Marrying Up

by Wendy Holden

  As neither Mr or Mrs Bigski had moved – the latter, in particular, seemed undecided what to do next – Alexa seized the initiative. She raised herself, heart hammering, on to her knees, before the gunwoman. ‘Please don’t kill me,’ she begged histrionically.

  ‘Kill you!’ Mrs Bigski spat, waving her pistol. ‘You’re not worth it!’

  Alexa did not need telling twice. She grabbed her dress and shot out of the room without a backward glance.

  ‘You scum! You trash!’ Mrs Bigski shrieked after her, although she might have been addressing her husband, who, when Alexa left, was still on his knees at the bedside, sobbing.

  Alexa shot down the corridor to find a loo to change in. She repaired herself as hurriedly as possible, then went to find Barney.

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ she told him. But why was he staring at her as if she were the winning ticket for the National Lottery multimillion-pound rollover jackpot? She had failed in her quest, after all.

  Barney sprang into action. ‘Bad news! On the contrary! It’s the very best!’ He was almost shoving her through the crowds. Alexa was amazed; it was very unlike Barney to leave the scene of so much free champagne.

  But here he was, physically pushing her down the corridor. ‘Why have you got money stuck to your back?’ he asked.

  They had reached the shoe basket and she had to concentrate to get hers back on. The girl in charge seemed familiar with that particular model, however, and inserted her deftly.

  ‘You’ve seen these before?’ Alexa asked in surprise.

  ‘All Mr Bigski’s ladies wear them,’ came the expressionless answer. ‘That dress, too.’

  Beside her, Barney was dancing about impatiently in his slip-on loafers. ‘Come on! Quick! He’s about to get into his car!’

  ‘Who is?’ Alexa was staggering to her feet.

  ‘Prince Maxim of Sedona!’ Barney yelped. ‘Your future husband!’

  ‘My . . .?’

  ‘Heir to the Sedona throne, a chateau, a country, you name it.’ Barney’s face was close to hers; his eyes were gleaming diabolically. ‘Congratulate me,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve managed to find him. The very same spare crown prince that dear old Florrie stood up.’

  Alexa’s eyes were riveted to his. Her heart was thundering, the heat rushing round her veins.

  ‘Where is he? Where?’ Her growl was animal. Visceral. There was no question of her missing this chance.

  Down on the quay, Jason Snort drummed his feet in their rubber Crocs. He was bored, as well as uncomfortably hot.

  It was all very well for some, he thought, casting a bitter glance at the royal driver asleep in the air-conditioned comfort of the shining black limousine with the Sedona flag on the bonnet.

  Jason had initially tried to chat to him, get some inside info. But as always with Sedona chateau staff, he had got nowhere. The driver knew nothing about a possible new candidate for crown princess. Perhaps those rumours about Maxim’s sexuality were true, Jason thought, before remembering that he had started the rumours himself.

  Alexa was stumbling after Barney. Sheer determination, a stronger force than mere gravity, alone kept her upright. She could see her quarry now. He was stepping on to the quayside; tall, dark and handsome in black tie.

  Barney was ahead of her, racing down the gangway at a speed she had no idea he was capable of. ‘Maxim!’ he was shouting. ‘Maxim!’

  From his position on the quayside, large hands planted on huge knees, Jason Snort looked up. High up the dazzling, almost blinding walls of the boat, someone was shouting. Snort squinted. A small bloke. Sounded English. A nobody; at least, nobody Snort recognised. The person he seemed to be shouting at was all too familiar, however. Prince Maxim.

  Alexa felt the breath knocked suddenly out of her. Unaccountably, and just before she could reach her longed-for goal, Barney had come to a dead halt. Unable to stop in her shoes, Alexa cannoned into the linen jacket; rebounding violently backwards, she grabbed the rails on either side. They felt flimsy and as if they might give way any moment. Below her, the silver water, pooled with swirls of oil, gleamed greasily.

  ‘Let me past!’ She hammered desperately on Barney’s back. ‘Get the fuck out of the way!’

