Marrying Up

by Wendy Holden

  Her eyes slid over Annabel’s bright-blue tailored shoulder to where Hippolyte was cringing in misery. He looked imploringly at her, made some desperate gesture at Lady Annabel and held his hands up in defeat.

  ‘A very pleasant day, Lady Annabel,’ the Queen remarked mildly, as an opening shot.

  The other woman, however, clearly had no intention of talking about the weather. ‘I have come about the jewels,’ she announced.

  ‘Jewels?’ The Queen frowned slightly.

  ‘Your jewels,’ said Lady Annabel crisply.

  As Hippolyte groaned, Astrid smoothed over her amazement with a smile. Experience had taught her that if one stood and waited pleasantly, most things explained themselves. And what her particular experience of Lady Annabel had taught her was that she explained things in a direct manner, to the point of rudeness. Astrid did not bear Annabel any ill will for this; on the contrary, the solution to the royal wedding problem had been ingenious and Giacomo, in particular, was delighted about it.

  ‘I imagine,’ Lady Annabel said smoothly, ‘that it is tradition in Sedona for the Queen to lend the Crown Princess the pick of her collection to wear on her wedding day?’

  The Queen raised a white hand to stifle a surprised cough. Sedona had many traditions, but this was not one of them. Her immediate predecessor had certainly not been given to such gracious gestures. Engelbert’s mother would have taken her entire collection to the cathedral and sat on them throughout the service rather than see anyone approach the altar in as much as an earring that had belonged to her. It was amazing that she had not somehow contrived to take them to the grave.

  Nonetheless, Astrid smiled graciously. ‘I would be more than happy to lend Lady Florence whatever she would like to borrow. If she were to come and see me . . .’

  ‘Actually,’ Lady Annabel interrupted. Behind her, Hippolyte cringed again. It was the most fundamental breach of royal protocol to interrupt a member of the royal family when talking.

  ‘Lady Florence,’ Lady Annabel continued, ‘is occupied with a shoot for Socialite magazine at the moment.’

  Astrid’s eyes widened. Yet more publicity!

  With Hippolyte as her terrified executive assistant, Lady Annabel had taken absolute charge of the royal wedding. She had sold to the highest bidders not only the rights to produce commemorative plates and tea towels, but newspaper interviews with the engaged couple, glossy magazine photoshoots and fly-on-the-wall documentaries on every aspect of the preparations. All the palace staff had been encouraged to blog, which in many cases was an entirely new word in their vocabulary.

  Annabel’s belief that the whole world, especially the celebrity one, loved a royal wedding had been proved spectacularly true. Heston Blumenthal and Gordon Ramsay had been persuaded to do the catering and Damien Hirst to decorate the cake.

  It was Astrid’s private opinion that, given her talent for PR, Annabel was wasted being a mere aristocrat. Anyone, after all, could have a title, but it took a particular skill to persuade Kelly Hoppen to decorate the rooms, Elton John to sing at the service and Carlos Acosta to coach Florrie for the first dance. Nothing was being left to chance; the bride least of all. The future Crown Princess was currently receiving training on everything from how to wave at her subjects to the correct way to sit on the beach.

  ‘I am here instead of Lady Florence and it is I who will choose the jewels,’ Lady Annabel announced.

  The Queen counted to ten under her breath. It had proved, over the years, a useful means of hiding shock or surprise. ‘I see,’ she remarked neutrally.

  ‘Actually, I’m rather busy myself . . .’ Lady Annabel added. She was shortly to take a conference call with various heads of state, all eager to impress on her the advantages of a royal honeymoon in their territory.

  The Queen seized the chance. ‘I am sure you are, Lady Annabel. Perhaps we can talk about this later.’

  ‘I meant,’ Florrie’s mother said, turning hard brown eyes on Astrid, ‘that we should look at the jewels straight away.’

  Five minutes later, in the mahogany closet room filled with velvet-lined drawers and glass-topped cases, Lady Annabel had swooped on the Queen’s biggest tiara and plonked it on her head. She snatched up a matching necklace of platinum-set pearls and diamonds and then reached for the earrings as well. ‘Parures in the springtime.’ Lady Annabel smiled, making the first attempt at a joke Astrid had heard.

