reached over and patted his hand. ‘He’ll be here any minute,’ she soothed. There was an itch beneath the tiara that she longed to scratch. She longed even more to be in her garden. But it was her duty to be sweating in the throne room waiting for Max to come and meet his latest possible bride.
Astrid had, countless times over the past few weeks, longed to reach out to Max and tell him she knew how he felt. Tell him the whole story about herself, even. Caution had held her back; the information was sensitive, and Max’s mood was wild and volatile. If he broadcast it, it could be disastrous.
And what was the point of telling him anyway? Irrespective of what had ha
ppened in the past, Astrid accepted she now owed her loyalty to her husband and position. This being the case, and the King remaining firm about Max’s marriage, it must follow that Max must submit, as she herself had done.
It was not easy. Seeing Max’s astonishment, then his hurt, and finally his anger had tested her resolve and her legendary self-possession to the limit. More than once she had left the room during a particularly tense lunch or dinner and shut herself away to weep. Or Max would come to see her in her room, where over and over again she forced herself to explain where his royal duty lay. Only for him to look at her sadly and say, ‘I thought you’d be on my side, Mum.’
And I am, Astrid would think. I am. But what can I do about it?
Further down the room, Prince Giacomo slumped against the purple velvet back of his throne. He was horribly hung-over.
‘Sit up, Giacomo,’ snapped Engelbert from the throne, annoyed by his son’s semi-somnolent posture. Giacomo shuffled himself upright slightly, yawned loudly and stared through the window opposite his chair. It offered a superb view of the mountains and sea beyond. White spots were afloat in the blue; yachts from their luxury Riviera moorings further up the coast.
Giacomo whistled softly. ‘There’s some serious hardware out there today,’ he remarked admiringly. ‘Two seventy-two-footers, at least. One with two helicopters.’
More minutes dragged by, each apparently lasting an age. Astrid was beginning to despair of ever seeing her elder son when something tall and wild appeared at the door of the throne room. As it strode forward, a strong smell of manure followed.
‘Who the . . .’ Engelbert stood up in alarm. He glared at the Lord Chamberlain. ‘Who is this? Who let him in?’
‘Nice you could make it, bro,’ drawled Giacomo, holding apart his golden curtains of hair. He was nearer and had better eyesight than his father.
The Countess, on her seat, gasped with horror.
‘Max!’ Astrid scrambled up and started hurrying across the carpet.