  ‘There’s a paparazzo down there,’ Barney hissed. He half turned, his eyes still trained manically on the quayside. ‘Here’s your chance. Milk the publicity! Snog him!’

  He stood aside, and let Alexa hurtle past like a greyhound out of a trap, albeit a greyhound waving its arms, tossing its hair and shouting, ‘Maxim! Darling! Wait for me, you naughty, naughty boy!’

  Snort whistled under his breath as the woman hurried, yelling, down the gangway. Legs, check. Long hair, check. Tiniest dress he had ever seen, check; matched with the biggest heels, check. And, the biggest check of all, she was with Prince Maxim.

  ‘Naughty Maxim! Wait for Alexa!’

  Jason could hardly believe his ears. Naughty! Sedona’s dull-as-ditchwater Crown Prince? The paparazzo’s blood was not so much up as crashing through him in a wave. In one well-practised movement, he was on his big red feet, fingers covering the well-worn button on top of his camera.

  ‘Maxim!’ screamed Alexa. ‘Maxi, darling. Not so fast! Wait for me!’

  The chauffeur was asleep, Max saw as he descended the gangway. For the first time he regretted the fact that Sedona royalty routinely went everywhere without bodyguards. There had never been thought to be a need.

  Then something grabbed him. Something was suddenly strangling him. Something was on his back.

  ‘Hey! Get off!’

  What was happening? Arms were being wound tightly round his neck. Some woman’s face was being pushed into his.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Max was almost too amazed to be frightened. Was this an assassination? She didn’t look like a hit man; looming at him was long dark hair, thickly plastered lipstick and so much mascara it looked like a row of bees’ legs. He tried to pull away as the lips now firmly stuck themselves to his.

  Alongside the sound of his own struggles, Max could hear the whirring and clicking of a camera.

  ‘Let me go!’ he gasped, as his attacker ground her breasts against him. Then he felt her take one of his hands and place it on her bottom.

  Jason pumped his button, his heart dancing. This was better than anything he had ever dreamt of.

  Chapter 54

  As the bus had roared off into the distance, Polly’s first instinct had been to run after it, screaming in fury. They had been tricked. Their bus had been hijacked. How was she to reach Max now? Her travelling companions, on the other hand, were having difficulty understanding what had happened. The women with their tour guides, and the men with their fanny packs and elasticated leisure trousers, seemed to think the bus had rolled away somehow. What they were far more distressed about was that the King of Sedona in his outdoor hot tub was not, after all, visible from the roadside.

  Polly could only fume and resent the hours being wasted. She could have been in Sedona now, could have gone to the palace and found Max. By now they could have been doing anything . . . well, one thing in particular. She closed her eyes longingly.

  Things had improved once the rescue coach summoned by the bus driver swung into view round the corner; this, however, turned out not only to be more badly ventilated than the first, but to be taking them all back to Nice. Nice! Despite all her protests, she got nowhere; Sedona, it seemed, would have to wait for another day. Slumped angrily in the back seat, Polly had chewed her nails and burnt with the heat, as well as the frustration of being so near to Max. And yet so far away.

  She had taken the first available bus the next morning, and was now, finally, incontrovertibly, unhijackably, here.

  Arriving in Sedona Old Town, she found, wasn’t so much like stepping back in time as striding backwards over millennia. There were no outskirts; everything was within the thick encircling city wall of pale stone and reached via the ancient shadowy archway that pierced it. It had a fairy-t
ale quality, a whisper of beauties in gowns and wimples, a suggestion of handsome knights in armour.

  She walked on, enchanted, through ice-cream-coloured streets, past window ledges brimming with bright splashes of geranium, by fountained courtyards where water splashed in the light.

  Searching for the Palace, she came to what seemed to be the edge of the town. There was a park here, long and narrow, where smooth walks led past flower beds thick with pink roses, heads heavy with marbled petals, each a scoop of raspberry ripple particularly generous on the sauce. Did the park lead to the castle? It seemed likely. The flower beds alternated with bronzes of mustachioed men in uniform; all called Maxim or Engelbert, Polly saw, pausing. Relatives, no doubt, although she could see little family resemblance in their short, thickset frames.