  ‘I need to look quite magnificent myself you know.’ Lady Annabel was staring at herself assessingly. ‘As the Crown Princess Mother . . .’

  ‘The . . .?’ It was not a title Astrid was familiar with.

  Lady Annabel turned her glittering head to the Queen. ‘The Crown Princess Mother. It’s what you are before you are . . .’ she paused before adding, triumphantly, ‘The Queen Mother.’

  Recognising that she was surplus to requirements, Astrid stepped away from the closet. Hippolyte slipped after her, his face ashen.

  ‘Ma’am, I cannot apologise enough . . .’

  The Queen placed a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘It doesn’t matter, Hippolyte.’

  ‘But to come bursting in like that . . .’ The press secretary wrung his hands in anguish.

  ‘Forget it, Hippolyte. It doesn’t matter.’ The Queen was bending down to a small cupboard and drawing out a bottle of champagne and two glasses. She turned round with a smile. ‘Fancy a flute?’

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  ‘Stand still, that’s it. . . .’ Florrie felt her eyes jerk from her sockets as the woman kneeling on the floor below her, mouth full of pins, pulled the pale pink silk of the ballgown hard round her waist.

  ‘Does . . . it . . . really . . . have . . . to . . . be . . . this . . . tight?’ It was an effort to force the words out.

  The woman looked up. She was small, dressed in black, and with a pointed, rather pinched face. It was, Florrie felt, rather hard to believe that she was the linchpin of one of the most famous couture houses in the world.

  ‘You ’ave to suffer to be elegant, Madame.’

  Florrie let out a peal of laughter. ‘Suffer?’ What an absolutely extraordinary idea.’

  She was simply adoring the photoshoot. So much more agreeable to be photographed by Socialite for their front cover than it had ever been to work there. To work anywhere, for that matter. And now of course she wouldn’t ever have to work again, unless you counted wearing divine – free – couture, eating delicious food and living in a fabulous palace as work. Omigod, being royal was going to be such fun!

  They were shooting in the throne room; the photographer, who had such great ideas, was encouraging her to sprawl across the royal seat and stretch her legs up its purple-cushioned back, just pulling up that bit of her skirt . . . there, that was it, just to expose a bit more thigh. And for the next shot, perhaps on the throne, sitting up, but with her legs slightly apart in those high heels and her skirt pulled up . . .? That was it. Yes, and if she could bite that piece of hair and sort of smoulder . . . yeah, great. They were going to call the finished article ‘Is This The World’s Sexiest Royal?’

  Florrie’s laughter rang through the room as she rattled off a succession of anecdotes. ‘. . . he giggles if you tickle his beard . . . Beast of Blenheim . . . he looks fabulous in eyeliner . . . Zen weekend in Tuscany . . . then we all fell off the yacht . . .’

  The Socialite people, none of whom she remembered from her own time there, were all such fun. She might even do a column for them; she wouldn’t need to actually write it of course, they would do all that for her . . .

  Florrie whirled and twirled in front of the camera, basking in the admiration of the assistants and the fashion director. They kept telling her how famous she was going to be, which sounded like such amazing fun, omigod, just incredible.

  The great double doors now creaked open and Giacomo stuck his handsome blond head through. He blinked slightly as he saw Florrie on his mother’s throne in a pose Astrid would never have struck in a thousand years. But Florrie look
ed stunning; young, beautiful, exuberant and somehow innocent, for all the exposed leg. She was so high-spirited. Last night they had eaten KFC flown in from Monaco and served by footmen off silver plates in the Great Dining Room. Omigod, Florrie had kept giggling. Omigod! This is crazy! This is cool!

  Florrie now looked over and saw him; the hair dropped from her mouth; she gasped and bounced on her velvet cushion. ‘Jack! Omigod, you’re so naughty! You’re not supposed to be here!’ Her eyes were sparkling; her squeal was that of an excited child.

  There was a frisson of excitement among the magazine people as the Crown Prince slipped through the great tall doors, went up to Florrie and pulled her to him. He was looking quite devastatingly handsome in a white shirt, sharp dark suit and black loafers without socks. As he kissed his fiancée, long and lingeringly, the girl assistants sighed enviously.

  A familiar large, sweating figure now appeared and hurried across the throne room carpet. Giacomo was still busy with Florrie. Her arms were wrapping around his neck, drawing him down into the purple cushions.

  ‘Ahem.’ The private secretary cleared his throat. Seeing him redden, the assistants giggled.

  ‘If your Highness will permit me.’ Embarrassment made Hippolyte’s tones louder and more pompous than he intended. ‘May I remind you the Archbishop of Sedona is anxious to speak to you about the service. And His Majesty’s tailor is anxious to measure Your Highness’s inside leg for trousers. And the Colonel of the Royal Sedona Household Regiment wants to measure Your Highness’s outside leg for a sword . . .’

  Hippolyte was panicking. He had scoured the entire chateau for the Crown Prince; Giacomo was forever slipping out of his reach. So was Florrie; he got the impression that both the Prince and his fiancée thought that hiding from him was funny.

  A royal wedding, Hippolyte had imagined, would solve all his problems. He was now discovering that it had only increased them. His phone was ringing off the hook with excited royal correspondents seeking accreditation. Hippolyte had never appreciated, never even begun to imagine, just how many royal correspondents the world contained. Not to mention photographers, documentary crews and international news teams from Bangkok to Bradford.

  ‘Look, Hippolyte,’ Giacomo had reluctantly torn his lips from Florrie’s and was looking around in irritation. ‘It’s not convenient just now, OK? Apart from anything else . . .’ he looked back at Florrie, who giggled, ‘I’ve got a meeting about the stag night.’

  As Max was going to be worse than useless at organising anything sufficiently high-octane, Giacomo was taking personal charge of this most crucial aspect of the celebrations. His favourite option so far was a weekend of blindfold driving with a bevy of glamour models. Transport to and from would be provided by the royal plane – dubbed Heir Force One by the irrepressible new Crown Prince.

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Hippolyte bowed and withdrew.

  Giacomo, meanwhile, slid on to the throne beside Florrie; his father’s. He swung his legs over one of the ornate arms and grinned engagingly, tipping his head back over the other arm so the gold of his hair touched that of his fiancée’s. The delighted cameraman carried on snapping, knowing these pictures would be syndicated around the world.

  Yeah, Prince Giacomo de Sedona told himself. Together he and Florrie were going to shake up this monarchy. Really put it on the map. He drew Florrie on to his knee for the next shot and put his fingers in bunny ears behind her unsuspecting head.

  Being Crown Prince was cool, basically. He couldn’t understand why Max always had such a problem with it.

  Chapter 69

  The blue summer air resounded to the yells, bells and cheers of the ecstatic multitude. Flashing in the sun’s rays were the lenses of the thousands of TV cameras from all over the world that had converged on the royal wedding.

  Jason Snort of PapPixRiviera shook his red quiff in the sunshine and adjusted the lens of his camera. He’d never seen Sedona so crowded. People seemed to be squeezed into every nook and cranny; not just excited locals, but people from all over the world. Each balcony and window that had even the suggestion of a view of the proceedings was stiff with gawping observers.

  You could say, Jason thought wryly, that there was a fair amount of interest in the wedding of Lady Florence Trevorigus-Whyske-Cleethorpe to His Royal Highness Prince Giacomo de Sedona. Who was now the Crown Prince, his brother Maxim having apparently passed up his right to the throne so he could shove his arm up cows’ arses for the rest of his life. Crazy, Jason thought. On the other hand, who cared. He didn’t have a view on what these insane royals did. Apart, that was, from the one down his long lens.

  The Marchioness of Dymchurch, sister of Lady Florence, sat in the aisle of Sedona Cathedral. Above her, the ancient stone arches met and mingled; beside her, at the end of the pew, stood a herald in red tights, a red feathered bonnet and a stiff tabard embroidered with the Sedona royal coat of arms. There were twenty of these heralds in all, reminding Beatrice irresistibly of the farcical trial scene from Alice in Wonderland. The heralds stood, backs rigid, eyes rigid, their long silver instruments fluttering with the royal standard pressed to their lips, ready to play the welcoming fanfare as the new princess-to-be arrived. It all felt very old, very traditional and not very Florrie at all.