  It would not be long now. She walked on, picturing herself in the chateau, waiting by the fireplace in an echoing vaulted hall; Max running towards her down a sweeping flight of stairs.

  She pressed on through the park. The neat red trunks of pines thrust upwards either side of her, their green umbrella tops providing an unbroken sequence of shade. Between them stretched an expanse of sea, ruched, glittering and a heavenly deep blue; a mermaid’s party cloak. The sighing of the breeze in the pine canopy was sensuous and soothing; there was a faint scent, a sharp, salty whiff of herbs and sea.

  What a wonderful place Max lived in. She had never expected anything like this. And yet despair and impatience were starting to twist within her. Where was the chateau?

  Le chateau royal. A small black and gold sign pointed back into the town. Polly followed it along a passage of tempting, glossy shops: bags, shoes, a toy emporium selling child-sized pink tin racing cars of vintage design, an art gallery with what seemed real grass as carpet. She allowed herself one stop only, at a souvenir shop with postcards of the royal family outside. Just to check, after all, that she had not been dreaming.

  No, here was Max all right, slightly resentful in his official uniform, a hint of exasperation in his dark eyes. Polly looked with interest at the rest of the family. The Queen, sitting with her ankles crossed in a gold-framed armchair, sweet-faced and Grace Kelly glamorous in a pale blue dress and pearls. The King, she thought, looked squat and pompous. Polly had no doubt which one of them was forcing Max to marry.

  And this, presumably, was Max’s brother. Polly stared into the laughing face of the blond young Prince Giacomo. Her first impression was how entirely unlike Max he looked. Her second was how closely he resembled the boy who had hijacked the bus. But that, of course, was impossible.

  A noise; a blare and a thump. Hurrying along the passage into the full blaze of a cobbled sunlit square, Polly found the castle and the source of the sound simultaneously. The band marched up and down, all gleaming breastplates, whirling pompoms and parping brass. Behind it stood Max’s home.

  It was bigger than she had imagined; a huge fortress of the same pale stone as the rest of Sedona, and just as fairy-tale, with pointed towers like stone pencils, flags, turrets, carved escutcheons and heraldic beasts. A setting for a magical story. Would it be her story?

  She glanced up at the windows glinting in the sunlight. Was Max behind one of them?

  She drew a deep, excited breath and strode confidently up to the first of the two white sentry boxes positioned either side of the great gates. ‘I’ve come to see Prince Maxim,’ she explained to the soldier within, a vision in pale blue, gold buttons and tight white trousers.

  She was delighted as the soldier raised his chin and saluted. Saluting seemed an excellent start.

  ‘Name?’ barked the soldier.

  ‘Polly Stevenson.’

  The soldier consulted a list. ‘You’re not expected.’

  ‘I know I’m not expected.’ Polly smiled. ‘I’m a . . . friend. I just happened to be passing.’

  The soldier looked at her doubtfully. ‘Members of the royal family are unavailable to casual callers.’

  Polly felt suddenly desperate. That admittance to the chateau might be difficult had never occurred to her.

  ‘Please,’ she said, pleadingly.

  ‘You must have authorisation,’ the soldier said sternly.

  ‘So how do I get that?’

  ‘The normal procedure for an audience with His Royal Highness, or any other member of the royal family, is to put any such request in handwriting in triplicate.’

  ‘In triplicate?’

  The soldier bowed his plumed helmet in affirmation. ‘In triplicate, yes. Twelve months in advance of the desired date.’

  Polly felt her grip on her temper loosening. ‘And I suppose it then gets put on a silver salver and handed to the first footman, who puts it on another salver and hands it to the second footman, who hands it to the third, who hands it to His Majesty?’

  ‘Exactly that, yes,’ the soldier said mildly. ‘After which, you may, following the appropriate pause, take up the enquiry with His Majesty’s private secretary.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Polly said tightly, before turning and walking disconsolately away. There was obviously no point arguing.

  The heat beat down. The band thumped on. Polly’s head was starting to ache, and hope was draining from her. Max might be within the chateau, but she remained very much outside. And going by official channels, she would be unable to see him for twelve months.