  And yet it was Florrie, or would be. She had done it. She really was about to marry into the royal family. Not the original intended royal family, admittedly, but royal nonetheless, and with much better weather.

  Beatrice smoothed the apricot silk and tulle of her bouncy little skirt, teamed with a violet jacket and lime-green heels. ‘Spirit-lifting’, her personal shopper at Liberty had described it, and yet Beatrice’s spirits remained uncooperatively low. She had, after all, been bested by her sister, despite her own brilliant marriage to a marquess, albeit one unavoidably absent on this occasion due to an as yet unexplained accident involving a fruit bowl and a plastic bag at the home of a nightclub hostess in Mayfair. She would deal with that, Beatrice thought grimly, when she got back to England.

  Next to her and behind, the whole Trevorigus-Whyske-Cleethorpe family had turned out for this most auspicious day in their history. Beatrice glanced at Topaz, one of her many half-sisters, and wondered if the best foil for her huge shoulders and beefy back was the clinging eau de Nil bandage dress she had chosen. Within the family, Topaz was famous for having an edgy take on fashion, but in Beatrice’s view it was an edge she sometimes fell right off.

  Only Lord Whyske was absent; he had, as at Beatrice’s own wedding, suspended hostilities with his ex-wife and was currently accompanying Lady Annabel in one of the bridal procession carriages.

  An ancient acquaintance of her mother’s, Honoria, Duchess of Crewe, sat beside Beatrice. Her three strands of hair had been drawn back, curled round into a pair of fat ash-blond sausages and squashed beneath a tiara that looked like a positive fence of diamonds. ‘So wonderful, isn’t it?’ Honoria breathed noisily.

  Beatrice could not see why anyone might imagine that having her feckless, selfish sister as their ruler was a good thing. She had walked up the cathedral steps through a black plastic forest of long lenses, television cameras and microphones, all jockeying for position. At the bottom, great crowds had been holding up their mobile phones to take pictures, laughing, chatting, some even singing. Many had small Sedona flags in hand; others grasped bunches of flowers, doubtless intended for the royal bride-in-waiting. The very air seemed to crackle with excitement.

  ‘Here they come!’ wheezed Honoria excitedly.

  There were TV monitors in the cathedral; squinting at the one nearest to her, Beatrice spotted the royal procession. The crowd cheered madly and waved their flags.

  Beatrice stared at the screen: the gleaming carriages, the red coats of the straight-backed outriders and the gold braid of the postilions flashing in the sun. She could not suppress a certain awe. All this – for her sister? She imagined Florrie inside her state coach looking out at the crowds, and wondered what she was th
inking. Probably nothing, knowing Florrie. Not even now.

  There was a hush outside. The crowd, Beatrice could see on the monitor, was standing almost entirely still. The clippety-clop of hooves and the jingle of the harness came into the cathedral from outside; it sounded merry and irreverent.

  The first carriage stopped. The po-faced postilions jumped down, surprisingly light on their feet, and swung open the coach doors in unison. Wild cheers greeted the King and Queen of Sedona. The Queen was serene in silver as pale as her white-blond hair, the King’s colour heightened from the confined and airless space of the carriage on such a hot day. They were holding hands tightly, Beatrice saw.

  Out of the second coach, helped by liveried footmen, descended a beautiful, slender woman in a flowing lace gown with glossy blond hair under an enormous tiara. Another huge cheer rose from the crowd. ‘The princess-to-be conquers Sedona with her glamour, style and charm,’ a woman with an American accent screeched excitedly into a microphone.

  Florrie had changed, her sister thought, squinting to see better. Her hair was shorter. And what had happened to her face? She looked older, much older, and not all her features seemed to be in the same place. The strain of the occasion – and Florrie never usually felt the strain of anything – had obviously taken its toll; her formerly peachy sister looked as if she hadn’t slept for a century.

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  ‘La bella principessa’ . . . ‘la princesse la plus chic du monde . . .’ came the whispering voices from the monitor. In response to some unseen sign, the heralds raised their trumpets to their lips; there was a gasp and a rustle amongst the pews, and then Monsieur Hippolyte quickly materialised and whispered something to the chief herald. The instruments were lowered again, and the whisper swept through the cathedral. ‘It’s not her, it’s her mother.’