  The main square was marked at the four corners by four large cannon mounted on wheels. Polly leant against the nearest one in despair.

  After a number of deep, fortifying breaths, she forced herself to think carefully through the options. Were there any? How was she to get in? Fairy-tale though it looked, the chateau was nonetheless a castle. Strong, ancient and thick-walled, it had been built to protect the inmates and repel invaders.

  She passed the chateau gates again and stood for some minutes looking up at the façade, willing Max to come to a window.

  The soldier from the other sentry box stepped forward. ‘Move along, mademoiselle.’

  A blaze of fury possessed Polly. All right, then. If they persisted in treating her like a criminal, she’d behave like one. Think like one. Were there, she wondered, any breaches in the fortifications? It seemed unlikely. A high, thick wall began where the gates stopped.

  Polly followed the wall until it turned to form the side of a narrow, shady alley. She followed it down; the alley turned again and led through a wide archway into a large, sunny cobbled courtyard. The back of the building; the service quarters, Polly realised, just as a large bright blue van roared into the yard and drew to a screeching halt.

  Doors banged; two men in blue overalls sprang out. ‘We’ve brought the laundry,’ one of them called to Polly. ‘Here, come and help us get it out.’

  I don’t work here, Polly was about to say, before experiencing a flash of revelation and hurrying over. Minutes later, her arms piled so high with snowy cotton that her face could not be seen, she was following the two men in blue overalls into the chateau.

  She kept her head down and her eyes on the blue trouser bottoms of the van men. The first room they came into sounded big and bustling; Polly’s empty stomach surged at the smell of coffee and bacon and eggs. It was evidently breakfast time in the castle.

  There were people about; hellos were exchanged, but no one asked the men, presumably a regular sight, their business. They passed on, with Polly following, into another room with a tiled floor. It was shady and very warm and there was a clean smell of soap powder. Drying racks hung from the roof; the walls were lined with slatted wooden shelves. This, evidently, was the castle laundry.

  The men, muttering to each other, loaded their piles of sheets on to the shelves. Then, nodding to Polly, they left.

  She remained in the laundry, smoothing the top of the sheet pile over and over again, as she reflected on her enormous luck. She was in! She had penetrated the mighty defences of the chateau. Now, to find Maxim.

  Chapter 55

  The palace breakfast room looked much as usual w
hen Max, Beano limping gamely at his heels, entered it. The big French windows, as was normal at this time of year, were open to the breathtaking panorama of mountains sweeping down to a distant sea. Brightness and air poured into the pretty white and gold chamber.

  The King and Queen, sitting at the oval table by the window, looked up in surprise. Max shrugged; admittedly, he had not breakfasted with the family for some time. He had started to wonder, however, whether cooperation with the authorities, at meal times at least, might achieve a better result than continuing resistance. He planned also to capitalise on the fact that he had, as requested, spent the previous evening at Bigski’s party. Would he mention the mad woman at the end? Max was not sure. It might worry his mother, and no harm had been done. The girl was obviously insane. She had vanished into the darkness as suddenly as she had appeared. Homeward bound in the cosy darkness of the purring royal car, Max had gradually downgraded his levels of alarm. By the time he reached the chateau, he thought of his assailant more in sorrow than in anger. She clearly needed professional help.

  The King and Queen were dressed for the official duties that would make up their day; the King in a suit, the Queen with her usual smooth chignon and in a mint-green sleeveless dress. She was smiling at Max, but her smile looked a little uncertain. ‘You look exhausted,’ she said.

  The King made a noise that sounded oddly snigger-like. Max ignored it, however; he was thinking and acting positively.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said brightly, although exhausted was exactly what he was. After the drama of the party, Beano had not been well again and Max had spent much of the night soothing him.

  He was more tired than he thought, Max realised. So tired he was starting to see things. For example, the newspapers his parents were looking at, the front pages of which were turned towards him, seemed to be dominated by a large photograph of someone who looked amazingly like himself. Kissing a dark-haired girl.

  It was with a plunge of pure horror that the Crown Prince realised it was no trick of the imagination.